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Come On, Get Lucky by Jacqueline Rohrbach: RDB, Excerpt, Release Day Review and Giveaway

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Grant is looking for love, but there’s one big problem—himself. Due to Grant’s massive size, not to mention the fact he’s also a werewolf, all the eligible bachelors steer clear of him, preferring men who are a little less ginormous and a lot less monstrous. Only Lee, Grant’s best friend and vampire extraordinaire, sees him as a gentle giant who longs to give awesome backrubs, cupcakes, and endless affection to his lifelong mate.

Lee is tired of the same old song and dance of dating and then breaking up. The only steady presence in his life has been Grant, a tried-and-true friend who always knows what to say and the right spot to scratch. So, when Grant finally breaks up with his flighty boyfriend, Lee sees an opportunity to let his carefully guarded heart out of its box and try for something real and lasting.

There’s a problem, though: Lee has always forbidden romance between friends, an order he’s drilled into Grant’s head over and over again.

That means Lee might need to throw their friendship to the fire. To find passion, they’ll have to become enemies. To find love, they’ll have to get lucky.

Title:  Come On, Get Lucky

Author: Jacqueline Rohrbach

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: June 8, 2020

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 59300

Genre: Paranormal, LGBTQIA+, werewolf, vampire, best friends to lovers, humor, sarcasm, socially awkward character, slow burn-UST, men with pets

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Chapter One

Grant wiped sweat from his brow. Hands trembling, he struggled to maneuver the oversized shirt button into its tiny hole. It was like being a virgin all over again. Should he lube the damn thing? Would that make it glide right in to everyone’s satisfaction? Scratch those thoughts; Grant couldn’t afford a sexual itch right now. If he stiffened, he might have a stress boner all night in the fancy restaurant where he’d booked a table for two. And, oh Jesus, everything was a mess. A total, awful mess.

“Knock, knock, big guy,” Lee said, tapping on the wood frame of the doorway. “You almost ready?”

“Come on in. Help me out. Get this thing in there.”

“Goodness, dear heart. I hope you won’t have to say that tonight.”

“I’m trying to not think about sex!”

“Boring.”

As lithe and graceful as Grant was bulky and clunky, Lee glided in on a cloud of glitter and sarcasm. His slender fingers made quick work of the task, and before Grant knew it, his dress shirt was smoothed down the length of his torso and tucked neatly into his black slacks. Standing to the side, his palm supporting his chin, Lee inspected his handiwork. Grant, for his part, stood straight under his critical eye and endeavored not to dwell on the lingering tingle along his spine where Lee’s fingers had touched him.

Muttering and twirling his finger, Lee said, “Turn around.”

Grant rarely dressed to the nines because it made him feel like he was ten. Lee, who searched him over for any flaw, didn’t help matters, especially not when he tsked like a disappointed mother.

“Well, do I pass inspection?” Grant asked him.

“Oh, you’re delish. Real wagyu beef.”

Grant dipped his head and made a show of inspecting his shoes to hide the sudden rush of heat to his face, which no doubt stained his cheeks a telltale shade of alarm-bell red. Then, to his mortification, he noticed a toe poking through a hole in one of his socks. Shit, he’d forgotten his shoes. Disaster. This night was going to be a total disaster.

Practically hyperventilating, Grant asked, “Where are my wingtips? The nice ones.”

Lee tapped his chin. Casually, as though he’d organized Grant’s closet himself, he kicked—literally—the polished wingtips onto the bedroom floor. “There are your big, goofy shoes. But, trust me, tonight is a big mistake. David is not the one. ”

“Thanks! You’re a lifesaver. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Yes, I know you couldn’t manage without me. But don’t ignore my warning.”

Wagging his finger in Lee’s face, Grant said, “No, no. We’re not playing the David-is-no-good game tonight. Tell me what wine should I order, instead.”

“Are you asking me what pairs nicely with showing your flighty, dimwitted boyfriend your werewolf form?”

Exasperated, Grant said, “I’m bringing this one home for good, Lee.”

Relenting with a sigh, Lee flounced around the bedroom, windmilling his arms in dramatic fashion as though getting ready to run a marathon. Was he stretching? Yes, yes he was. Lee hadn’t surrendered: he was ramping up to continue the fight. Grant should have learned to not underestimate his best friend when it came to matters of the heart, which he saw as his expertise as a vampire. The undead, according to him, had their fingers on the pulse of life. Werewolves, well, they had their noses in its crotch. The long-term rivalry between their species was great. Truly.

Ever since Grant brought David home, Lee had gone on about how it was a poor fit. Things heated up between them when David farted and blamed Lee. Fangs out, Lee had said, “Vampires can’t even pass gas. He’s messing with the wrong Edward. I will glitter bomb his ass to hell. My sunlight sparkle will burn out his eyes.” From there, matters got worse.

“You’re being petty,” Grant said, dabbing a bit of cologne on his neck. “Get over the whole fart thing. He was nervous. That’s all.”

“This is more than passing gas, dear heart. Although your little beau does disturb the oxygen balance of the room.”

“You’re a brat.”

Lee said, “I know, dear heart. That doesn’t change anything. David is… David is yuck. I’d eat him but it’s an affront to my sensitive palate. Blah.”

“Say ‘blah’ again but do it in a Transylvanian accent.”

“If I do, you have to listen to my rant. You can’t block me out, not even for a second.”

Grant’s inner survivalist debated the merits of the proposal. On one hand, the Transylvanian accent version of blah never failed to put a smile on his face, and he could use a bit of humor to settle his nerves before his big date. On the other, Lee’s rants lasted as long as an immortal desired, which was a very long time indeed. Grant couldn’t gnaw his foot off to get out of the trap should he decide to walk into it.

“Decisions, decisions,” Lee said as a taunt without bite.

“You make it so hard.”

“That’s what all the guys say.”

This book, had a good premise. However, it didn’t quite deliver like I had hoped. I liked the characters. The sweet and “fluffy” Grant, and the snarky and caustic Lee. However, they didn’t quite mesh for me as a couple. Grant was depressed about his ex-boyfriend, and rumors that were spread about him. Lee’s idea was for them to f**k it out over a week at an event in the woods. I felt like they were great friends, but the transition to trying to be more was not a normal friends to lovers. There wasn’t much flirting, it just kind of happened.

There was also a lot going on in this book. Some I didn’t understand why it was there…like Lucky, I didn’t get why Lucky was a thing, but he was cute, so there’s that. It just seemed to jump around quite a bit. It also seemed as if this was a follow up book, maybe not to this couple, but I felt like I was missing pieces I should have understood,

The storyline itself was cute and had some suspense, but overall, I would say it’s a read it once for the cuteness, but not really a reread.

3 pieces of eye candy

Jacqueline Rohrbach is a 36-year-old creative writer living in windy central Washington. When she isn’t writing strange books about bloodsucking magical werewolves, she’s baking sweets, or walking her two dogs, Nibbler and Mulder. She also loves cheesy ghost shows, especially when the hosts call out the ghost out like he wants to brawl with it in a bar. You know, “Come out here, you coward! You like to haunt little kids. Haunt me!” Jackee laughs at this EVERY time.

She’s also a hopeless World of Warcraft addict. In her heyday, she was a top parsing disc priest. She became a paladin to fight Deathwing, she went back to a priest to cuddle pandas, and then she went to a shaman because I guess she thought it would be fun to spend an entire expansion underpowered and frustrated. Boomchicken for Legion! You can find Jacqueline on  Twitter. https://www.twitter.com/ImmutableMoon

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Tricks and Bids by Jacqueline Grey: Exclusive Author Guest Post, Excerpt, New Release Review and Giveaway

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Today, we have something exciting for you! Jacqueline Grey is here with her new release, Tricks and Bids. And she brought not only an excerpt and giveaway, but a fantastic story about when the story was first published, her uncle, and the Christmas she won’t ever forget. We can all imagine that relative who will look at us and say “we need to talk”…Enjoy the guest post, and make sure you sign up for the giveaway!

 

When Michael Nole propositions Dillon Spade outside a BDSM club one evening, all he is looking for is a potential client and a little kink. He gets much more than he bargained for. As a prostitute, Michael enjoys sex but keeps an emotional distance between himself and the men he sleeps with. His priority is to keep himself safe, but after a night in Dillon’s bed, he finds the line between enjoyment and occupation blurring.

Dillon hasn’t taken another man home since his previous lover passed away six years ago, but there is something about Michael that calls to his inner Dominant in a way he cannot resist. His instincts want to claim the boy even as he reminds himself that he is only paying Michael for temporary company.

Their relationship may have started as a business transaction, but it’s difficult to remain professional when breaking all the rules.

Title:  Tricks and Bids

Series: Suit of Harte’s, Book One

Author: Jacqueline Grey

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: February 17, 2020

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 20300

Genre: Contemporary, LGBTQIA+, BDSM, romance, contemporary, gay, sex industry, prostitution

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I am so happy to be here.  Thank you for having me.

 

A Christmas I’ll Never Forget

When Tricks and Bids first came out in 2014 it was paramount that my mother and my uncle hear about it.  They were the biggest supporters, so how could I not tell them?  The thing is, how do you tell your dearest uncle that his precious niece has written a very kinky, very steamy romance novel?

Well, I did, and he gave me his usual reply when I ramble on about interests he doesn’t understand: “Ok.” The genre was beyond him, but he was proud of my accomplishment and happy for me which is what mattered. It wasn’t until Christmas Eve dinner of that year that I learned just how supportive my uncle was of me.

The first thing my uncle said when he arrived for dinner that night was “We need to talk.” I’m sure that when any parental figure says those words, no matter what their age, the person they’re talking to will immediately think that shit hit the fan or they’re in trouble.  Attempting to remain calm I said, “Ok, do you want to talk now?  Is everything all right?”  He reassured me that everything was fine, and we would talk later, but he followed that up with repeating “we need to talk” so the reassurance didn’t stay for long.

We sat down for dinner and everyone began eating and chatting.  During a quiet moment over the antipasto my uncle announced, “I read a book.”  Now the thing you need to know is that my uncle is not a reader.  The number of books he’s read for pleasure in his life could probably be counted on one hand.  Therefore, I was shocked, and I asked, “What book?”  Mom got it before me.  As soon as I heard her “oh” I understood what book my uncle was referring to.  All he said was “we need to talk.”

There I was sitting at the table feeling like my father had just read my diary, but I’m a big girl, and I have always been honest whenever people ask me questions. I’m a terrible liar and I’m blunt so I figure it’s easier to tell the truth than come up with something false, so I said, “whatever you want to know, I’ll tell you.”

He said, “I don’t think I want to know.”

The main thing he was wondering was how the little niece he’d watch grow up suddenly knew about things like BDSM, wax play and gay sex.  I told him I learned most of it through books and television.

“You had to say ‘mostly’?” was his reply.

Like I said, I’m blunt and honest.

I give my uncle props for making it through my book.  For not being a reader and to read something that was way outside his comfort zone was an immense show of support.  He’s purchased the other books in the trilogy but hasn’t worked up the nerve to read them.  I told him that’s fine.  He should read Ghost House instead.  There’s no kink and the only sex is at the end.  If necessary, he could skip that part.

If you’re into reading (unlike my uncle) and you like your romance kinky then look no further.  Tricks and Bids is back on the shelves and will soon be followed by the second and third books in the Suit of Harte’s series.

“Hey. Wanna play?”

Dillon glanced up to find a young man leaning against the hood of his car. At Dillon’s pointed look, he took a step back, so he no longer touched the automobile.

“What gave you the impression I want company?”

“You obviously didn’t find what you were looking for in there” came the reply with a nod back at Harte, the BDSM club Dillon had just exited. “If you had, you wouldn’t be leaving this early.”

“And you think you’re what I want?”

The boy shrugged.

Dillon peered at him. He appeared to be in his midtwenties, fit and tight in the way Dillon remembered being before he’d hit thirty-three. He was shorter than Dillon with dark-brown hair long enough to grip: two things Dillon liked in a submissive. There was something familiar about him as well. If Dillon wasn’t mistaken, he’d seen him heading into a nearby motel a few times and never with the same “date.”

“Are you a prostitute?” Dillon asked.

The blunt question evoked an expression of surprise, but it rapidly morphed into a smooth smile. “‘Prostitute’ sounds like a job. It’s more of a hobby.”

“One you get paid for.”

“It’s a good hobby.”

Dillon cracked a smile. “How much do you charge?”

“Depends on what you want to do.”

That was reasonable enough, and if he’d been waiting outside Harte, he must know to expect kink and charge for it accordingly. “Are you clean?”

“Yes, and condoms are necessary and at your expense.”

“Expense? That sounds like a job term to me,” Dillon teased.

He considered his options. The boy was right. He hadn’t found what he was searching for in the club, and he held no illusions he ever would. Even after six years, he couldn’t help comparing every submissive he came across to the lover he’d lost. Harte called him a stubborn old goat, but the thought of building a relationship from scratch exhausted him. It was so hard to find someone whose rhythms and tastes fit with his own. Granted, the club was designed for negotiation and mutually desired play, but that was for the scenes that took place there. What about the rest of the time?

Dillon didn’t want a casual play partner. That did nothing more for him than scratch an itch that would return in no time. He wanted someone he could build a life with. He wasn’t going to find that with a prostitute, but something about the stranger brought forth yearnings Dillon hadn’t felt in years. He could take the boy home with him, indulge in what he wanted in his own territory and under his own rules. It would be a purchased illusion, but it beat going home alone and sleeping in an empty bed.

“Come on,” he said, pulling his car door open and unlocking the other side. “We’ll talk details when we get to my place.”

“Your place? Don’t you mean a hotel?”

“My place,” repeated Dillon. “I don’t do quick fucks.”

I am not totally sure if this is a first time author or not. The dedication at the front made me think so, but there are several other books with authors of the same name. So, I am going to go with first time author. Well done.

I don’t always love novellas or shorts, unless it is an established couple I know. I just feel like so much is sacrificed for a shorter story. I like to sink my teeth in while getting to know these characters. And I did.

Mike (Michael) is a prostitute. BY CHOICE. This was actually really refreshing. Some people actually choose to be a sex worker. Their reasons are their own. But for Michael, it’s because he makes good money, can choose his sex partners and hours AND he has fun.

Dillon is a Dom without a sub. And he isn’t super broody or anything. He knows what he wants and he isn’t willing to compromise with a quick scene in a club. And even though he has to pay Michael, he is getting what he wants on his turf.

Their connection is quick and intense, but not rushed. It didn’t feel like an instalove to me at all. Instalust yes. Their scenes are H.O.T.

This is obviously the start of a series and I definitely want to read more.

4 pieces of eye candy

Jacqueline Grey currently lives on an island on the east coast of the United States. She spends her time outside her day job juggling her many interests which include reading, writing and drinking tea. She loves M/M romance, usually focusing on stories that include BDSM themes to one degree or another.

Jacqueline has always been driven by characters. She loves a good plot, but it’s the characters that pull her into a story. She loves romance and believes everyone has a right to be happy. She enjoys seeing her characters find that happiness for themselves.

Website | Facebook | Twitter | Pinterest

http://jacquelinegrey.com/

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Tour Schedule

2/24     MM Good Book Reviews        http://mmgoodbookreviews.com

2/25     The Blogger Girls        http://thebloggergirls.com/

2/26     Love Bytes Reviews     http://lovebytesreviews.com/

2/27     Two Chicks Obsessed with Books and Eye Candy       https://twochicksobsessed.com/

2/28     BFD Book Blog http://bfdbookblog.net/

 

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A Husband for Santa by Doreen Heron: Release Day Blitz, Excerpt, and Giveaway

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Father Christmas knows his time delivering presents is coming to an end, and his son is more than ready to take his place at the helm of the sleigh. But family tradition stands in Turk’s way.

He must find a Mrs. Claus to help share the burden. Unfortunately for tradition, he would rather a husband than a wife, and he doesn’t have time to meet anyone anyway.

At the same time, Christmasologist and PhD candidate Symeon Golightly finds himself sad and alone over the holidays.

Maybe a chance encounter and a Christmas wish will bring them together.

Title:  A Husband for Santa

Author: Doreen Heron

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: December 23, 2019

Heat Level: 1 – No Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 20600

Genre: Holiday, LGBT, Folklore, magic, elves, Christmas, romance, fantasy

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Chapter One

“Prepare the landing bay to receive the sleigh. I repeat, prepare the landing bay to receive the sleigh. We expect the mission to be terminated in fifteen minutes. I repeat, the sleigh is fifteen minutes away.”

The elves began to scramble, thousands of them getting to their feet and running from dormitories and lounges, through the glistening silver ice corridors and into the straw-lined landing bay. With nimble fingers, trained through years of constructing toys and preparing lists, they padded out stables with fresh straw and hay. They filled troughs with water and bowls with cereals and carrots. They swept the solid snow that had drifted in when the sleigh left and dried up the pools of water where the snow had warmed enough to melt. The elf children, too young to have any real responsibilities yet but old enough to graduate over the year and take on jobs for the following Christmas, took a break from observing and making notes and leapt to the gas lamps, lighting them to give the reindeer a cozy environment to come home to.

“We expect the mission to be terminated in ten minutes. I repeat, the sleigh is ten minutes away.”

Some of the older elves, particularly those celebrating their final Christmases, jumped as Turk’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker. They hadn’t enjoyed this particular “innovation” and much preferred when his father had been in training and instead came to each of them in turn to make the announcements personally. They were glad to be retiring to let the younger generations—who didn’t seem to be quite as attached to the traditional ways—take the reins. En masse, the elves retreated to the back of the room, where they surveyed their work. It looked nice. Cozy. They wanted nothing more than for the reindeer to be able to rest as soon as they arrived home, and for Father Christmas himself to feel the wave of relaxation hit him after finishing his deliveries for another year. The younger generations waited with bated breath as Inger—the oldest elf and Chieftain of their little tribe—surveyed the room. She pointed to a corner where one last errant cobweb was stubbornly clinging to a beam, and one of the children leapt to a broom and scurried to clear it away.

“We expect the mission to be terminated in five minutes. I repeat, the sleigh is five minutes away.”

Inger surveyed the room again and smiled as she was satisfied with what she saw. Her team had served her well, this final Christmas. She nodded to the corner, where an elf stood alone. He was easily two heads taller than the others, almost the size of one of the human children for whom they made presents and was well muscled. At Inger’s nod, he turned to the wheel at his side and began to crank it. A creaking sound boomed from the timber roof, as it began to part. At once, the elderly elves started their chant, an ancient elven magic to protect the stable against the elements. The snow itself obeyed them, falling to settle on the roof and avoiding the hole that was emerging. When it was wide enough for the sleigh to fit, the muscled elf stopped cranking. But the elderly continued to sing, keeping the heat generated by the gas lamps inside the room, and keeping out the snow that was falling so violently.

“The sleigh has been sighted over the Crystalline Falls. I am on my way. I repeat, Turk is en route.”

The elderly elves rankled at the announcement. Never before had a Santa-in-Training ever felt the need to oversee the landing. It had always been a privilege afforded to the elves as a reward for their hard work. But times were changing, and all new Father Christmases had to put their own mark on the role.

Turk’s mark, it seemed to the elves, was micromanagement.

But they continued to chant, regardless. One slip in their song and winter would get into the landing bay, undoing all their work and discomforting Father Christmas and his eight faithful deer who had fit an entire year of work into a single night. And not one of them was prepared to let that happen.

The chanting could be heard across the palace. Turk emerged from the control room and stopped for a second to listen.

The sound of the elves was the sound of his life. Of hours waiting for his father to come home from work and tell stories of all the children to whom he had delivered gifts. Of those he thought Turk might like to be friends with if it were ever possible to leave Polynya. Those who had grown older and who chose not to believe in him anymore, just because their parents had chosen not to believe. Those who ignored all the evidence right in front of them that proved he existed, and instead put blind faith in parents who had no evidence other than what their parents had told them, who relied only on what their parents had told them before. Those were the stories that saddened Turk the most, particularly when he entered his teenage years and the children who he had considered peers and friends stopped believing.

They no longer wanted him to exist.

It was a happy song and a sad song. A song of hope and joy and obligation and loss. And in that moment, as he finally allowed himself a break in his work to take stock, he felt the loss of his own father about to retire and the joy of his own life about to begin.

He took a deep breath to steel himself. He couldn’t allow the elves to see his moment of weakness. Yes, they may have raised him and bathed him and changed his diapers, but as of the moment his father touched down in the sleigh, he was Father Christmas, and he had to lead them as a general leads his troops.

He had a family legacy to live up to.

He set his jaw, strong and stubbled, and took a moment to wipe the tears from his icy blue eyes. He pulled himself upright, towering over the elves at six feet and two inches and straightened his back. He’d read a book that said good posture commanded respected, and he needed his elves to respect him.

The echo of his black leather jackboots clattered through the ice corridors as he strode to the landing bay. Another tip from his book. Walk with a heavy step and make your presence known before you arrive so people know you’re there. He wasn’t entirely sure if that one applied to working from his own home, but he figured the author knew what he was talking about and was quite determined to follow all the advice on offer.

The torches lining the walls lit as he approached and extinguished as he walked by—lit long enough so that he could see, but not so long that they would begin to melt the walls. He moved deftly through the maze-like corridors and hallways, following the shortcut he’d figured out when he was a child and wanted to trick the elves into thinking his magic had developed. The truth was it would have been easier for him to teleport into the Landing Bay, but that didn’t quite make as much of an impact on the sound of his boots on the ice floors.

And it was all about the impact.

The elves scrambled out of the way as the two solid pine doors to the landing bay swung open, and Turk strode in. Quickly, they pulled themselves back together and stood to attention as he had taught them. The elderly elves objected to this, finding the position highly uncomfortable, and their hearts were glad they were required to carry on chanting.

“At ease,” he commanded, and the elves moved fluidly into position. Even the children, keen to impress their future boss, joined in and tried hard not to giggle as Turk walked back and forth past them, looking them over. “You are well presented, in spite of tonight’s working conditions. I’m glad I’m finally getting through to you.”

Inger chaffed at his words and closed her eyes to drown out what he was saying so she could focus on the ancient and magical words of her people.

“The loading bay is acceptable,” he continued, striding around the bay and peering into each hay-filled stall. “I feel we will have much work to do over the coming year to modernize this space and maximize efficiency, but that will come on December 26. For now, this is acceptable.”

A single snowflake fell through the opening in the roof as Inger let her guard slip. The Landing Bay had never been merely “acceptable” on her watch. Nor on her mother’s. Nor on her grandmother’s. She and the Matriarchs took their role seriously, and they worked hard to ensure that everything was done to perfection. Thankfully, the flake melted long before it was noticed by anyone other than her. She felt it fall as she felt her concentration lapse, and she certainly wouldn’t allow herself to do anything that he would merely consider to be “acceptable.”

She was so looking forward to retirement.

She felt for her daughter, who would need to take the reins and put up with Turk’s peculiar brand of nonsense.

A roar of wind and snow occurred overhead, and the children became antsy in anticipation of what was about to happen. Turk looked up and nodded, happy the elements were being kept out of the landing bay and satisfied the roof was open enough to allow the sleigh in so it could land. He squinted and saw a very faint red light in the distance.

“Showtime, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. The elves scrambled once again, lining up along the walls and the stall doors, leaving as much floor space as possible free for the sleigh to come in and land. While still chanting, the elderly elves walked to the far north wall, against which was set a raised platform. They walked up onto the platform and stood, choirlike, continuing their chant for the last few moments of their careers.

They were ready.

Turk joined them on the stage, running his hand through his dirty blond hair and smoothing down his wine-red suit. This was his moment. The moment he had spent his whole life preparing for. From the moment his father landed the sleigh, he would take charge, and the next Christmas would be his. His book had said to “make sure one presents oneself properly” from the very beginning of the job.

He was ready.

The red pinpoint of light grew bigger and bigger as the distant sound of sleigh bells began to chime. Turk took a deep breath and shifted his weight from foot to foot. He would never admit he was nervous and was almost positive the churning in his stomach was caused by the questionable reindeer meat in the curry which his mother had served the night before. But as he straightened his red tie for the fifth time that minute, the elves could see he was nervous. A couple of the children sniggered and pointed, but the others had sympathy for him. They knew his dad was a popular Father Christmas, and so he had a lot to live up to.

And if some of them were honest with themselves, they weren’t sure he would.

The sound of the sleigh bells grew louder and louder until finally the sleigh itself hovered overhead. The deer were well rehearsed by now and hovered in place until they were given the order to descend. It was a silent command, given by a Father Christmas who had spent two centuries working with each family line. He allowed for a delicate lowering of deer and sleigh alike until its wooden rails and thirty-two hooves set down on the landing bay’s tiled floor. At once, the elves scrambled into action and the bay became a hive of interaction. The elves turned the wheel, and the roof closed. The elves standing by the stall gates unlatched them, and then headed to their own deer, unhooking them and leading them over to their stall. First Rudolph, then Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen, and so on until all nine were safely locked away and gratefully lapping their water.

As they were working hurriedly, Inger and the other elderly elves made their way to the sleigh and helped Father Christmas. He was wobbly on his feet as he stood but was able to make his way down to the landing bay floor entirely unaided.

“Turk,” he called, his voice booming through the Bay. “Please see to it that the sack is returned to its rightful spot.”

“Of course, Papa,” Turk replied. He turned to an elf, the only elf currently unemployed, and gave the command. “You heard him. Take the sack to the—”

“No, Turk.” His father stopped by the pine doors. “I asked you to please take the sack and put it away.”

“But Papa. This is what the elves are—”

“The elves are not your slaves, Turk. They work for the children, not for you. Now, please put the sack away and then meet me in the Lounge.”

“The Debriefing Room,” Turk corrected his father under his breath as he made his way to the sleigh and pulled the large, empty, hessian sack from the back seat. It looked so different with the enchantments faded and the magic gone for another year. Now, it was loose and malleable and normal.

He didn’t like it.

Carefully, he laid it out on the floor, careful to ensure no elf trampled over it and folded it in half, and then half again, and then half again. There was no ceremony to the sack any more, and that made him a little sad. He very much enjoyed being a child and watching his father and Inger fold it carefully and then carry it solemnly to its room to be put away. He looked at Inger, who was observing him carefully, and was certain he saw a tear in her holly-green eye. It was a shame, he thought, that she so disliked him that she refused to even help him with the sack ceremony.

“At least there will be new Elders next year,” he mused, picking up the sack and carefully making his way out of the landing bay along the twisting corridors toward the Toy Room. “Maybe the new Matriarch will want to do the ceremony with me.” The Toy Room doors slid open, and he walked amongst the empty shelves to the illuminated glass box where the sack resided during the off-season. Gently, he opened the box and placed the sack inside. As it hit the bottom of the glass, it began to shine in gentle hues of red and green and gold, its magic immediately beginning to replenish and rejuvenate. “I’ll see you next year,” Turk whispered to it before he turned around and tiptoed to the Debriefing Room.

He saw no need to announce his presence to his own father.

 

Doreen Heron is a writer who is finally living her dream in Cornwall, England. She is lucky to live in the county she loves, and to be using her writing to entertain her readers.

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We Still Live by Sara Dobie Bauer: Blog Tour with Exclusive Guest Post, Excerpt

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Today we have the author of We Still Live, a book so relevant to today’s society. We asked Sara Dobie Bauer to tell us a little about Writing Realistic Characters with Mental Illness, and she has a very personal take on the situation. Take a peek, and then read the excerpt. You will want to grab this book!

To escape the past, accept it.

Running from a scandal that ruined his life, Isaac Twain accepts a teaching position at Hambden University where, three months prior, Professor John Conlon stopped a campus nightmare by stepping in front of an active shooter.

When John and Isaac become faculty advisors for the school’s literary magazine, their professional relationship evolves. Despite the strict code of conduct forbidding faculty fraternization, they delve into a secret affair—until Simon arrives.

Isaac’s violent ex threatens not only their careers, but also John’s life. His PTSD triggered, John must come to terms with that bloody day on College Green while Isaac must accept the heartbreak his secrets have wrought.

***WE STILL LIVE is a standalone M/M friends-to-lovers romance featuring detailed adult content, graphic violence, hurt/comfort, and mental illness.***

BLOG TOUR

Book Title: We Still Live

Author: Sara Dobie Bauer

Publisher: NineStar Press

Cover Artist: Natasha Snow

Release Date: December 9, 2019

Genre: Contemporary M/M Romance

Tropes: Friends to lovers, hurt/comfort

Themes: Coming out, depression, anxiety, PTSD/post-traumatic stress, mental illness

Heat Rating:  4 flames

Length: 62 000 words

It is a standalone book.

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Writing Realistic Characters with Mental Illness By Sara Dobie Bauer

My new novel We Still Live deals with some heavy stuff. Not only are the characters haunted by a college shooting, but they also must now survive the ramifications of that shooting—most notably, their destroyed mental health.

At the forefront of the story is romantic interest John Conlon, the hero professor who stepped in front of an active shooter. John is passionate and kind and gorgeous (of course), loved by his students and friends alike. However, since the shooting, John is different. He now suffers from depression, extreme anxiety, PTSD, and night terrors.

Who could blame him? He saw students and friends murdered. He felt their blood on his hands, and he survived—but has yet to heal. Newly hired professor Isaac Twain falls for John, considering it’s difficult to not be charmed by this charismatic, beautiful man who seems so strong when he’s absolutely shattered inside.

So where did John come from? How did I develop this complicated character whose mental illness is as much a part of him as his fabulous hair?

I admit, I did some research. I read up on college shootings (which is not fun, let me tell you). I live in a small Ohio town that was shaken by a high school shooting a few years before I moved there. I’ve watched the news and seen the horrors of Paris, Atlanta, insert yet another tragedy here. But the honest to God truth?

John’s mental illness is realistic because I live it every day.

I’m thirty-seven now, but I’ve been suffering from depression and nightmares since puberty. The anxiety and PTSD showed up due to a high pressure hell job that threw my life off-balance. I’m now medicated to deal with all these issues. I revisit therapy when things get really bad. I stopped watching the news, and a lot of that had to do with the myriad shootings that seem to occur daily.

I wrote We Still Live for selfish reasons. It is an exorcism. I took all my fear, pain, and rage and channeled it into John and the other survivors of the fictional Hambden University shooting. Writer, heal thyself, within the safe cocoon of your imagination.

You’ve heard the adage, “Write what you know.” I don’t agree with that in most cases, but I agree with that statement here. Writing fiction has always been a comfort to me. It’s an escape from reality when reality becomes too hard. It’s a hell of a lot healthier than drinking and drugs.

Maybe you suffer from mental illness, too. Maybe there’s an issue that scares you or gets your heart pumping. Maybe you start writing. Iadmit, penning We Still Live wasn’t easy. Putting John and Isaac through the wringer wasn’t fun, and I had days when I would type through my tears. But I kept going, because their story is important to me and hopefully will be to other people, too.

How did I write a realistic character with mental illness? I looked inside myself. What ghouls are in your closet begging to be set free? You never know who you might help by being open about your issues. You might help some troubled reader out there realize they aren’t alone. Like John, you might even save a life.

Close as they were to the foyer, Isaac was the first to notice the front door opening. A student walked inside. The kid dragged a heavy-looking suitcase behind him. Dressed as he was in a slim-fitting button-down, Isaac immediately assumed preppy, although that assumption altered and changed when taking into account the tight black jeans, Converse sneakers, and shaggy hair the color of caramel and chocolate—a mass of waves and curls that fell down the back of his neck but not quite to his shoulders.

The kid pushed his hair out of the way and looked up, eyes finding Isaac and flashing a moment of panicked nonrecognition before seeing Tommy.

“Um.” Isaac pointed toward the new arrival.

Tommy turned and shouted, “John! My man!”

Not a student, then.

Tommy wrapped John in a hug that actually lifted his feet off the ground. Isaac imagined it wouldn’t be difficult. The new guy might have been average height, but he was gangly, skin and bones.

Tommy ruffled his hair. “Have you lost weight?”

John grumbled and scratched his face with his middle finger. “What are you freeloaders doing in my house?” His voice was surprisingly resonant for someone Isaac considered “pretty.” At John’s pronouncement, crows of approval rang from every direction.

“Come meet Isaac,” Tommy said.

John wiped his palms on his jeans before reaching out to shake, and Isaac’s large hand dwarfed his.

“Isaac Twain is the newest addition to our special corner of Hambden hell. Isaac, this is John Conlon.”

John brushed more hair out of his face. “Nice to—”

“John Conlon?”

John and Tommy froze.

Isaac jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “The books on the shelf. Those are yours?”

John’s face, immobile in what looked like dread a moment before, melted into relief, tinged with a bit of blush. “Oh, yeah. You’ve read?”

“No, but I should. You’ve published a lot of books. You must be good.”

John’s nose wrinkled, and he looked away.

Tommy shook him by the shoulders. “John is an amazing writer. He had a story published in The New Yorker when he was, like, five. Are you working on anything right now?”

John glanced at the bookshelf. “Not lately.”

“You need a drink,” Tommy said.

John’s eyes widened on a big breath. “God, yes, I do.”

“Nice to meet you,” Isaac said, but John just nodded quickly, smile thin, before allowing himself to be herded farther into the house toward the sound of quiet laughter and clinking bottles.

Isaac felt it then—an outsider’s emptiness. He became a nervous-looking coat rack in the corner, a terrified tree waiting for the ax. As the party doubled in auditory volume, he bemoaned his spilled wine. Was it okay for him to leave? It wasn’t like he was supposed to make a speech. He was only there because he figured it was the easiest way to meet everyone before the first official faculty meeting, but he’d been standing around too long. He wanted to run.

Out of curiosity, he reopened John’s book from earlier and read the front flap. It was a coming-of-age story about a gay kid in the Midwest. He flipped to the back, and a picture of John stared back at him. He’d assumed the guy was tired when they first met, but no; apparently, John had perpetual bedroom eyes, and his hair was always an artful mess. He skimmed…creative writing professor at Hambden University…gay rights activist…Converse-wearer and “old-people music” enthusiast.

All arrows pointed to John’s probable sexual preference for men. A spark of interest flickered but quickly went out. True, John Conlon was what most people would consider beautiful, but he wasn’t Isaac’s type. John was the kind of man butch guys fought over in gay clubs, but he was too small for Isaac, too fragile-looking, girly. After all he’d been through, the last thing Isaac wanted was someone feminine.

A thin figure ducked into the library and literally hid against the doorframe. He took a long drink of something brown and leaned his head back. “It’s not good when you want to hide in your own house.”

“Library is the best place for it,” Isaac said.

John kicked away from the wall. “Tommy mentioned you just moved here? I’ve been in Lothos forever, so if you need anything…” He examined Isaac from his brown boat shoes to the top of his blond head. John’s large eyes, dark green, seemed bottomless—drowning pools of intellect and soul—only slightly overshadowed by his thick eyebrows.

Sara Dobie Bauer is a bestselling author, model, and mental health / LGBTQ advocate with a creative writing degree from Ohio University. She lives with her hottie husband and two precious pups in Northeast Ohio, although she’d really like to live in a Tim Burton film. She is author of the paranormal rom-com Bite Somebody series and Escape Trilogy.

Photo credit: Bill Thornhill

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Scarred by Mia Kerrick: Quick Review

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Even in paradise, beautiful faces can hide scarred souls.

ONE tropical island.

Placida Island’s gentle ocean breezes and rolling surf beckon to those who wish to reside in remote tropical serenity.

TWO men living in self-imposed exile.

Wearing twisted ropes of mutilated skin on his back and carrying devastating damage in his soul from severe childhood abuse, Matthew North lives alone in a rustic cabin on the shore, avoiding human contact.

Gender fluidity his perceived “crime” against family and friends, Vedie Wilson flees his childhood home so he can freely express his identity.

THREE persecutors seeking their warped view of justice.

Vedie’s past refuses to stay in the faraway city he left behind when family members, intent on forcing him to change, threaten the precious peace he’s found.

TOO MANY scars to count.

Their beautiful faces masking deeply scarred souls, Matt and Vedie live in hiding from the world and each other.

Can they unite and embrace each other’s painful pasts, leaving the scars behind, to find love?

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I have a bit of a fetish for broken characters. Not just broken. Like totally effed up characters. And if both main characters are broken? Yaassss!

And that is why I wanted to read this book. And I am so glad I did.

Warning though. This book is brutal. The author does not shy away from abuse, both physical and sexual, including of a child. It is far from gratuitous. The way it is told as journal entries makes you want to weep, but it is not voyeuristic.

Matt lives in self imposed seclusion because of a severely traumatic even in his childhood. But not 100%. He goes out to eat by himself, goes to the store, etc. He just doesn’t have anyone in his life. No one. No friends, he sees his parents briefly once or twice a year and works from home. So when the new bus boy at the restaurant he frequents talks to him, flirts with him, propositions him, he is compelled to say yes.

Vedie (I love this name, seriously) basically ran away from home, even though he is 21 years old. He has been non-binary ever since he could remember. Sometimes he felt like a boy, sometimes a girl, sometimes neither. That didn’t fly in the tough neighborhood in Boston he grew up in. So his mother threw him out and he runs because his brothers and cousin think they can beat him into being only a boy.

Matt and Vedie very slowly develop a relationship. One that is undefined. It is sometimes sexual, often times platonic and nearly always unspoken of. Matt cannot speak of his feelings and Vedie wants to not only talk about it, he wants to hear it. Both of these men so desperately need love from another person.

I devoured every word of this book. The way Vedie’s personality and speech patterns change with what gender he is presenting at the time are so well done. And while “boy” Vedie can be a bit over the top in his overt machismo, it goes back to his days in Boston and having to show people he was a boy.

There are some excellent secondary characters- Sheila, Vedie’s co-worker and her girlfriend, who love Vedie as he is even if he doesn’t realize it. Matt’s parents, who I thought I would feel sorry for but I absolutely didn’t. And Joey who I wanted to punch in the face.

I hate to say that there wasn’t a ton of “plot” because that sounds awful, but there was a TON of story. I don’t know if that made sense. But I got to immerse myself in Matt and Vedie and not have to worry so much about x, y and z.

If you were a fan of Violence Begets, put this on the top of your TBR.

4.75 Pieces of Eye Candy

Bump by Matthew J. Metzger: Exclusive Guest Post and Excerpt, Blog Tour and Giveaway

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TCO is very excited to have Matthew J. Metzger on the blog today with an EXCLUSIVE Guest Post and Excerpt from his latest release, Bump. The Guest Post speaks so much to where David, the MC, as well as the author is in their life. And the Excerpt…that’s going to draw you in! Make sure you enter the giveaway!

 

David’s pregnant.

He’s always wanted to have children, and being a stepfather for the past two years has been a great adventure. There’d even been a plan to start looking into adoption and turn their family of three into four.

But now there’s a bump, and David doesn’t know what to do. He’s spent years escaping the grip of his own body and burying the past—but there’s no way he can hide from his history if he lets the bump get any bigger. It’s not just his baby; it’s also his breakdown.

He doesn’t know if he can do this.

Title:  Bump

Author: Matthew J. Metzger

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: November 5, 2018

Heat Level: 1 – No Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 70900

Genre: Contemporary, contemporary, trans, bisexual, established couple, interracial, veterinarian, disability/car accident, depression, family issues, homophobia, children, pregnancy, body dysphoria, #ownvoices

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Labels

She knew. They all knew, his judo friends. They were all his university friends. But David had found that a strange thing happened over the years, once the passing had kicked in.

People forgot.

They just—forgot. In the beginning, there was a sharp tinge of awareness about everything, like everyone saw that he was trans before they saw that he was David. Like they’d remember his identity prior to his name. But after his first surgery, when he’d jumped from obviously trans to obviously a man, the people around him just seemed to forget. There had been…moments. Incidents where it became obvious they no longer quite remembered. The night out after he and James had passed their blue belt, where James told him to hurry up and stop waiting for the cubicle and just use the urinal. The day Vicky had rummaged through his bathroom cabinet in search of condoms to steal for her own use, and had a go at him.

“You could get someone pregnant!” she’d raged, and David just stared in stupefaction at her.

He looked obvious now—but people forgot. People saw what they wanted to see. And so he knew—knew—Vicky wouldn’t guess right.

“I’m not ill,” he said.

“So explain—”

“I’m pregnant.”

The above is a scene from my latest novel, Bump. David accidentally gets pregnant and has to deal with everything that means, from the practical aspects of simply having a child, to the mental strain of being a man and being pregnant at the same time.

David, of course, is trans.

But permit me a guilty twinge there—because David doesn’t like to identify as trans. He’s just a man. Just David.

He was tired. Tired of work, tired of Sam, tired of being pregnant, tired of being able to be pregnant. He was tired of being a trans man instead of just a man. Tired of being David now, instead of David always.

David is a first for me as a trans author—but he’s also possibly the closest to where I am in my own life. David is thirty-two, transitioned a long time ago, and is purposefully and happily closeted when it comes to his colleagues and even his partner’s family. He’s not involved with any LGBT community, and doesn’t want to be. He’s a man, rather than a trans man.

(So I always feel a little twinge of guilt when I tag this as trans.)

But it’s not something I’ve seen much of in trans fiction, especially with trans men. There is this idea that we are trans first, trans always, trans and—often—nothing else. And that always sits strangely with me because in meatspace, away from my pen name and tweeting, I am increasingly like David.

I got a new job recently, and went from out and proud to happily back in the closet. My neighbours don’t know. Of the six people closest to me in the world, only two of them are queer—and neither of them live near me. I will go weeks or even months without being in the same physical space as a queer friend. Increasingly, I have friends who don’t know I’m trans at all. I have stopped thinking of myself as trans, and have to actively remember not to shave the day before a gym session in case I lose my ability to pass.

I am slowly drifting apart from my label.

I am forgetting.

It sounds impossible, doesn’t it? Yet when I am away from my phone and preparations for my final surgery, I am starting to forget where I came from. Recently I started to write a lesbian romance, and needed to name a character. I gave her the first name that popped into my head, and carried on. Three chapters later, I realised I’d given her my deadname. I’d not seen or heard it in so long, it felt like a whole new name I was finding for the first time.

So yes, I am trans. Bump is a trans story. But—

It’s more and less than that at the same time.

It’s the labels have started to dissolve, and what identity feels like afterwards.

Chapter One

“Thank you,” David said. “Yes. I’ll check my diary and make an appointment. Yes. Thank you. Goodbye.”

He hung up and—very calmly—dropped the phone out of the car window. Wound the window back up. Reversed a little to give himself room to wriggle out from behind the BMW in front.

And—just as calmly—made sure to run over the phone with the rear tyre as he drove off.

His palms were sweaty on the steering wheel. His heart was thundering low in his stomach. David hadn’t had a panic attack in nearly ten years, but the feeling was as familiar as ever—the creeping darkness at the edges of his vision, the hyperawareness of his own skin, the tightness across his ribs like he was having an asthma attack. He tightened his grip. He needed to get control of himself. He was thirty-two years old. He could—would—handle this like the responsible adult that he was.

He refused to break down screaming at the wheel of a car, for God’s sake.

Thankfully, the phone call had happened just around the corner from his usual parking spot. He slid the car into a free space and bent forward to rest his forehead on the wheel. He raked a deep breath in, held it for a count of ten, and let it out slowly.

All right.

So the test result was more or less his worst nightmare. And he’d probably be having nightmares too.

But it could have been worse. Practically speaking. It was a fixable nightmare. He could fix it. It didn’t matter right now. He didn’t have to deal with it this minute. He could talk to Ryan tonight, make an appointment in the morning—just not the one he’d promised the nurse on the results line—and fix everything.

Slowly, his heart rate started to come down out of the rafters. The tight band around his chest didn’t ease, but it got a little easier to breathe.

“Fix it tomorrow,” he mumbled.

He straightened, squared his shoulders, and opened the door.

David never bothered trying to park right near the school. It was always a melee of mums and Mitsubishis, and he was terrified of someone’s kid running into the road right under his bumper. It was cool outside, threatening rain. The short walk helped clear the rest of the panic out of his head, and refocus. Ava didn’t need to know about it. Everything was fine, all happy and normal, no problems whatsoever, nothing.

The school gates were crowded as always, but David had an advantage. In a sea of white mums, he stood out a mile. He leaned against the metal fence, peering through the railings, until he caught sight of two frizzy baubles of hair stuck out either side of a pair of wide, searching eyes.

He waved, and the eyes lit up.

“David!”

“Sorry, excuse me, sorry, thanks, sorry—”

He wrestled his way to the front just in time to stoop and catch Ava as she hurled herself at his thighs. He hoisted her up and turned to carry her through the crowd. She babbled in his ear about finger painting, pizza, and a new gold star on her behaviour chart, and then clung obstinately when he dropped her to the pavement again.

“Only babies need carrying during the daytime,” David said. “You’re not a baby anymore, are you?”

It had been an infallible obedience tool ever since she started school. She let go with a sulky expression and jammed her sticky hand into his.

“Can we have pizza?” she repeated.

“We’ll ask Daddy.”

“Daddy never says yes to pizza,” Ava said mournfully, in the same tone of voice one might use to say someone had died.

“Daddy doesn’t eat pizza,” David corrected. “That doesn’t mean we can’t have pizza sometimes. You had pizza on your birthday, remember?”

She brightened up. “It was Jamie’s birthday today!”

“That’s nice.”

“So we can have pizza for Jamie!”

“I don’t think it works like that.”

Her buoyant mood was calming, even if Ava was more of a hurricane than anything else. She was five and three-quarters (never just five) and brimming over with energy. She didn’t even have the decency to get tired by seven o’clock like normal five-year-olds. She went to bed at the same time as her parents—and usually rocketed back out of it again by six o’clock the next morning.

Still, her effusive enthusiasm helped. There was nothing to panic about. He could fix things, and everything would be back to normal next month anyway.

“Tell me about your new gold star,” he said as she scrambled up into the back seat. “Do you need help with your seatbelt?”

“No,” she said, giving him a look definitely inherited from her mum. “I’m five. And three-quarters. I can do my own seatbelt.”

“Show me,” David said.

To be fair, she could. Albeit with a lot of faffing about. Once he heard the click, he promised a new star for her chart at home and closed the door. In the short time it took him to walk around the car and get into the driver’s seat, she’d started a whole new deluge of noise masquerading as conversation, all about how rainbows were made.

David’s chest slowly unlocked as he drove home to the background noise of a five-year-old on rainbows and a fifty-year-old on the radio. He could hand her off to Ryan once they were back, lock himself in the bathroom, and have a cry in the shower under the pretence of a long, hard day at work. Maybe even have a soak in the bath. He felt bad palming Ava off on her dad, especially on a Thursday, but—

Christ.

He just didn’t have the energy. Not after that phone call.

Home was a roomy bungalow with a long, narrow back garden, a decent view over some fields, and the ugliest bay windows in the front David had ever seen. According to the locals, it was in a village near Wakefield. According to everyone else—including David, who wasn’t even from Yorkshire and was therefore regarded as an immigrant—it was in Wakefield. The rest of the street was occupied by elderly white people called Gerald and Betty whose lives revolved around gardening, Antiques Roadshow, and Women’s Institute bake sales.

Ryan and Ava had been acceptable when they first moved in. Cute toddlers were tickets to acceptance in these sorts of villages, David suspected. And he’d found out the other week that half of them thought Ryan was ex-army, which meant all the old blokes liked him by default. But when David moved in, that popularity had taken a definite dive.

David didn’t really care. He was from Salford. He could think of a lot worse than some tuts and disapproving scowls from ninety-six-year-old Pamela next door. She was there, peering out from behind her lace curtains, as he pulled into the drive. He waved, and the curtain dropped.

“We’re going to be nice and quiet,” he told Ava as he opened the door to let her out of the car. “Daddy went to see Nathan this morning, so he might still be tired.”

Ava nodded, dragging her bag out after her.

“If Daddy’s asleep, can we have pizza before he wakes up?” she chirped as David unlocked the front door.

“Nope, Daddy will want dinner too.”

“But—”

“Aha!”

Ryan’s booming voice bounced down the hall towards them as David opened the door. Ava squealed and shot into the kitchen, jumping up at her dad like she hadn’t seen him in a thousand years rather than eight hours.

“Hello, my little star!” He planted a loud kiss on her cheek and grinned up at David. “What’s this? Two stars! Well, well, well. What have I done to deserve this, eh?”

Then he smiled, a brilliant flash of white streaking across his face like torchlight. And David—relaxed.

That was all it took sometimes. Just for Ryan to flash him that megawatt grin, and all the fight seemed to drain out of David’s body. Even the internal fight. Ryan had that—that air about him. When he smiled, when he laughed, when he was happy, it was like the whole world had to be happy as well. It was like everything faded away and was replaced with a warm contentment, a feeling of security, the sense that no matter what happened, he had Ryan with him.

He hadn’t fallen in love with Ryan at first. He’d fallen in love with that smile.

In a lot of ways, Ryan was a ball-ache of a boyfriend. Complete slob. Rap fan. Thought curries every night were compatible with a sex life. David had become a de facto stepdad not three months into their relationship from the sheer number of times Ryan simply forgot which weekend he was supposed to have Ava, and had had to ring David on his way home to swing by the school and pick her up.

But Ryan made him feel—

Warm.

And David could use warm. Unceremoniously, he hoisted Ava up by the armpits, plonked her on the kitchen tiles, and sat in Ryan’s lap looping both arms around his shoulders and burrowing his face shamelessly into that thick neck.

Matthew J. Metzger is an ace, trans author posing as a functional human being in the wilds of Yorkshire, England. Although mainly a writer of contemporary, working-class romance, he also strays into fantasy when the mood strikes. Whatever the genre, the focus is inevitably on queer characters and their relationships, be they familial, platonic, sexual, or romantic.

When not crunching numbers at his day job, or writing books by night, Matthew can be found tweeting from the gym, being used as a pillow by his cat, or trying to keep his website in some semblance of order.

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