Encore by J.M. Snyder

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Encore
by J.M. Snyder

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BLURB:
In Beautiful Disaster, pop superstar Corey Evans realizes how hollow he feels until he discovers he's in love with his best friend and band mate, Ian Coltraine. Together they form the successful pop duo 2ICE, and this story picks up where the first left off.

A couple not only onstage but in the bedroom now, Ian and Corey have managed to hide their newfound relationship from the fans, the press, and -- most importantly -- their management. But when manager Dean Summers stumbles upon the two of them together, he's determined to put an end to what he sees as a destructive course which can only end up tearing the band apart.

Is the budding love Ian and Corey share strong enough to stand up to the pressures they face?

If you haven't read Beautiful Disaster, this story may not make much sense. So pick up the first story before diving into this short, satisfying sequel!

EXCERPT:
The kiss was electric, spiking between them, burning away the moment, the world and everything in it, everything that wasn’t Ian on Corey, in him. Yes, Corey thought, the single word eclipsing all other processes in his brain. Yes, God yes, this, please.

When Ian broke away, Corey fell back to the pillow and stared up at his lover, breathless. For a long moment, neither said anything. Truth be told, Corey thought they could never move or speak again, and he’d die happy. Ian was his, here with him now, and nothing else mattered.

Then a familiar glint lit up Ian’s eyes, a hunger Corey knew all too well. The heated blush of arousal spread through him like a fever -- the anticipation of things to come. Of them coming, together. Coyly Corey asked, “What?”

“You know what.” Ian half-rolled onto Corey, pressing his groin against Corey’s hip. “The condoms are in my bag on the sink. Unless you aren’t interested ...”

“When am I not interested?” Pushing himself up with both arms, Corey claimed another quick kiss, then slid off the edge of the bed.

He didn’t get far -- Ian caught one hand and held onto it, pulling him back.

“Give me one more,” he said, puckering his lips.

Corey obliged. What began as a quick peck deepened, and Corey had to lean heavily on the bed with his knees to keep from falling back to the mattress. Releasing him, Ian ran a hand up Corey’s forearm, over his bicep, up to his shoulder then down the thin muscles of his chest. One of Corey’s legs rose of its own volition, already climbing back into his recently vacated spot beside Ian. Fuck the condoms. He needed this.

Before he could climb back into bed, a hard knock rapped on the room door.

Corey’s eyes flew open. He found Ian staring back at him, a look of fear frozen on his face. When the knock came again, Ian groaned and closed his eyes in frustration. “Fuck,” he whispered, his hands falling from Corey’s body. “It’s too damn early for this.”

Corey frowned. “Who do you think it is?”

Ian touched Corey’s stomach. “You think I know?” When Corey grinned, Ian poked his forefinger into Corey’s belly. “Go find out. Tell whoever it is we’re busy and don’t wish to be disturbed.”

“We need one of those signs.” Corey stretched as he stood, and Ian’s finger trailed down his stomach, over his slight pubic mound, to tweak his half-erect cock. With a laugh, Corey danced out of reach. “Maybe it’s room service. I could use breakfast in bed.”

Ian rolled onto his back, the bed sheets sliding down to expose bare skin. “I didn’t call.”

A third knock kept Corey from answering. As he crossed the room, he snagged his boxer briefs from where they lay discarded on the floor and tugged them on, tucking his swollen dick roughly into the front of the underwear. If it wasn’t room service, it better damn well be something serious. His spot in the bed was getting cold, and he wanted Ian’s arms around him again. Quietly he approached the door and peeked through the peephole.

Their manager Dean stood on the other side. He blinked in the bright lights and looked down the hallway, scratching the back of his neck as he waited.

“Who is it?” Ian asked, snuggling deeper into the blankets.

Corey’s breath fogged up the peephole. “Dean. Shit.”

Before Ian could respond, Corey unlocked the door and opened it a crack, hiding behind the sturdy wood. “Yeah?” he asked, frowning.

Dean blinked at him and took a step back. “Whoa, wrong room, man. Sorry about that.” He looked down the hallway again and frowned. “Wait a minute -- aren’t you on the other end of the hall?”

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Achilles and the Houseboy...Gillibran Brown

Achilles and the Houseboy…Gillibran Brown

If Achilles, ancient hero of the Trojan War, had worn proper footwear then Gillibran Brown, modern hero of the Domestic Empire, would get into a lot less trouble, or so he believes.

A kiss heralds the arrival of a most unwelcome and troublesome visitor who throws Gilli out of kilter with life and his Daddies.

Take another journey with Gillibran Brown. (that's me ;-)

My wiki page: http://bookworld.editme.com/GillibranBrown

Book edition available at:

http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/achilles-and-the-houseboy/15549858

Ebook edition to follow

Published by Houseboy-Works

Excerpt:

Prologue

When you think about the ancient Greeks, as oft I do, because I’m strange like that, they and their deities have a lot to answer for. Gone they might be, but they still manage to cast their antique influence over us modern mortals in a variety of ways.

Take Achilles for example. If he’d worn proper footwear then I wouldn’t get into half as much bother as I do. Honest it's true, if he’d worn calve length Doc Marten boots my life would be much easier.

I’ll endeavour to explain using my vast knowledge of Greek mythology acquired from years of studying the ancient classics. (Lie detector snorts, you once read a kiddies book of myths and legends and most of it was in pictures) Okay, okay, but those pictures were detailed.

Achilles was the son of an immortal mother and a mortal father. The immortal mummy in question, Thetis, was distressed because not only had her son inherited his father’s Roman nose and overly large lugs, he had also inherited his mortality. She decided to top up her baby’s immortality by dipping him in the magical River Styx (there were no social services then you know, you could do what you liked) only the un-dead daft bat forgot to wet the heel she dangled him by, thus leaving him vulnerable at that point.

Achilles grew up fine, strong and immortal, albeit with a small print clause he had declined to read - failure to wear chain mail socks at all times will invalidate your life insurance. He was also as thick as ancient Greek pig shit. Why else would he have elected to go into battle against a tribe of aggressive chiropodists wearing a gold lame evening gown and a pair of patent leather sling backs, which left his heels totally exposed to his enemies weapons. It’s true, honest, it really happened (swiftly puts a hand over lie detectors mouth)

It seems our mate Achilles wasn’t quite the hero he’s made out to be. According to some sources he was second to none when it came to flinging hissy fits and sulking in his tent for days on end when he didn’t get his own way. He could very well be the patron saint of brats everywhere.
When he was called up for service in The Trojan War Achilles was not pleased. He didn’t want to go to war, he wanted to stay in and play Grand Theft Chariot on his X-Box. He came up with a cunning plan to dodge the draft by dressing up as a woman, but he forgot to wax his legs and Odysseus sussed him.

Okay, I feel a slight tangent coming on. In spite of my old school teacher's warnings about wandering off subject, I'm going to go with it. (Sorry, Miss) According to a painting I once saw of Achilles, he had muscles that could lay claim to being independent territories but a cock the size of a winkle. It set me off pondering, it doesn't take much, I love a good ponder.

Surely any painter set on depicting one of the most famous heroes of the Trojan War would opt to give him a magnificent dick in keeping with his status, one that could be used as a battering ram in the event of a siege situation? Instead, the artist chose to give him a todger and ball bag that would embarrass a cherub. Perhaps he was running out of flesh coloured paint at that point and decided to skimp, or perhaps it was an ironic comment on the futility of war? Who knows! Artists are funny folk and a tiny cock could mean many things.

Anyway, he said, forcing himself back on topic and away from cocks, which doesn’t happen often believe me, because of Achilles, the cross dressing warrior Greek, most of us modern humans have an Achilles heel, a weakness of one kind or another.

Being a well-balanced sort of chap I actually have two Achilles heels, one on each foot. The first is jealousy and the second is temper and they don’t make good partners. One fuels the other and tends to make a bad situation even worse.

It’s Achilles fault that I so often end up at odds with my men folk. If he’d worn sensible footwear then Paris would never have been able to kill him with a well-aimed poison arrow and the term 'Achilles heel' would never have been coined. Consequently, according to my logic anyway, I wouldn’t suffer from jealousy or temper or a combination of both and I’d have a smooth and ripple free relationship with my own particular pair of Greek gods (legends in their own lunchtime)

Leaving aside half arsed pseudo mythological stuff, this humble chapter in the life and times of this houseboy concerns the manifestation of my personal Achilles heel, Jealousy, who dropped in for a visit the weekend prior to Dick’s birthday on the first of August.

On that particular weekend Dick had been called south by the imperious and chilly tones of his mama and was due to be away from Friday afternoon until Sunday evening. Shane was also away on business that Friday, but would be back late the same day.

Being an optimistic sort of house lad I was looking forward to spending some quality time alone with my alpha Daddy. As things turned out it was fantastic. He wined me, dined me, bought me flowers and new clothes, wrote me a love sonnet in iambic pentameter and told me he adored me. He even stacked the dishwasher (well, you wouldn’t expect him to wash up by hand now would you) while I supped champagne cocktails and watched the telly. (Lie detector says, in your Mills and Boons little fantasies, boy.) Okay, okay (romantic dream pings and pops like a fairy liquid bubble) it wasn’t quite like that. So, I hear you ask, either that or I’m suffering audio hallucinations, what was it like? Well, it was more like this: sprinkle-sprinkle - glitter-glitter (don’t worry, being gay I’m fully trained, licensed and insured for magical glitter sprinkling) let's go back in time to the Friday before Dick’s birthday, the twenty-seventh of July 2007.

Between States Book 3: A More Perfect Union by J.M. Snyder

Now Available from JMS Books LLC!

Between States Book 3: A More Perfect Union
by J.M. Snyder

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BLURB:
Book 3 in the Between States trilogy

Once a Yankee soldier, Brance Brenneman has left the War Between the States behind and gone into hiding with his lover, former Confederate Caleb Chilson. Deserters intent on keeping to themselves, they find a nice, sparse acre of land where they can finally settle down. Life falls into domesticated routine for both the brooding Yank and the excitable Rebel. Together they struggle to create a more perfect union forged of love and their shared shapeshifting secret.

But the discovery of another bobcat encroaching on their territory brings out the possessive alley cat in Caleb, eager to defend his home and his mate. Will the newcomer destroy what they've worked so hard to attain? Or is there room enough for the three of them deep in the wilderness of Pennsylvania?

EXCERPT:
The snow stopped falling by the time they left the shop, but gray clouds still scudded the sky and Brance could feel the moon on the rise. Tossing his haversack into the back of their cart, he untied the horses from the hitching post as Caleb brushed the fresh snow off the jump seat. “What do you think about that girl missing?” he asked, climbing into the seat. The rifle once again lay across his lap.

With a shrug, Brance vaulted up beside him. “You know we’re the only bobcats in those woods.”

Caleb cleared his throat and glanced down at his hands, unusually quiet. Brance frowned. “You’ve seen others?” When Caleb shrugged, he asked, “What haven’t you told me?”

“I haven’t seen anything,” Caleb said, choosing his words carefully. With a dark look at the dusty window of the general store, he added, “Let’s head on home. It’s getting late.”

Brance sat with the reins in his hands, impassive, unmoving. Waiting.

Caleb sighed and covered his lover’s hands with one of his own. “Brance, please. It was last month, okay? When I chased after that doe, remember? She led me down a short ravine and when I came up the other side, I smelled another’s scent. I didn’t see any cats, I didn’t hear any ... it was an old scrape, nothing I thought worth bothering about.”

For another long moment, Brance stared at Caleb. His lover seemed to wilt under his gaze, drawing his neck into the collar of his thin jacket, hunkering down, waiting for admonishment. Several emotions flickered through Brance -- anger, betrayal, concern -- but he held them in check with a grip as firm as that which held the reins in his hands. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, soft. “Caleb,” he said.

His lover flinched at the sound of his own name. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I should’ve said something, I know. I just didn’t think it’d be a problem.”

How could another cat’s territory so close to their own not be a problem? With a flick of the reins, Brance set the cart in motion, buying himself a moment to think. If there were bobcats in the woods they called home, then Brance suspected sooner or later, they’d have to fight for the land. He didn’t relish the thought of going up against younger, wily felines, either in the flesh or in the fur. As a human, he had an aversion to killing any living creature; he had never been the perfect soldier, and even hunting for food bothered him, which was why he left it to Caleb. His lover was much better at it than he. And as a bobcat, he wasn’t the sleek specimen found in the wild. He had an old war wound on one leg that slowed him down, his bones ached in the cold weather, and he’d rather mate and eat and sleep than anything else. If their territory lay so close to that of another male’s, there would be trouble before long.

He could feel Caleb’s sour mood simmering beside him. The same thoughts hopefully gnawed at Caleb’s mind, worrying him. What happened when this other bobcat decided to expand his territory and breeched theirs? How would they protect their small home from such a creature? Their crops, their horses, themselves?

As Brance steered the cart out of town, Caleb tried to assuage their fears. “I don’t think we have to worry about it, really. That ravine’s half a day’s hike from our place. We’ve marked the land all around it, and I scratched fresh marks in the trees before I left. There were no other paw prints out there, nothing but the scrape, and it was so old anyway. I mean, she must’ve laid it down weeks before I came by there.”

“She?” Brance gave him a sharp look. “It was female scent?” At Caleb’s nod, he pressed, “Are you sure?”

Caleb nodded again. “Oh, yeah.” A wild look crept into his eyes and he grinned. “The man in me wasn’t interested, but the bobcat got randy. Whoo, boy. It turned me on something fierce, I’m telling you. I gave up on that doe and raced back to you, ready to fuck. Don’t tell me you don’t remember.”

With a chuckle, Brance joked, “You’re always ready.”

The town was behind them now, their cart alone as it followed the path in the snow they had tamped down earlier. Caleb turned to set the rifle in the cart behind him, then eased an arm around Brance’s back. Scooting closer, he leaned against his lover, one hand angling into the pocket of Brance’s jacket for warmth, the other easing over Brance’s stomach with a ticklish touch. Caleb rested his head on Brance’s shoulder; puckering his lips, he pressed them to the tender spot behind his lover’s ear. As his fingers massaged Brance’s belly through his shirt, he murmured, “I’m ready now.”

With a hard shake of the reins to spur the horses on, Brance murmured, “Why am I not surprised?” 

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From Morocco to Paris

Blurb: Zane Reed dreams of being a director, but first he has to learn the ropes by taking every crap job in the movie industry. Employed as personal assistant to actor Elliot Butler, Zane hopes to further his education when Elliot works with famed director Saul Brennan. However, Zane gets an education in something else entirely when he meets Davey Alexander, one of the production’s costumers.

Davey, vivacious and erotically-charged, shakes reluctant, sexually-confused Zane down to his core. The two begin a torrid affair that leaves Zane wrestling with demons from his past as much as wrestling with Davey in the sheets. During filming, from Morocco, to Cairo, to Paris, the two struggle with desire and muddled emotions. In the end, Zane will have to overcome–and define–himself, if he wants to keep the most intriguing, passionate man he’s ever known from walking out of his life.

Excerpt: The lights of the city stretched out in the distance, fading toward the shadowy mountains on the horizon that arched against the blackened sky. Zane stood at the window, the cool night air on his skin, a forgotten cigarette burnt to the filter in his hand. He heard shifting on the bed behind him, then the sound of feet slapping on the floor. Hands slid over his chest, a warm body pressed to his back.

“This suits you,” Davey murmured.

Zane wore his djellaba, fastened only at the waist. He shifted, noticed the cigarette, and ground the butt out in the ashtray on the windowsill.

“So I’ve been told,” Zane said.

Davey roamed his hands lazily over Zane’s chest, over the djellaba, beneath the soft folds.

“I’ll miss this place too,” Zane said softly. “I’ve never been anywhere more beautiful.”

“Me either.” Davey’s warm breath seeped through the fabric over Zane’s shoulder.

Davey quit moving his hands and rested one lightly on Zane’s chest, over his heart. They were silent for a few minutes, the stillness broken only by the sound of the wind and the subdued noises of the midnight city.

“Davey,” Zane finally said softly. “I can’t do this, you know I can’t.”

“Why?” Davey asked, just as softly.

Zane felt panicked now, having his emotional barriers kicked down. “I’m too scared. Of the future. Of the past. I just…can’t. This isn’t how it was supposed to
be. It was never supposed to go this far.”

“But it has.”

“But I can’t take it any further, Davey. Sex is fine, but things are getting complicated.” Even as he said these words, trying to make them sound confident, his heart twisted.

Davey was silent a moment then he said, “It doesn’t matter.” He rested his cheek on Zane’s shoulder, and his voice vibrated against his back. “You do what you need to, and I’ll endure it. I’m not asking anything of you.”

“That makes me a horribly selfish person. It’s not fair to you.”

“Unrequited love is as old as humanity.” Davey lifted his head and removed his hand from Zane’s chest. “You’re not doing anything that hasn’t been done by a
million people before you.”

Zane tried to turn but Davey stopped him, playing with his hair.

“And people have gotten over it since the beginning of time,” Davey said. He tugged Zane’s hair gently and released him. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head over it.”

Zane turned and watched Davey walk back to the bed, his bed, watched him crawl under the covers.

“Davey, I just — ”

“Stop talking about it. Everything will be all right; I’ll make sure of it.”

The dull light through the windows glowed softly on Davey’s face, and he smiled before settling down. No invitation to come to bed, no entreaty. Simply a bare pillow and an open spot Zane could take or leave as he chose.

Zane stood at the window a while longer, not looking at the city but with his hand over his eyes, elbow resting on the wall. Tomorrow, Cairo and the end of their crazy, exotic romp, if he had any say. Soon he’d have his head about him again, concentrating on his work, concentrating on his education. Soon he could go back to sleeping alone, instead of crawling into bed with Davey.

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Lydia Nyx on GLBT Bookshelf

Beautiful Disaster by J.M. Snyder

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Beautiful Disaster
by J.M. Snyder

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BLURB:
Twenty year old Corey Evans is one-half of 2ICE, the biggest duo on the radio at the moment. Pronounced twice, they're number one on the Billboard charts this week with their latest single. And number one in download sales, with two albums that have already gone platinum, to hear their manager tell it. And currently on their second U.S. tour, which has sold out stadiums across the nation.

Despite this, there's an emptiness inside him which Corey can't seem to fill, no matter how many groupies he takes to his bed. He sees this same emptiness mirrored in the eyes of his band-mate, Ian Coltraine, who drowns his evenings after each show with a bottle of whiskey. Ian's the one Corey turns to when he wakes beside an unknown fan, still asleep in his bed and needs help evicting her. He's Corey best friend, the only person on the tour he can confide in, who he really trusts ...

The one, Corey finally realizes, with whom he is madly, deeply, terribly in love. And he suspects Ian might feel the same.

But his recent string of one-night stands makes Ian cautious about Corey's true feelings. He's wanted Corey for so long, and has watched him go through countless fans in search of ... what? Ian doesn't know. And he doesn't yet believe Corey when he says Ian might be it. Ian hopes so, but can't bring himself to believe Corey's fickle desire won't be gone in the morning.

Can these two young men somehow move beyond Corey's past and Ian's pain to embrace a love they both so desperately desire?

EXCERPT:
Corey pulled back the comforter, exposing pristine white sheets that still looked ironed. Ian hadn't slept in the bed at all. As Corey eased between the covers, the sheets cool on his skin, he frowned and tried to forget about the girl in his own bed down the hall. What the fuck was he going to do about that in the morning?

He didn't know.

Leaning back against the pillow, he pulled the comforter up to his armpits and looked over at Ian, who sat in the chair watching him. Watching him. So he still existed. He was still real, still alive, still here. "The bed's big enough for two," he murmured.

"I'm fine," Ian replied, but suddenly he didn't look fine to Corey. He looked sad and old and alone, and not fine in the least.

With a sigh, Corey rolled his eyes and let a slight whine creep into his voice. "Ian. There's plenty of room." To emphasize his point, he patted the empty space beside him. When Ian didn't reply, Corey said, "This is your bed. I'll sleep on the floor if I have to. Is that what you want? It doesn't matter to me. Just as long as I don't have to go back --"

"Fine." Ian hoisted himself out of the chair and stumbled to the bed. Sitting on the edge farthest from Corey, he kicked off his shoes and glared at the floor. "You happy now? You got what you wanted, Corey. You fucking happy?"

"Jeez." Corey didn't say another word as Ian began to undress, slipping out of his shirt and tugging down his pants until he stood in just his boxers and undershirt. As he reached across the bed to cut off the lamp, his shadow fell over Corey, blocking the light from his eyes. Then the room plunged into darkness, and the bed shook as Ian climbed beneath the covers.

Corey lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, blinking to assure himself his eyes were still open. He waited until Ian settled into a comfortable position before he turned toward his friend, who was rolled on his side away from him. All Corey could see was the slump of Ian's shoulder outlined against the dim glow of the curtains. "Ian?"

"What?" His voice was muffled, his mouth probably buried in the pillow.

Clearing his throat, Corey asked, "Are you mad at me?"

For a moment he didn't think Ian would answer. Then Ian sighed. "No."

Corey released a shaky breath he hadn't known he was holding. "Good."

Now that the lights were out and Ian was just a shadow in the darkness, Corey's mind couldn't stop turning, and he didn't want the silence that surrounded them to get inside. He wanted to hear Ian's deep voice, soft and comforting and slurred, wrap around him and hold him close. He wanted to hear Ian's steady breath drown out the tick of the alarm clock and the sounds of the city beyond the drawn curtain. "Ian?" he asked again.

"What?" Ian replied, gentler this time.

"Talk to me." Talk to me and make me real. Make this real, so I'll be able to look back on it when I'm alone and scared again and know for a few moments at least I existed to someone as just Corey and not anything else. Please, Ian. Please give me that much.

Ian chuckled. "You wanted me to get into bed so we could sleep. Now you want me to talk to you? What do you want me to say?"

"Anything." When Ian didn't answer, Corey prompted, "What were you doing in the lounge?"

"Drinking," Ian said.

Corey grinned. "I know that. What were you thinking about?"

"You," came the soft reply.

"Really?" Corey frowned at Ian's back. "Me? Why?"

Ian sighed. "I don't feel like talking right now, Corey, okay? I just don't."

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Between States Book 2: Beneath a Yankee Sky by J.M. Snyder

Now Available from JMS Books LLC!

Between States Book 2: Beneath a Yankee Sky
by J.M. Snyder

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BLURB:
Brance Brenneman is used to harsh conditions -- the eldest son of a stern Amish preacher, Brance was bit by a werecat as a young boy, and managed to keep his secret from his family until he was old enough to leave them and their religion behind. Years later, when the nation is divided by the American Civil War, Brance finds himself enlisted in the Union army. By sheer chance, he meets Caleb Chilson, a Confederate soldier who bears his same shapeshifting burden.

Together they leave the war behind to forge a new life in the wilderness of Pennsylvania. But trappers near their camp are hunting bobcats, and they don't much care if Brance and Caleb are only in the fur part of the time. Brance finds his peaceful existence shattered, and he has to fight to defend the life -- and the bobcat, the man -- he's come to love.

EXCERPT:
Caleb nodded against Brance's back and stood, then leaned down to whisper, "I still want that fuck."

"Later," Brance conceded.

Behind him Caleb stretched again. Brance risked a quick glance up and saw a glorious sight -- his lover's balls nestled in fuzzy hair, and the tip of his dick pointing down at Brance like a single sightless eye winking in temptation. If it weren't so late, and the change so imminent ... if only they had world enough and time ...

A foot nudged the small of Brance's back. "I see you looking," Caleb said again. "Two minutes, I'm telling you ..."

Sudden discomfort flickered across Caleb's face as one hand clutched his lower belly. "God," he gasped, a look of sickness on his young face. Turning on his heel, he raced for a low thicket nearby. Brance heard him retch as he disappeared into the underbrush.

It was nothing more than the moon on the rise but when Caleb cried out in pain, Brance stood and half-turned to follow his lover into the trees before a cramp in his own stomach doubled him over. Clutching his abdomen, Brance fell, breathless, to the ground. His skin began to burn, as if flames lapped his body -- pain slashed through him, radiating from his belly up through his chest, shooting down both legs, crippling his arms. In the cataclysm of change, his joints popped as his bones crunched down, reshaping themselves into a familiar feline form. Burnished hair erupted over the back of his hands, along his legs. As he writhed on the ground, his fingers fumbled to unbutton his shirt. His breath came hoarse and close, ragged to his own ears. Over the sound he heard the brook muttering to itself and, beyond that, Caleb's quiet sobs.

With nerveless fingers, Brance managed to extract himself from the shirt. His hands changed as he struggled to undress -- his nails lengthening, curving, sharpening; his fingers retreating into padded paws. The last vestiges of humanity fell away as he kicked off his underpants -- the legs that slipped from the shorts drew up to Brance's body, feet dissolving into paws, ankles straightening, knees bending back as his thighs reformed into haunches.

Around him, the night came alive with sights and smells and sounds the human he had been could not appreciate. Brance lay on his side, panting, as he allowed himself to remember the feel of this body, its weight and power, the strength now flowing through his veins. The thrashing in Caleb's thicket had stopped, as well. The stench of man filled the clearing but Brance recognized it as his own scent, mingled so heavily with his lover's that the two became one.

A sudden roar split the night. It flashed like lightning through Brance, igniting his blood. As he rolled into a sitting position, the trees nearby shook -- he watched a bobcat trot from the thicket, amber eyes trained on Brance's face. Before he could react, the cat came right for him without hesitation. Its cold nose wrinkled as it sniffed over Brance's forehead -- he closed his eyes, waiting.

Then a choppy purr filled the night air, and the bobcat butted its head against Brance's. ::What about now?:: the other cat mused. It turned, raising its short tail into the air to expose its anus. A heady scent blossomed between them, a randy, wild smell that eclipsed all others and made Brance's claws knead the soft dirt beneath him, eager. Caleb's voice spoke into Brance's feline brain. ::Will you fuck me now?:: 

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Between States Book 1: Under a Confederate Moon by J.M. Snyder

Now Available from JMS Books LLC!

Between States Book 1: 
Under a Confederate Moon 
by J.M. Snyder
Gay historical paranormal
shapeshifter erotica
Novelette, $3.99

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BLURB:
Bitten as a teen, Caleb now suffers through a painful transformation from human to bobcat a few days each month. As a bobcat, he leaves behind his camp and fellow soldiers to explore the night. But a gunshot and the bright scent of fresh blood draws him to a clearing where he learns that he isn't the only one of his kind.

Wounded and hurt, Brance is a loner by nature, gruff and grumbling, who doesn't want anything to do with Caleb ... at first. The younger bobcat prevails, and starts to win Brance over, until they turn human again and find themselves on opposite sides of the American Civil War.

EXCERPT:
The scent of man enveloped him. Each tree he sniffed, each branch, each bush, carried the smell of humans and their artillery. Dried blood and disease mingled with the smell, painful scents Caleb didn't like. The shirt on his back only confused his sense of smell, but once the camp was behind him, he took a moment to wiggle out of the torn material. He sniffed it, curious, then left it among the leaves as he hurried away, the growl still tickling the back of his throat. The sound warned anything away from his vicinity, and helped keep his mind off his churning stomach, or the bloodlust that filled his veins.

On four padded feet, Caleb crept through the forest as silently as a house cat stalking its prey. He hunted half-heartedly, not quite ready to sate his appetite and call it a night. At some point he scared up a large hare, coming onto it from downwind, but the creature caught his scent moments before he pounced and darted just beyond his powerful jaws to disappear into a hole too narrow and deep to dig in for long. Abandoning the prey, Caleb kept moving, always keeping the men and their smoke-filled camp at his back. He heard no more gunshots, and felt no urgency to hurry through the night.

Around him, the woods were alive in a way the human in him would never see. Small rodents raced over the forest floor, skittering through the moss and lichen, raising whiffs of fresh meat in their wake. Occasionally one would catch Caleb's attention and he'd give chase, toying with the frightened mouse until it disappeared into a crevice of tree roots too small for his paw to fit through. He caught a couple, nothing large, and let each one go after playing a bit. He wanted something larger, something worth the effort of a kill. Something ...

Off in the distance, along in the direction he was heading, he heard a gunshot. He stopped, ears trained on the sound, his whole body rigid and tense. Men, he thought, the word anathema to him in his current state. He waited for another sound, a second shot maybe, or raucous laughter in the night, but nothing seemed to follow. The tip of his tail twitched, waiting.

Then a volley of shots rang out, three, maybe four, all at once. Caleb dropped into a crouch and heard a wounded yelp cry out, a primal sound that tugged at his instinct. Another cat, he knew -- a large one, by the sound of it. That damned growl of his started up again, and he sniffed the air, trying to smell powder or blood, but nothing came to him on the wind.

Could be Yanks, the still-human part of his mind whispered. Sensing an unprecedented opportunity, Caleb sat down on his haunches and licked one forepaw as he mulled over his options. Race ahead, get shot like the other cat. Or no, sneak in and sneak out, but learn enough of the enemy camp to bring back to his commanding officer in the morning. Major Pennock would want to know how he came about the information, but if they ambushed the Yanks, would it matter how he knew?

With a decisive flick of his tail, Caleb leapt away. On strong legs, with sure strides, he ran through the forest, dodging undergrowth, vaulting over fallen logs and large stones, climbing low trees to jump from their quivering branches when it suited him. The wind raced him, whipping around his ears and flaring his nostrils. His fangs were bared to the night, allowing him to catch the faintest of odors. Before long he found the scent of man again, and gun smoke, and blood.

He skidded to a halt. Like a knife, the blood pierced his mind and stirred his senses. Nosing around, he found a drop of dark lifeblood on a deadfall, still warm. His tongue licked out, and the taste of copper filled his mouth. A heavy scent like wet fur clung to the wood. Picking his way carefully over the rotten limbs, Caleb climbed the deadfall and, on the other side of the forest floor, found another bright patch of blood, a clump of fur clinging stubbornly to the edges of a paw print. Another bobcat, just as he'd thought. Wounded.

He wouldn't get far.

With his animal senses, Caleb could easily discern the cat's path through the woods -- here the grass bent in a certain direction, there a few branches were snapped as if pointing the way. Caleb padded on, cautious. Every now and then he paused to sniff around. The trail led to a thicket of tall grass, tamped down in the center. As Caleb approached, he heard a low growl issue from the grass in warning.

He sat back. Cocked his head to one side. Ventured another step and received a breathy hiss as a reward. In the darkness he could see two golden cat's eyes staring back at him. A guttural voice spoke in his mind. ::Another step and you die.:: 

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New Release: NATURAL INSTINCTS by S.J. Frost

Now available at MLR Press. 

NATURAL INSTINCTS by S.J. Frost
M/M vampire erotic romance novel
Published by MLR Press
Available in all ebook formats and in print.






BLURB:

Andreas Nikandros has one focus, to kill the vampire he believes murdered his sister, and he knows with their greater strength, the surest way to kill a vampire is to become one.  As a zoologist, he’s used to looking at the world from a natural standpoint, but when he sets out on a quest to find a vampire to Turn him, what he finds in Titus Antonius Calidus is the last thing he expected.  Titus has lived for over a thousand years, and in that time has only ever given his heart to one man.  As they follow their natural instincts, they discover something truly worth living forever for, each other.

EXCERPT:

*In this scene from Chapter 1, Andreas Nikandros goes to the restaurant, La Rose Rouge, to confront the vampire he believes murdered his sister, and also meets vampire Titus Antonius Calidus*

“Do you have a reservation, sir?” she asked.

“I do. It’s under Nikandros.” Andreas smoothed his pale blue button-down shirt and flicked his hand at nonexistent lint on his black pants, feigning patience while she opened a ledger to check for his name.

She inclined her head in acknowledgment and turned to show him into the restaurant. “Would you prefer the bar or the restaurant, Mr. Nikandros?”

Andreas followed her through an arched doorway. “The bar, please.”

Dark red carpeting flowed before him, and he couldn’t help but think the color had been wisely chosen. Round wooden tables covered in white linen and booths of cream colored leather seats filled the space. Small chandeliers hung down from the cathedral ceiling, their light causing tiny rainbows to dance off the walls trimmed in a gold leaf border. To the far right on a half circle stage, a string quartet played Bach’s “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.”

Andreas noticed eyes turning from conversations and meals to him, many holding open appreciation, others a hunger beyond physical attraction. He was used to being looked at in the first way. His medium build lined in fine musculature, his hair of loose black curls, eyes of blue-gray, and delicate facial features provided him many admirers. Though in this place, being an attractive human was like being an injured gazelle within a lion’s sight.

Andreas followed the hostess as she turned to the left, leading him through another arched doorway to the bar. The dark wood floors and walls made the space feel warmer than the cool formality of the restaurant. It also allowed for darker shadows.

The hostess departed, and Andreas headed for the long bar. As he reached for a stool, a hand clapped down on his shoulder. He turned, and though he considered himself fairly tall at six feet, his eyes were only level with the chin of the man beside him. Andreas was positive the guy wasn’t a vampire, though he might be an ogre, if such things existed. At this point, with how his vision of “the real world” had been shaken, he didn’t doubt the existence of anything.

Andreas tipped his head back to look into the man’s eyes, and with a backhanded slap to the other’s wrist, knocked the beefy hand from his shoulder. “Hands off.”

The large man reached for him again, snatching him by the upper arm. “My boss wants a word with you.”

Andreas stared at the man in disbelief. He’d been in the restaurant for less than five minutes, and already he had caught Renart’s attention? The guard started walking, leaving Andreas no choice but to go with him. From the guard’s purposeful march, Andreas guessed their destination was a booth taking up a back corner that allowed for a clear view through the doorway to see all who entered the restaurant.

His gaze fell on the man occupying the booth, and he knew from his sister’s descriptions he was Renart. With his dark brown hair pulled back in a tight, short queue, his sharp, raptor-like features were pronounced. Andreas couldn’t deny Renart was attractive, but there was an aura around him enhancing Renart’s physical appearance. The vampire sat with an air of complete control, power, and dominance.

The guard brought Andreas to a halt at the table’s edge. Andreas watched Renart’s deep brown eyes move over him. He chanced glancing away from Renart to the group gathered round the booth: three males, two females. The predatory look in their eyes gave them away for what they were, and also, he didn’t think Renart would flank himself with humans. Two of the males stood side by side whispering to each other. Watching them, a tremor of unease went through Andreas.

Neither of the two males looked like they could be far beyond twenty years-old, or in actuality, couldn’t have been older than that when Turned. One had a purposely messy cut to his brown hair, the other wore his blond hair in a short, neat style. The brown-haired one had features rugged and angular, but no less handsome than the softer face of the blond. Andreas’s gaze darted back to Renart when he caught movement from him.

Renart leaned his cheek on his fist, an amused smirk on his lips. “I know who you are, and I can make a guess as to what you’re doing here, Andreas Nikandros.”

Andreas steeled himself against the sound of Renart’s voice, deep, smooth, and tinted with a French accent. How many times had Adrienne said the sound of Renart’s voice alone was enough to melt her? Now having heard it, he understood better.

Andreas adopted a posture of arrogance and let out an indignant snort. “I would hope you could figure it out since I used my real name to make my reservation, and my purpose for being here should be fairly easy to guess considering this is a restaurant.”

Renart’s smirk broadened. “Not only is your scent similar to your sister’s, but your sharp tongue is also. That was one of my favorite things about her and all the various ways she was skilled with in using it.”

Andreas stared at him in cold silence.

“Ah, but that was before her tragic death,” Renart continued, his voice nonchalant. “And now here you are, her distraught little brother coming before me on some misguided sojourn for revenge. I am correct, no? That is why you’re here.”

Andreas fought to control the muscles in his face from contorting with rage and maintained a neutral expression as he looked into Renart’s eyes. “Actually, I’m looking for a master.”

Renart let out a chuckle. “Are you now? Why does that sound so very unbelievable considering I know how dear you were to Adrienne, and I gather your feelings toward her were the same.”

Andreas shrugged. “I warned her more than once that if you play with vampires you’re bound to get bit. But she didn’t listen, and now she’s gone because of it. I don’t have the same delusions she did, thinking she could make a beast like you love her. I know what I’m walking into, and I can handle it.” On his final word, Andreas fought to not put a hand over his heart to calm the hurt from speaking of his sister in such a way.

“Oh, you’re good.” Renart sat forward and placed his hands on the table. All amusement vanished from his expression. “But I can smell your pain with every word you spit out. And while this display is mildly entertaining, I can’t continue to breathe in that sweet scent you carry just like hers.” Without taking his gaze from Andreas, Renart flicked his hand toward the brown-haired male. “Troy, take this toy out back and instill in him the importance of never returning here again.”

Andreas lunged for Renart. He hardly twitched forward before Troy and the blond male snatched his arms. He felt their sharp fingernails, already grown into their predatory claws, sink through the thin fabric of his shirt and into his skin. Knowing that struggling would only attract the attention of other vampires, Andreas silently glared at Renart, and then walked as the vampires pulled him toward the back of the bar and through a swinging door to the storeroom. One of the females squeezed between them and the rows of shelves holding bottles of wine and various alcohols to a steel door. She shoved it open a fraction of a second before he was thrown toward it.

Andreas stumbled into the alley, reeling to catch his balance. He whirled around. A fist smashed into the side of his mouth. The force knocked him to the side and the ground. He landed hard, his body rigid with shock and pain.

Andreas struggled to suck in a breath, then lost the little bit of air he gained when a sharp-toed boot slammed into his ribs. He curled his body into a ball. Through his pain, laughter deafened him. Andreas lay still, waiting for the next strike to come. His mind moved far too sluggishly in forming a plan for escape, and it seemed fixated on one thought: he’d failed.

A voice broke through his thoughts and over the laughter.

“Children, children, look what you’ve done.”

The laughter ceased.

The rich baritone spoke again. “Clearly you’re undeserving of such a fine treat.”

Andreas sensed the other vampires moving away from him. He opened his eyes to see them standing in a cluster near the wall of the restaurant, their gazes fixed beyond him. He couldn’t help but think they resembled a pack of hyenas when forced to bow to a lion, unable to do anything but watch as their prey was stolen from them.

Andreas felt a presence standing over him. A hand touched his shoulder and pushed him onto his back. Andreas’s gaze traveled up long legs clad in black pants to a steel-gray silk shirt and over each button to the top where two were open to reveal ivory skin. He looked at the slender jaw, the high cheekbones framed with platinum-blond hair, and met the silver stare of the other.

Troy took two quick steps forward. “Back off, Calidus! He’s ours!”

The blond vampire snatched Troy by the arm, muttering under his breath. “Troy, no. No one’s allowed to call Lord Titus that.” His voice dipped lower, though Andreas still caught him mumbling the word “ancient.”

Troy shook off the other’s grip. “I know who he is, Isaac, and I don’t give a shit. That piece is ours!”

Titus looked up from Andreas to Troy. With fluid grace, he stood, his gaze locked on Troy. Even without the gaze focused on him, Andreas could feel the lethal threat radiating from Titus.

Troy slunk back toward the door. “Don’t think I won’t tell Lord Renart about this.”

“I’d be grateful for the favor,” Titus said.

Troy backed through the door, Isaac and his companions mimicking his movements.

Titus kept his gaze on the door until it closed, then brought it back to Andreas. “And now for you.” He bent over him and dipped the fingers of one hand into Andreas’s hair near his temple, drawing them through the curls. “Let’s get a better look at you.”

Titus slipped his hands under Andreas’s arms and, with the ease of lifting a small child, hauled him to his feet. He spun Andreas around, holding him under the light hanging above the backdoor and looked into his eyes, drinking in their blue-gray hue.

“Like the sea before a storm,” Titus said softly.

His strength returning, Andreas got his feet under him and moved to take a step back. Titus dug his fingers into Andreas’s upper ribs, stopping him. Andreas stood eye to eye with him, his heartbeat quickening. “Titus, that’s your name?”
Titus tipped his head closer to him, his lips a fraction from Andreas’s. “Titus Antonius. And yours?”

Andreas took a breath, inhaling Titus’s exhale. “Andreas Nikandros.”

Titus bowed his head, bringing his nose closer to Andreas’s neck. “A Greek name.” He lifted his head, his eyes focused on the rivulet of blood coursing from Andreas’s bottom lip to his chin. “Maybe you carry ancient blood also.”

Titus touched the tip of his tongue to Andreas’s chin and licked up the red line, a deep groan rumbling from his throat as he did. There was a sweetness to Andreas’s blood, just as his natural fragrance had betrayed, and the energy and virility of his essence sent a euphoric rush through Titus.

S.J. Frost
http://www.sjfrost.com/

New release! DEVIL OF A NIGHT by J.M. Snyder

Now Available from JMS Books LLC!

Devil of a Night
by J.M. Snyder

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BLURB:
Steve's relationship with his lover, Carlos, has been on the rocks lately. For months now, they've been distant to each other, quick to argue, and Steven isn't quite sure what's come between them. A night spent clubbing together seemed just the ticket to patch things up and, sure enough, the first half of their evening went well.

But after leaving the club, Carlos must have taken a wrong turn somewhere because the two find themselves lost in the back roads of New Jersey, what's known as the Pine Barrens. Half-joking, Carlos tells Steven a local legend about a mysterious creature called the Jersey Devil.

Then they're run off the road by ... something, Steven can't say what. He feels it out there in the woods watching them. Waiting ...

EXCERPT:
After a few minutes, the song drifted off and an announcer’s voice filled the airwaves, citing the current temperature and the Yankees’ final scores. Softly, Carlos admitted, “Maybe we’re a little off course.”

“I thought we might be,” Steven said, but Carlos’s hand was warm in his and he didn’t feel like arguing right now. “You said we were where? The Pine Barrens?”

Carlos nodded. “Ever heard of the Jersey Devil?”

Steven laughed. “You mean like the hockey team?”

“I mean like the Jersey Devil.” Carlos stared at the road ahead and thought for a moment. Steven knew him well enough to know he was warming up to a story, and he waited while Carlos gathered his thoughts together.

When he couldn’t wait any longer, Steven prompted, “It’s not the real devil, you know that, right?”

“No, it’s the Jersey Devil,” Carlos said. He squeezed Steven’s fingers and smiled. “Legend has it that years and years ago --”

“You mean back when we were in high school?” Steven offered.

Carlos laughed and raised Steven’s hand to his lips to kiss his knuckles. “Funny. You’re being bad.”

“But you love me like that.”

Carlos nodded. “I do. I love your wicked ways.”

“I’m going to remind you of that later,” Steven promised. “So, legend has it ...”

“Long ago there was this lady.” Carlos’s eyes grew distant as he recalled the story. “Mrs. Leeds. She had a shitload of children, like fourteen or fifteen, or something like that. And she was so tired of taking care of them all, feeding them and having them --”

“She should’ve kept her legs closed,” Steven said. “Easiest form of birth control there is.”

Carlos gave him a wink. “But some people just like fucking all the time. You do.”

Laughing, Steven reached over and cupped Carlos’s crotch through his jeans. Carlos thrust into Steven’s hand, his eyes slipping shut briefly. “Watch the road,” Steven admonished, but he was thrilled to find that, despite whatever tension there might be between them, his boyfriend still hardened at his touch.

Carlos slapped his hand away. “Then stop touching me.” But the smile on his face stayed, and when Steven tried to pull his hand back, Carlos held it tight. “Can I tell you this story or what?”

“Go ahead,” Steven said, resting his hand high up on Carlos’s thigh. He didn’t really care about the story, but he liked the sound of his boyfriend’s voice and the way it filled the night around them. Maybe if they kept talking, they would work things out between them. “This lady had a lot of kids ...”

“And she was sick of them,” Carlos continued, “so when she got pregnant again, she cursed the unborn child to Satan. Nine months later when the child was born, on a dark and stormy night --”

“It’s always dark and stormy,” Steven pointed out.

“Trust me. It was dark and stormy.” Carlos glanced over as if daring him to interrupt again. Steven shook his head, a faint grin on his face, and Carlos turned back to the road. “So this new kid, he was hideous, with cloven hooves and pointy horns, and a tail like a whip. It was --”

“A devil?” Steven asked.

“Am I telling this story?”

Steven snickered. Carlos threw him a warning look. “Don’t interrupt me again, mister. As my daddy used to say, don’t make me pull this car over.”

“And do what?” Steven teased.

Despite the closed look on Carlos’s face, a muscle in his jaw twitched, telling Steven he was trying hard not to grin. “I’ll pull your britches down and whip you.”

Steven’s eyes went wide, and he gripped Carlos’s thigh with both hands. “You promise?”

Exasperated, Carlos sighed. “Can I tell my story?”

Steven shrank into his seat, chastised, but Carlos caught one hand and pulled it back into his lap. “Yes, it was a devil, because she cursed it to hell, remember? She took one look at the child and fainted dead away. And before anyone could do or say anything at all, the child flew up the chimney and disappeared into the night. Ever since then, it’s haunted these very woods, waylaying travelers and preying on the innocent.” Taking a deep breath, he added, “There. I’m finished.”

Even though he knew better, a chill ran down Steven’s spine. “We should be safe then,” he said, grinning past his unease, “because there’s nothing innocent about either of us.” His hand strayed to Carlos’s crotch again, stroking the thick erection confined in his jeans, and he hoped Carlos got his point.

Apparently he did. Turning toward Steven, he leaned over and kissed the corner of Steven’s mouth, his lips warm and damp. Steven closed his eyes and squeezed the thickness beneath his hand gently, eliciting a slight moan from his lover as the car veered to the right. Opening one eye, Steven saw the bare road stretch away beyond the windshield, and he ran a hand along Carlos’s chest, pushing him up. “Hey,” he warned.

Carlos kissed him again. “We’re the only ones on the road,” he murmured, easing his foot off the gas. The car started to slow down as Carlos headed for the shoulder. “Once we stop, we can --”

Something suddenly leaped in front of their car.

At first glance, it looked tall and dark, like someone stepping out of the woods right into the middle of the road. Steven’s heart quickened in his chest and his breath caught as the headlights glared off the thing in the road. Blinded, he threw his hands in front of his face, bracing for impact. “Carlos!”

His lover slammed on the brakes with both feet. The car bucked beneath them as it swerved off the road.

“Oh, fuck,” Carlos swore.

He twisted the steering wheel hard and the car jumped off the road to skid along the gravel shoulder. Steven covered his face as they ran into the low underbrush—branches broke against the windshield, and dead leaves crumpled around them with a loud, crackling sound that drowned out the radio and the rest of the world. The squeal of the tires burned in Steven’s ears and the seat belt bit into his chest as it locked. One bright thought flashed through his mind -- at least he was kissing you, Steve; maybe there’s still something between you two yet -- before everything went still and silent and black.

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