In (non-)celebration of the continued Great Recession: 8 free prison love stories

I've made some price changes on my e-books, mainly in the downward direction. Among other things, most of the e-book versions of the side stories in The Eternal Dungeon and Life Prison are now free at my store at Gumroad, and at other bookstores where possible. If you download the e-book from Gumroad, voluntary donations can be made before or after downloading. Whether or not you donate, reviews (pro or con) are always welcome.
 

The Eternal Dungeon free stories are as follows. Click on the titles for longer blurbs and download links.

Never (m/f romance within an m/m series). She was attending the ball at the palace to dance. That was all. Which made it annoying to face a proposal of marriage from a guard who was distinctly not the sort of man she would ever consider marrying. Certainly not.

Hunger (friendship fiction within an m/m series). Some hungers can only be satisfied by reaching out. As a prisoner struggles to find the right path, a foul-mouthed guard and an uncommon torturer will open a door . . . but stepping through a doorway with blackness beyond requires courage.

Wax / Broken (m/m). "All in all, he held a satisfactory position, one where his talents were properly appreciated. But the Record-keeper, rubbing his bleary eyes as he began his shift, could not help but wish that the High Seeker had chosen a love-mate who was less loud."

Green Ruin (m/m, m/f, and friendship fiction). Three guards and a mysterious substance provide a temptation too great to be missed . . . especially when two torturers add their skills to the mix. Soon three very different men – a married man who is committed to respect and honor, a bachelor harboring secret desires, and a soldier with an unfulfilled ambition – will find themselves caught in a trap. Their rescue will come from an unexpected quarter.
 

The Life Prison free stories are as follows. Click on the titles for longer blurbs and download links.

Torture (m/m subplot; crossover with the Eternal Dungeon series). When the High Seeker of the Eternal Dungeon visits a foreign prison, he discovers that his dark reputation has preceded him. So has the dark reputation of his dungeon. The host is eager to show him that matters are run very differently in Mercy Life Prison. The High Seeker has his own suspicions about what he will find in that prison, but even so, he is not prepared for what the prison has to teach him about man's nature . . . and his own nature.

In the Silence (friendship fiction within an m/m series). He can't speak. He can barely see. He experiences only fear and the faint whispers of something he had once known. But an intruder into his secure retreat from danger will pull him into awareness of what stands before him. What stands there is renewed danger . . . and the hope of something more.

Cell-mates (m/m and friendship fiction, with a bisexual protagonist). Sentenced to life in prison, Tyrrell didn't have many opportunities for bed-play. . . unless he could count what the guards did to him as "play." So his future seemed brighter when he was paired with a cell-mate he'd been eyeing for a long time with affection and lust. If only Tyrrell could keep from becoming his cell-mate's latest murder victim . . .

Now available as a DRM-free multiformat e-book: Pleasure (Slaves of the Northern Corporate Dominion)

"Halvar leaned forward. His eyes were the color of an arctic sky. 'I am not a fool, Egon,' he said softly, 'so do not treat me as such.'"

Egon had a position that won him respect, friends who raised his spirits, and lovers who gave him pleasure. Then a man came into his life who would take all that away from him. If Egon was lucky.

As a slave, Egon has already reached the highest position he will ever achieve: he is the household's airship chauffeur. Forced to confront the contradiction between his ideals and his behavior, Egon must make a choice between continuing to pursue immediate pleasure or willingly submitting himself to another man for the sake of a higher goal. What Egon does not yet know is that his guide on this journey into the unknown is hiding a secret that will transform both their lives.

This science fiction novella of gay love and service can be read on its own or as part of Slaves of the Northern Corporate Dominion, an award-winning science fiction series on exploitation and love, set in a time when the nation's corporate government has institutionalized slavery.

This is a reissue of an older story, moved to a new series.
 

¶ Coming soon as multiformat e-books from Love in Dark Settings Press: Remy Hart's original three stories in the Slaves of the Northern Corporate Dominion series.

Excerpt

He stood motionless, a bulky shape looming over the older man sitting at his desk, examining his datapad. He was taller than Halvar, and stronger. He reminded himself of these facts, though he knew that they were of no relevance.

It was not the first time he had been called into Halvar's office. He had been sent there many times over the years, at the Chairman's orders. Sometimes the beatings he received at Halvar's hands were merited, sometimes they were not. He took no notice of them either way, nor any notice of the words from Halvar that accompanied the beatings. His mind was on higher matters, and the beatings always gave him the excuse he needed to court the latest of his lovers, showing her his welts and pouring out his sorrowful tale.

Not that he lacked gratitude for what his lovers gave him. They helped to distract him from the horrors of his life, so he did his best to return the favor – and was successful, he knew. In his ears were still ringing the cries his latest lover had made when he pleasured her.

Halvar looked up from his datapad. "Sit," he said briefly, and Egon sat in the straight-backed chair opposite Halvar's desk. He suspected that Halvar wanted him seated only because it allowed the Supervisor to stand over him. His theory was confirmed in the next moment as Halvar rose, emerged from behind his desk, and leaned back against the front of the desk, his arms folded as he contemplated Egon.

"Well," he said finally, "you are fortunate. The Chairman received a good price for Karia from the breeding farm – they took one look at the genetics information from your chip's database and decided that your child and its host were worth buying. They wanted to buy you as well, but they didn't offer the Chairman a good enough price."

Egon sat immobile, unable to think what to say. That he had escaped being sold to a breeding farm ought to give him joy, he knew – but that he would never see his child, and that laughing Karia would now be condemned to a life of forced mating and endless pregnancies . . .

"So that matters to you." Halvar's voice was chill. "I had wondered whether it would."

Egon raised his chin and looked Halvar straight in the eye. "We didn't intend for it to happen."

"No, I'm quite sure she didn't intend for it to happen." Halvar's voice remained cool, though quiet. "At sixteen, she was young enough to believe you when you told her that you were infertile. I'm only surprised that you have continued to use that tale, since none of your other bed-mates believed it."

Egon's face grew warm, and he shifted his hands from the arms of the chair to his lap, lounging back in an effort to look relaxed. "I thought it was true. My parents only ever had one child, though they made love often, and they told me that my uncle—"

Halvar's rod shot out to full length; it crashed down upon the chair arms with a crack like lightning. Egon, who would have fallen out of the chair if the rod had not barred his way, went rigid and pressed himself against the chair's straight back.

Halvar leaned forward. His eyes were the color of an arctic sky. "I am not a fool, Egon," he said softly, "so do not treat me as such. If you are a fool, and believe the words you are saying, then I suggest that you rapidly educate yourself. You cared not whether you impregnated that girl and ruined her life – you cared nothing for her or for any other woman you have bedded for the past ten years. All you care for is your own pleasure."

"At least the Chairman has permitted me that much."

The words had escaped from his mouth before he could pull them back. Halvar looked down at him a moment more before slowly raising the rod from the chair. His wrist flicked; the rod collapsed back in on itself.

He did not return the rod to his pocket, though; instead he ran a hand slowly across its surface while saying, "So you expect rewards from the Chairman. For what? For the lackadaisical fashion in which you perform your duties?"

"Maybe." Egon kept his gaze fixed upon Halvar, unwilling to concede him any ground. "Or maybe I'd like payment for the parents he took from me."

Halvar did not speak for a moment. His office was of spartan appearance – no more than a desk and two chairs – and his personal appearance was likewise simple: scorning the black suits worn by the more privileged slaves of this household, Halvar wore a grey uniform, as though he were a slave just beginning his training. On him, it did not look odd.

"You blame the Chairman for the loss of your parents." The Supervisor's voice was flat.

"Who else am I to blame?" The bitterness that Egon had succeeded in hiding until now spilled out of him, like acidic liquid from a poorly tended ionizer. "My parents both served the Chairman with loyalty, and he rewarded that by selling my mother to a household where she'd be beaten or worse, and by driving my father to his death. What justice is there in that?"

"Justice?" The Supervisor raised his eyebrows, as Egon's father had. "Is that what you seek?"

Egon gave a short, humorless laugh. "Not justice. Slaves can't expect justice. That being the case, I'll take what pleasure I can, where I can."

"Interesting." Halvar folded his arms again without releasing the rod from his hand. "How far do you extend this philosophy of taking without giving? To your friends? To your lovers?"

"Of course not." Egon glared at Halvar, resuming his slouched position. "I always do my best to give pleasure to my friends and to my lovers. I entertain my friends with stories, and my lovers— Well, I give them a different sort of pleasure. Any of them would tell you that."

"Even Karia?"

"Especially Karia!" Egon leaned forward, his hands now in fists. "She and I— Not using protection was a mistake, I'll admit that. But I gave her pleasure all the same. Towards the end of each time, when she—"

He broke off, realizing the futility of what he was saying. As far as he knew, Halvar was completely celibate; if he had had any lovers in his youth, he had given them up at the time he became Supervisor. Halvar had not even participated in the rape fourteen years before. He probably had forgotten what bed-pleasure could be like.

"Mm." Halvar appeared to contemplate this information, staring down at his rod and lightly touching its surface. After a while he said, without looking up, "Well, your lovers seem to hold a different view on this matter. They regard you, uniformly, as the worst mistake they ever made."

For a moment Egon was still; then he relaxed further back into the chair, chuckling. "Do you expect me to believe that?"

"Believe it or not, as you wish. According to one of your lovers, 'When he took me in the store-rooms, while I was supposed to be checking the flour bins, it was as though I was making love to a machine on automatic. His thoughts weren't on me – I'm not sure where they were. I'm not sure whether he has any thoughts, beyond satisfying his body.'"

His mouth had turned so dry that he had trouble swallowing. He knew whom Halvar was quoting – it was Karia, telling of the day on which he had given her his child. The day on which she had cried his name into his chest, over and over . . .

"But she enjoyed it," he said, his voice dull. "I know she enjoyed it. She . . . Towards the end . . ."

Halvar slid his hand around the rod, gripping it tight. "I seem to recall," he said conversationally, "that you were present where you should not have been fourteen years ago, and that you witnessed a certain punishment that took place in the kitchen. Did you happen to notice, on that occasion, whether the slave in question reached orgasm?"

A heaviness in his throat prevented him from speaking for a moment. "He . . . That is, my father . . . The man being punished was forced .. ." He stopped and tried again. "Even if Karia— That is, she was only one. There were others . . . And my friends. You can't tell me that my friends don't enjoy my company."

"Ah, yes, your friends. You claim to them that you are a skilled lover – is that not so?"

His hands clenched once more. "Yes."

"Prove it."

He stared up at Halvar's opaque expression, but could think of no better response than, "What?"

"Prove that you are a passably good lover. I will offer you a choice. You may receive a beating now for the loss of a young slave – and that beating will be consonant with the heinousness of your offense, I can promise you. Or return here tonight before lights-off and prove to me your skills as a lover. If I find that you have told the truth, I will let you go without further punishment. If I find that you have lied, you will receive a beating, though a lesser one than you would receive now."

"I don't understand the point of this," Egon said slowly.

"Don't you?" Halvar flicked out the slender rod full length, then pulled it back, as though he were a towtractor hooking a dead aircar. "You were once a hard-working servant – indeed, I had hopes that you would prove as skilled at service as your mother. Then you lost interest in your duties. I had held out hope all these years that, though you were as poor a chauffeur as any household could bear to sustain, you were at least a hard worker in the hobby you had taken up in place of mindfulness to your duties. Now I'm beginning to doubt even that. So prove me wrong."
 

¶ Available as a DRM-free multiformat e-book (epub, html, mobi/Kindle, pdf, doc): Pleasure.

Cell-mates (Life Prison)

"They had to settle the issue of sex first."

Sentenced to life in prison, Tyrrell didn't have many opportunities for bed-play . . . unless he could count what the guards did to him as "play." So his future seemed brighter when he was paired with a cell-mate he'd been eyeing for a long time with affection and lust.

If only Tyrrell could keep from becoming his cell-mate's latest murder victim . . .

This short story can be read on its own or as a side story in the Life Prison series. Friendship, desire between men, and the costs of corruption and integrity are examined in this multicultural historical fantasy series, which is inspired by prison life at the end of the nineteenth century.

---

Excerpt

They had to settle the issue of sex first.

"No," said Merrick flatly as he shoved his only belonging – a toothbrush given to him by his previous guard – under the stone bed-ledge on the other side of the cell.

Well, that was a direct enough answer. Or would have been, if Tyrrell had been the type to accept 'no' for an answer.

If he had been the type to accept 'no,' he wouldn't have spent two years persuading Merrick to become his cell-mate.

"Is it because . . ." He paused, wondering how to put this delicately. Because the Magisterial Republic of Mip had originally been colonized by the two warring nations of Yclau and Vovim, cultural clashes among Mippite citizens were inevitable. It was said that even Cecelia – the great Cecelia – had been rejected by a suitor's family, which was clearly a sign of lunacy in that family. Some of the Yclau-descended folk had strange notions about maintaining the purity of their families. Anyone ethnic or foreign or darker than a pasty shade of white was considered off-limits. That would make Tyrrell extremely off-limits. "It isn't because I was born in southern Vovim, is it?"

Merrick looked annoyed. "What, do you think I have something against players?"

Tyrrell straightened his spine. Like most emigrants from Vovim, he had acted in plays from time to time. Street plays, with no props other than broken objects dug out of the local garbage heap, but they were plays just the same. "Do you?" he responded in a challenging voice.

Merrick's mouth twisted. He was busy tightening the blankets on the bed-ledge with what seemed to Tyrrell to be unnecessary thoroughness, given that they were both about to go to bed. Unless – Tyrrell brightened at the thought – Merrick intended that they use only one bed-ledge.

After a moment, Merrick said, "The Bijou. The City Opera. The Frederick.. . ."

It turned out to be a very long recital. Tyrrell was impressed. "You've been to all the theaters in this city?"

"All the theaters in the whole of eastern Mip." Merrick mumbled the words.

"Gods preserve us – that many?"

Merrick glared at his blanket. "Does it matter? I've spent plenty of time with players. Let's move on to more important subjects."

Tyrrell hated to think what Merrick's idea was of an important subject. Probably how to strangle all the guards at Mercy Life Prison. He asked, "Is it because I'm short?"

Merrick sighed as he turned toward Tyrrell. "Look," he said, "you could be six feet tall, with dashing dark eyes, and skin a delicious shade of sepia—"

Tyrrell began to tick off in his mind which men in the prison fit this description.

"—and I still wouldn't fuck you. I'm just not interested in doing that. Not with you. Not with anyone here."

"Married?" Tyrrell asked sympathetically. So many men in the prison were, or had left behind love-mates, male or female, when they were convicted of their crimes and sent to spend the rest of their lives in Mercy Prison.

Merrick's gaze turned toward the flagstoned floor. "Hell."

"You don't have to swear at me," said Tyrrell reproachfully.

"I'm not swearing. I'm praying to Hell to rise up and kidnap you to his domain so that I won't have to continue this conversation. Look—"

And suddenly his voice was low, as low as it had been when he had finally made the amazing declaration that he would submit a formal request to his guard that he be transferred to Tyrrell's cell. So Tyrrell held his breath, because he knew that Merrick was never low-voiced – never, never, never – unless he was saying something that cost him a great deal to say.
 

¶ Available as a DRM-free multiformat e-book (epub, html, mobi/Kindle, pdf, doc): Cell-mates.

In the Silence (Life Prison)

"Images came, like flickers of a candle: Dark stones. Dark metal. Faint fire. A spoon in his hand, as someone urged him to eat. A stinking pit that he knew he was duty-bound to fill. A loom nearby that he vaguely remembered he had once known how to work, but which now stood as silent as the rest of his world."

He can't speak. He can barely see. He experiences only fear and the faint whispers of something he had once known.

But an intruder into his secure retreat from danger will pull him into awareness of what stands before him. What stands there is renewed danger. . . and the hope of something more.

This short story can be read on its own or as a side story in the Life Prison series. Friendship, desire between men, and the costs of corruption and integrity are examined in this multicultural historical fantasy series, which is inspired by prison life at the end of the nineteenth century.

---

Excerpt

Some of the prisoners began to retreat to the back of their cells, made uneasy by this breaking of the silence. He ought to as well. A prisoner was speaking. A prisoner was shouting. No good could come of this. Nothing could come of this but pain and fear and screaming.

Tears were running down his face now. He gripped the bars hard, trying to figure out what to do. He had emerged from a dream, only to find himself trapped in a nightmare. How could he make it stop?

The solid door opened suddenly. The guard named Sedgewick stood there, breathing heavily. His hair was dishevelled; his jacket was torn; his neck was turning purple. "Get chains," he snapped at Milton.

"Chains?" Turning, Milton gaped at him.

"Chains. From the showers. The manacles on chains that we use when we give the prisoners the cold-water punishment."

"The chains are bolted to the shower walls," Milton protested. "They're attached high up on the walls, above the prisoners' heads."

"Pliers. Stepladder. Be quick about it."

"Sedgewick, it sounds as though you're killing your prisoner. If you kill him, our Keeper will be angry—"

"Go." As the shouts inside the cell reached a new high pitch, Sedgewick slammed the door shut.

Milton looked around the level uncertainly. But in all the cells he glanced at, none of the prisoners were moving. Swallowing hard, Milton retreated to the stairwell.

The shouts from the battle-torn cell were so loud now that he covered his ears. He could still hear the bellow of the prisoner, who sounded like a bull let loose in a ring. "I am going to maul you so badly that you'll never be reborn!" the prisoner was shouting. "Just watch me!"

There was a loud crack. Identifying the sound, he flinched back, as though the whip had landed on him. The only response from the prisoner was another bellow, this time of profanity.

He bit his lip. He had no doubt as to the outcome of this struggle. The prisoner could not hold out against two guards armed with whips and daggers. It was a miracle he had done so already. How long would this last?

How long had it lasted? He glanced briefly over his shoulder at his cell, but it looked just the same as it had the last time he had seen it – had truly seen it.

Only the loom was gone. How had they taken the loom away without waking him from his dream? And how long ago had they done this?

He felt the bars under his hands. Bars. There had been no bars when he last saw this cell – only a solid door. The solid door was still there, but it was an inner door now, open. There were two doors to his cell now, one solid, one barred. The barred one must have been added.

How could they have added a barred door without him noticing it?

Sweat was trickling down his back now. He tried to read the time passed from the amount of ashes next to the fire. But for all he knew, the ashes might have been scooped out a dozen times or more. A whole month might have passed. Or two months?

He put his hand upon his cheek, trying to wipe away the tears that continued to stream there—

And froze. Were those wrinkles he felt next to his eyes?

He was twenty-one years old. How could he have wrinkles?
 

¶ Available as a DRM-free multiformat e-book (epub, html, mobi/Kindle, pdf, doc): In the Silence.

"Green Ruin," free story in the award-winning series The Eternal Dungeon

You can read Green Ruin (The Eternal Dungeon) as part of the free PDF zine Wanderlust: A Travel Anthology, edited by T. Spoon for The Slash Pile. Green Ruin has both heterosexual and gay content. The e-book editions of Green Ruin (HTML, PDF, and Kindle) remain available for $2.99.

The omnibus edition of the Eternal Dungeon series was winner of the Best Gay Fantasy category of the Rainbow Awards 2011.

The blurb:

"During the dawn hours at the Eternal Dungeon, as the day shift yawned itself awake and the night shift yawned itself to bed, the talk turned, as it always did, to the injustices of being a guard."

Three guards and a mysterious substance provide a temptation too great to be missed . . . especially when two torturers add their skills to the mix. Soon three very different men – a married man who is committed to respect and honor, a bachelor harboring secret desires, and a soldier with an unfulfilled ambition – will find themselves caught in a trap. Their rescue will come from an unexpected quarter.

This darkly humorous short story of friendship and romance can be read on its own or as a side story in The Eternal Dungeon, a historical fantasy series set in a land where the psychologists wield whips.

Excerpt

Mr. Sobel said cautiously, "One needs to be careful when imbibing strong liquor. I've heard tales—"

"Oh, tales." Mr. Boyd dismissed this with one wave of the hand.

Mr. Urman, still enjoying the task of imparting the worst news, read: "'The partial insensibility caused by the absinthe is attended with the ideal existence of long intervals of time, in which the events of a whole life are arrayed and appreciated, to be succeeded by terrific hallucinations and intellectual weakness, ending in unconscious struggling as if for life. In time, if the use of the absinthe be continued, these phenomena become permanently established and the result is inevitably fatal.'"

"Fatal memories!" Turning a page, Mr. Boyd snorted again. "Does the author really expect us to believe that?"

"You never know." Mr. Urman set aside the book, as though he had read enough.

"'A Vovimian physician tells us that after the first dose of absinthe, you are carried in imagination away from earth into a lofty and boundless realm without horizon,'" Mr. Sobel murmured as he read from his book. "'You imagine yourself travelling into the infinite spirals of rebirth. . . .'"

"'Hallucinations of various kinds, of naked women' – there's one for you, Mr. Sobel," teased Mr. Boyd.

"Mr. Boyd, please." Mr. Sobel had turned scarlet.

Unable to resist this opportunity to make mock at the dungeon's senior-most guard, Mr. Urman returned to his reading. "'He now carried his excesses still further, and added absinthe to his list of excitants. Then this youth, so chaste and reserved in his intervals of sobriety, lost his modesty with a very remarkable facility, not only when under the influence of liquor, but when simply dominated by a desire to drink. For a drink he would give himself to the first comer. . . .'"

"Sounds like an aphrodisiac," observed Mr. Boyd. "That could be handy in certain situations." He nudged Mr. Sobel, the married man.

Mr. Sobel, though, had renewed his composure. "It's a dangerous drug," he stated flatly. "Listen to what is said here: 'In the case of excessive drinkers there is first the feeling of exaltation peculiar to a state of intoxication. The increasing dose necessary to produce this state quickly deranges the digestive organs, and destroys the appetite. An unappeasable thirst takes possession of the victim, with giddiness, tingling in the ears, and hallucinations of sight and hearing, followed by a constant mental oppression and anxiety, loss of brain power, and, eventually, idiocy.'"

"Excessive drinkers," Mr. Boyd emphasized, unwilling to let go of a point. "Do you mind if I borrow a glassful of this, Mr. Sobel? It would be interesting to see what the drink tastes like. . . ."

Curious (Life Prison)

"It wasn't the first time that Ulick had met a man who received enjoyment at the thought of killing. This time, however, the killer was not a convict."

His job is to guard the prisoners. But against what?

Hired to work at a prison that has recently undergone a purge, Ulick finds himself caught in the midst of a vicious battle. The prison's Keeper wants peace. The Assistant Keeper wants blood. Each of the other guards has his own motive, and his own method, for keeping the prisoners under control.

Backbiting, threats, violent encounters, forbidden desires played out at night and in stark daylight . . . all this Ulick must face in his new job. At the center of the maelstrom lies Merrick, a foul-mouthed prisoner with a notorious reputation. But behind Merrick stands another man, hidden in the shadows, and Ulick's future depends on what that man wants of him.

This novella (short novel) can be read on its own or as the fifth and final story in the "Mercy's Prisoner" volume of Life Prison. Friendship, desire between men, and the costs of corruption and integrity are examined in this multicultural historical fantasy series, which is inspired by prison life at the end of the nineteenth century.

---

Excerpt

"We've had trouble with the prisoners," said Mercy's Keeper.

"Sir?" Ulick could think of no other reply to make to this bland remark, which might have been spoken by any Keeper at any prison at any moment of the day.

"Seditious activities. Attempts to manipulate the guards. That sort of thing."

"Oh." Understanding reached him. "Yes, I'd read that in the newspapers."

Mercy's Keeper – who was not gracious enough to offer his name, much less offer Ulick a chair – winced, as though in distaste at the foreign orange he was munching on throughout the conversation. "Too much publicity. Pressmen should all be shot. Good thing the death sentence is back."

Ulick decided not to ask how serious the Keeper was in his statement. Instead, he took the opportunity to glance around the Keeper's office, which also served as the man's living quarters. Opulent walnut chests, imported Vovimian carpets, a wall full of books, and a kitchen's worth of food. And the food was only for his lunch. If Mercy's Keeper was suffering from the presence of his seditious prisoners, there was no sign of it.

"Blasted Boundaries," said Mercy's Keeper, as though summing up matters.

"Sir?"

"They should be shot. Every one of them. Will, if I find out who they are."

Ulick wondered whether his expression held the proper amount of bewilderment. It must have, for in the next moment, from the corner of the room, came a quiet voice. "If I may, sir. . . . I believe that your new guard may need to be briefed on our situation."

"Eh?" Mercy's Keeper twisted round in his chair to stare at the speaker. "Oh, rather. If you say so. You explain, and I'll get on with . . ." He waved his hand expansively over his desk, embracing both paperwork and food.

"Thank you, sir." The speaker, who was standing in the shadows, raised his eyes to Ulick. Looking into them, Ulick had the momentary feeling of falling down a deep well. He considered himself moderately good at reading expressions; it was one of the skills that had led him to take up guard-work. But nothing lay behind those eyes to tell him what the other man was thinking.

"In brief," said the guard quietly, holding Ulick's gaze with apparently effortless ease, "one of the prisoners here, a kin-murderer by the name of Merrick, developed a very clever plan some years ago to gain power over the guards. He executed this plan with the help of a cunning strategist, a cut-throat named Tyrrell. Their plan was to put forward something that purported to be a code of ethics for prison conduct, and to persuade the guards here to adhere to it. Many guards were fooled into doing so."

Ulick, who had been trying unsuccessfully to move his eyes away from the speaker, heard himself say, "Many guards?"

A smile entered the other man's eyes. "Including myself. I will admit that I was a victim of Merrick's plan. A guard whom I respected had chosen to adopt the Boundaries of Behavior that Merrick advocated, and . . . Well, I will not recount for you the tedious story. Suffice it to say that, for too many years afterwards, I treated my prisoners in a sickeningly soft manner. I allowed them to get away with disrespectful behavior, with attempts to control me and all the other guards, and in the end I even went so far as to ally myself with these prisoners. I tried to bring to court a suit that, if it had been won, would have resulted in the complete loss of any power that the guards possess to curb the prisoners' destructive behavior."

"Ah." Ulick cleared his throat. "Yes, I thought your face looked familiar, Mr. . . ."

"Staunton. Please, call me Sedgewick. We are not formal here at Mercy Life Prison."
 

¶ Available as a DRM-free multiformat e-book (epub, html, mobi/Kindle, pdf, doc): Curious.

Coded Messages (Life Prison)

"Sweet blood, Tom, sometimes I wonder at your innocence. Why do you think that your prisoners were sent to prison? It wasn't for lacing daisy chains."

One of them rapes prisoners. The other wants to help prisoners. So why are they talking to each other?

As guards send each other telegraph messages through their prisons' coding offices, strange developments occur in the life prisons of the Magisterial Republic of Mip: hardened prisoners become reformers, idealists dally with danger, and the prison keepers struggle to keep control. The strangeness will only become odder when two guards, who hold very different views on the proper handling of prisoners, strive to find common ground.

This short story can be read on its own or as the second story in the "Mercy's Prisoner" volume of Life Prison. Friendship, desire between men, and the costs of corruption and integrity are examined in this multicultural historical fantasy series, which is based on late Victorian prison life.

This is a reissue of an older story.

Excerpt

Tom:

You might have warned me before that our letters are being read by Compassion's Keeper. You know that Mercy's Keeper has a hard enough time staying awake to do routine paperwork, much less bothering to read private correspondence between guards.

I don't know what you mean by "applicable to your own situation." I was just curious about your activities. One thing I will say for you, Tom: You livened this place up by always doing the unexpected.

Yes, Merrick's insanity has infected guards now. Our Keeper is tearing his hair out. He can't actually order those guards to rape prisoners, and none of the guards has been stupid enough to refrain from beating their prisoners when the prisoners break rules. But this is causing divisiveness in the guard-room. Up until now, except for the occasional eccentric like you, we were all agreed on how the prisoners should be treated. Now that unity is gone, and I'm not the only guard worried that the prisoners will take advantage of this fact to start a riot.

Sedgewick

o—o—o

Dear Sedge,

I should clarify what I said in my last letter. My father reads outgoing correspondence from Compassion. He considers it a matter of honor not to read incoming messages. He isn't concerned about the activities of guards in other prisons, but he doesn't entirely trust his own guards, least of all me.

I think that, when you come down to it, trust and lack of trust are what divide the guards at your prison. The guards who keep the Boundaries trust the prisoners to adhere to the rules with minimal need for punishment. The other guards don't.

How are matters with your prisoner? Is he continuing to cause problems for you?

With respect,
Thomas

o—o—o

Tom:

Wake up to the real world. What divides the guards here is that some of us like to rape prisoners and some of the guards are too goody-good for that. Bloody blades, Tom, you're never going to be able to keep control of Compassion if you continue talking like a child.

My prisoner is driving me to distraction. I might be able to take leave some time during the next century.

Sedgewick

o—o—o

Dear Sedge,

Maybe you should take leave now. I sense there is more going on than you're saying. . . .
 

¶ Available as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub): Coded Messages.

HOW TO SAVE A LIFE, Gay Erotic Romance / Suspense

Adult Excerpt for HOW TO SAVE A LIFE by Sloan Parker

Walter examined the closet walls and floorboards for a hidden compartment where cash or drugs could be stored. He came up empty again.

He continued on to the bathroom down the hall. The light from the hallway offered enough illumination to see inside. A long, narrow room. Kevin stood at the far end before the mirror. The towel with the ice sat on the edge of the sink. He had something in his hand. A bottle.

"Did you miss the part where I said don't touch anything?"

Kevin jumped. He dropped the bottle into the sink. It bounced, and he fumbled several times as he tried to catch it. Finally the bottle settled at the bottom of the sink. "I, uh...I was just..."

Walter moved in close so he could peer over Kevin's shoulder into the sink. A bottle of Slick It. "That's good shit."

"It is?" Kevin leaned backward. Whether he meant to do it or not, the top of his ass connected with Walter's dick. Then that incredible pressure was gone as Kevin spun around to face Walter. "What's it like?"

"The lube?"

"Sex. With men. You know...anal sex. Oh God. Never mind. Forget I asked that." He went to turn away, but Walter stopped him with a hand on Kevin's hip.

"You mean, what's it liked to get fucked up the ass?"

Kevin's lower lip trembled. "Yeah."

The inspiration running through Walter's brain was probably not the best idea. Not here. But Kevin had asked a direct question.

Walter spun Kevin to face the mirror and leaned in against his back and ass, pinning him between the edge of the sink and his own body. "If you and I were doing it right now, I'd start with getting you good and hard." He watched Kevin in the mirror as he glided his hand down the front of the blue shirt, then over the top of the leather pants, finally cupping the bulge the pants did nothing to hide.

He shifted his hips forward and back, putting a touch of pressure on Kevin's ass again and again, and Kevin returned the stare in the mirror.

"You'd feel how hard I was too." Walter cupped Kevin's chin and turned his head to the side. "Then I'd kiss you." Their lips met. Nothing slow or soft about this kiss. Walter opened his mouth and forced Kevin's wide. Their tongues connected in an instant and moved in a rhythmic give-and-take of pleasure until Walter made himself pull back.

"Then I'd trace your body with my mouth, lower and lower until I could feel how hard you really were--with my lips. I'd take you deep into my mouth until you forgot how nervous you were. Until all you could focus on was every stroke and flick of my tongue."

"Oh God." Kevin gripped the edges of the sink in both hands

"Then I'd release your dick and move in behind you." Walter opened Kevin's leather pants, then slipped his hand between their bodies and inside the back of the pants. Kevin spread his legs wider.

Beautiful. The way he gave in to his desires.

Walter kept his hand moving down Kevin's ass until he had his middle finger pressed between Kevin's ass cheeks. He ran his finger over Kevin's hole and continued to rock his own body, adding more pressure to Kevin's ass with each shift of his hips. "I'd get my cock slick. I'd lube us both up good, work your ass a little to loosen you up, get you used to the sensation of something inside you. Then my cock would be at your tight hole." He thrust against Kevin's ass and held still.

He lowered his voice and whispered in Kevin's ear. "My dick would stretch your asshole open, and there would be no denying what was happening to you as I worked the head of my cock inside your body."

Kevin's breath hitched, and he dropped his head forward. His fingers went pale as his grip on the edges of the sink tightened.

"Once the head of my dick was inside you, I'd stop, wait, let the burn ease, let you really feel my thick cock penetrating your body." Walter held still, keeping his achingly hard dick snug against the back of his own hand at Kevin's ass. "Then, when I couldn't stand it any longer, when the tight heat of your body drove me absolutely crazy, I'd wait one more second, and then I'd thrust. Over and over until I had my cock buried inside you." He shifted his hips harder, forward and back, pressing his finger over and around Kevin's hole again and again, desperately wishing he'd taken the time to get Kevin's pants down and his own out of the way. But that would've been too much. For both of them.

Walter leaned down and licked along the nape of Kevin's neck, savoring the taste and scent of him.

"Then I'd bend you over so my dick would hit that spot inside you that drives a man wild. With every thrust I'd milk the pleasure from your body. Your cock would be leaking like crazy. It would be the most intense, drawn-out sexual experience you've ever known. And when I came in your ass, when you felt my heat inside you, then, and only then, would I stroke your dick until you came, your body alive and on fire. It'd be like nothing you've felt before."

"Oh God." Kevin snapped his hips and moaned.

Walter picked up the pace of his finger and his thrusts. Kevin bent forward over the sink, his hands sliding along the surface on each side. His right hand knocked over a can of shaving cream.

The can bounced on the floor, the metal smacking the linoleum over and over. The banging snapped Walter out of the trance he seemed to be in since entering the bathroom.

Oh God was right.

He was seriously losing it. Practically fucking with their clothes on in the bathroom of a stranger's apartment while they looked for clues to find said stranger. He'd never been so out of control while working on a case. Kevin's hunger just called to him. In a way no one else ever had. Not this fast. Not with this much intensity.

Walter pulled his hand out and drew back, easing up on the pressure against Kevin's ass, but he kept his grip on Kevin's hip. He glided his lips along the side of Kevin's neck to his ear, letting his tongue swipe at the flesh along the way. "Did that answer your question?"

Copyright 2013. Sloan Parker. All Rights Reserved.

Read chapters 1 & 2 (PDF)
 
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Blurb for HOW TO SAVE A LIFE
Reporter Kevin Price has a knack for tripping over his own feet. And everyone else's. He's in over his head undercover at the Haven, a swanky gay sex club, determined to find out why members of the club keep vanishing. Five minutes inside and he can no longer deny the truth about his sexuality. He turns to the one man he can't get out of his head, the sexy ex-cop handling security. Too bad Kevin doesn't trust cops. Not since the only night he let himself be with another man.

Walter Simon doesn't do the club scene anymore. Not since he found love and lost it. That doesn't mean he'll let anyone hurt more innocent gay men. Even if that means going head-to-head with the klutzy, closeted, much-younger reporter. Kevin has information about the disappearances. Better to keep him close. And safe.

Neither is at the club to hook up or fall in love. Now they must work together amid their growing passion in order to uncover the truth before more men disappear.  

Men and Lads / Lord and Servant (Life Prison) - Victorian trainmen and prison guards

"He twisted his head around to give a despairing look at the brakeman. Beyond him, the open boxcar door revealed that the train was presently making its way along a trestle over a steep ravine. If he jumped now, he would certainly end up dead at the bottom of the gorge. It wasn't clear whether the brakeman cared."

Two guards. Two prisoners. A multitude of problems.

As a tramp beats his dangerous way to a new destination on the Western Mippite Railroad, he is joined by a prison guard seeking guidance on a difficult prisoner. The guard's guidance must come from a man who is longing for a human bond . . . but who has a reputation to establish.

Meanwhile, a tramp and a lord may seem to make an odd pair. But Compassion Life Prison is an odd place to start with, and the tramp has his own perspective on life there.

This novella-sized volume contains two related side stories in the Life Prison series. The costs of corruption and integrity are examined in this multicultural historical fantasy series, which is inspired by prison life at the end of the nineteenth century.

---

Excerpt

Starke noticed him and silently offered his cigarette case. "No," replied Thomas. "It's against regulations."

Starke slipped the case back into his jacket pocket, took a long moment blowing a ring of smoke toward the ceiling, and finally said, "I remember the day I taught you that regulation. You'd just been fitted for your first long pants, and you were eager to have your first smoke, in order to show how manly you were."

Thomas tried to think of a reply to this – he was acutely aware of the prisoners listening in, with grins on their faces – but at that moment, Pugh emerged from the closet, with his right hand grasping hard the nape of a dazed-looking prisoner, while his left hand buttoned up his fly.

Starke, without a word, took the prisoner from him. Thomas – bound as always to follow regulations – lifted his coiled whip from his belt. There had been occasional trouble, he heard, with the transfer of prisoners in and out of the cell; the humiliation of the riot was still fresh in the prisoners' mind.

There was no trouble this time, though. The prisoners looked at Thomas, and they looked at his whip, and they came nowhere near the cell door as Starke unlocked it and thrust the shaken lad inside.

The prisoners' mute looks of respect for his skill with a whip went a little ways in restoring Thomas's confidence. He waited until the cell door was locked and Starke was out of reach of the prisoners; then he returned his whip to his belt and said, "May I have a word with you, Mr. Pugh?"

"Save it for when I'm on duty." Pugh turned toward Starke. "Give me some baccer, for love of the gods. I'm parched."

Starke offered his cigarette case again. Thomas said, "Smoking on duty is against regulations."

"So?" Pugh did not look his way as he pressed his cigarette against the glowing end of Starke's cigarette. "The Keeper isn't above smoking a bit of baccer while he's on duty. And the Keeper takes prisoners, if that's the lecture you were planning to give me. Are you saying that you know better how to behave than the Keeper of Compassion Prison?"

Thomas forced himself to count backwards from ten. He knew, of course, from whence Pugh's resentment arose. Pugh had long been the day supervisor of Compassion Prison; by right of rank, he should have risen to the rank of night supervisor and received the title of Assistant Keeper after the previous Assistant Keeper died in the riot. Instead, that rank and title had been taken by a youth who was still in his journeyman years: the Keeper's son, Thomas.

It would do no good to remind Pugh that he had been away on a foreign holiday at the time that the riots occurred, and that an immediate appointment had needed to be made. It would do even less good to say that the appointment had been a punishment. How could Thomas explain that his father had appointed him Assistant Keeper and night supervisor, years before Thomas ought to have risen so high in rank, as a way of burdening him with responsibility that would likely crush him?
 

¶ Available as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub), with an online sample; the first story in the e-book is also available as online fiction: Men and Lads / Lord and Servant

MORE THAN HUMAN by Mel Keegan & Jayne DeMarco

“Here. Make yourself comfortable.” Jason had brought them to a wide lounge with a view of Titan and, beyond, Saturn. Adrian saw three-meter viewports, five couches, several screens, two bistro tables, and the air smelt of coffee and cinnamon. “I’m drinking green tea. Yourself –?” Jason offered, on his way to the machines at the counter between the viewports. In the warmth of the lounge he shrugged out of the dress uniform jacket and threw it carelessly at one of the couches.

“Coffee is fine,” Adrian said, hushed, watching the long, elegant lines of Jason’s body as he poured. “What did Vanderhoven mean …you’re supposed to ‘take care’ of me?” He swallowed on a dry throat. “In this system, that expression’s come to mean anything up to and including premeditated murder.”

The younger man gave him an odd look as he returned from the serving machines, and placed a mug into Adrian’s hand. “I won’t lie to you. Dirk isn’t completely convinced you’re on the level. You could think you are, because you’re operating under a blanket of conditioning, ten layers thick.” With his own mug, he gestured at the nearest couch. “Sit. Relax. All Dirk wants me to do is make sure about you, so we can trust you, stop worrying that we could have a government agent aboard who’ll take the first opportunity to destroy us.”

A muscle in Adrian’s gut began to relax, and he sat back into the couch. The cushions sank beneath Jason’s considerable weight, and Adrian’s nostrils flared as he caught a hint of cologne, like nothing he had ever smelt before. Something from Eidolon? Something like cedar, like spruce, but infinitely exotic, hinting of the alien.

And Jason was warm. His body heat enveloped Adrian, made him want to touch, and he turned to him the way a plant turns to the light. The fabric he wore was skin-soft, and skin thin, and beneath it he was hard, with the physique of one who was designed, crafted, and then born to be an athlete. Adrian’s breath snagged in his throat, and he choked off a groan.

“What’s wrong?” Jason’s voice was deep, quiet.

“Nothing,” Adrian lied as every nerve came alive. And he knew he could not lie, not to Jason.

“I know you want me, if that’s what’s worrying you,” Jason said with gentle humor. “Where I come from, it’s nothing to hide or fret about. What’s spooking you Adrian? You worried I’m going to mock you for wanting me?”

“I – yes, maybe,” Adrian admitted, and squeezed his eyes shut. “It’s been a long time since I had anything you’d think of as ‘civilized’ sex. Out here, nobody wants to get intimate with the government goon, and back on Earth, it’s no secret I’m a twenty. People don’t want anything to do with me, because they know the government has to be watching me, and I’ll just drag them under the same lens. In the end, no one’s going to get involved with me.”

“Damn.” Jason drank a little tea. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, what do you do? For sex, I mean?”

The heat flushed back into Adrian’s cheeks, infuriating him. “Now and then I pick up spacers.” He gestured vaguely. “They’re not choosy, and nobody asks for a name, much less an ID. You go down to the clubs by the docking ports where the Belters come in, the freighter crews, and the prospectors from the Jovian system. You throw a lot of money around, buy a lot of booze, see who wants to talk to you, who sizes you up and likes what he sees.”

“You don’t take the spacers home?” Jason hazarded.

“Good gods, no!” Adrian did not have to feign a shudder. “My place is under surveillance – because I’m a government goon, and a twenty, and because the Civil Representatives are often targeted when people have a case to make against The Pure Light. Somebody’s partner or sibling or workmate gets picked up and vanishes, like my cousin Max. Someone gets steamed, the anger has to go somewhere, and people like me get trashed.” He shrugged. “It happens too often. The surveillance is supposed to be for my own security, but…”

“But it makes you wonder,” Jason finished, “if it’s also a way for the bastards to keep an eye on you. See who you’re talking to. Sleeping with.”

“Fucking,” Adrian corrected. “I haven’t gone to sleep beside a warm, familiar body in a very long time.”

“Damn,” Jason repeated. “And I know, I already said that.” His brows arched at Adrian in speculation, and disbelief. “You really go down to a club on the docks, and pick up some guy, and … and you do it, right there in the club? Really?” His voice rose in something like disbelief.

“Uh … they don’t do it on Eidolon?” Adrian was embarrassed, and angry with himself for the reaction.

But Jason’s blond head was shaking. “If I want someone, I just come right out and tell them, and I expect to offer them dinner, some very good wine, and breakfast. It’s only good manners, when you’re asking someone to be intimate with you. At least, that’s what we think back home.”

“And you’d be right to think it,” Adrian said miserably. “It doesn’t work that way here – not for the likes of me, anyway.”

“You’re only a twenty.”

“Yes.” Adrian slapped his legs.

“They’re fantastic legs,” Jason told him. “I saw them the moment you walked into the lounge. I’d say they were your best feature, but then I saw these eyes of yours. And your mouth. You’re very beautiful.”

Sheer disbelief stole the words out of Adrian’s mind for a long moment, and he knew he was gaping stupidly at Jason, until the younger man laughed with the same gentleness.

“Do I have to be in some dark, smoky club, dressed like a prospector from the Belt, before you’ll let me want you?” The rainbow eyes sparkled with amusement. Mischief. “I’ve never been to any such club, and I wouldn’t know where to find them on Titan Center, even if we had the time to go there, which we don’t. But I do want you. And where I come from, we say so … and offer you breakfast.” The tip of his tongue flicked out over his lips. “What, not interested?” His nostrils flared now, as he took a long deep breath. “That’s not what your body says.”

“Of course I’m interested,” Adrian groaned. “I haven’t been able to think of anything else since I set eyes on you!”

“Good.” Jason glanced up at the chrono, which was mounted over the serving machines. “Then you’ll be sleeping with me tonight. And I do mean sleeping, not just fucking. That comes first, and then you put your head on my pillow and get some sleep.” His expression darkened. “Insofar as any of us is going to get much sleep. Dirk has a plan, but it’s not going to be easy to get out of here – and from the few hints he dropped, none of it will work without you.” He set down the cup and both his big hands cupped around Adrian’s face. “Are you game?”

Adrian could barely breathe. “To work with you? Oh, yes. To crawl under you and let you do unspeakable things to me?”

Jason’s voice was a husky chuckle. “I’m not going to hurt you, Adrian. You’ve been with enough spacers to know how to play the game. Sure, I’m from Eidolon – you could probably even say I’m an alien! But I’m just a man.”

Just? Adrian could see nothing ‘just’ about it. Jason was much bigger, stronger, warmer, and he suspected also smarter, as well as being as highly charged as any of the fifties. They were sensual creatures, all of them. It was one of the qualities that had made them so irresistible, decades ago, when augmentation was chic and Adrian wanted so badly to be like them.

He might have said all this to Jason, but before he could find the breath to speak, much less coherent words, Jason had leaned forward across the little distance that separated them, and laid his mouth on Adrian’s.

His lips were hot satin, his tongue was wet velvet, and he tasted … slightly sweet, slightly spicy, as if his body chemistry was as fractionally different as the physical form. Adrian had never tasted anything like him, and in an instant, he knew nothing else would do.

Many of the spacers he had tangled with in the dark, smoky shadows of the dockside clubs were exciting men, handsome, with hard-worked bodies, ink-black tattoos, and the irresistible hunger that came from being out in the wilderness of the Jovian moons for too long, before they made it back to port. The memories were searing, and Adrian would never forget them, but this –

This was like waking out of a dream which left him in a cold sweat, and finding that the reality was warmth, welcome, big arms in which he felt more safe than he had ever dared allow himself to feel, and desire that was as white-hot as anything he had experienced on the docks, without any need to seek the shadows, hide who he was, and what.

Reality was Jason Erickson, young and healthy and free. There was no chip in his brain, no governor controlling him. Jason was unlicensed, unregistered, he belonged to no one, and he would do exactly as he chose. The sheer notion inspired a vast shiver, and Adrian opened to the kiss.

He let it overwhelm him, and embraced the knowledge that he was in the arms of what The Pure Light termed a maverick – a fifty who was off the leash, beyond their control. Jason could be very dangerous. Adrian felt the power in his body, and knew Jason could have simply reached out and taken whatever he wanted.

Instead, he was faultlessly careful, as if he were keenly aware that Adrian was smaller, comparatively slender, oddly fragile. Minutes later, he lifted his head away from the kiss and blinked down into Adrian’s eyes, and Adrian gasped like a stranded fish. “See?” he said in the husky voice Adrian had already come to love, “I’m just a man.”

“Just?” Adrian echoed. “Not just. You’re … incredible.”

“I am what I was designed to be.” Jason released him and shrugged. “There’s hundreds like me at home. If you’re coming with us, you’ll see, soon enough.”

“I’m coming with you.” Adrian struggled to get a rein on his thoughts.

MORE THAN HUMAN is available in epub for your Nook and android here;
on Kindle, for your, uh, Kindle here,
and on PDF for your laptop or desktop here.

Read more on my website and on my wiki page...

AUTHOR: Mel Keegan, with Jayne DeMarco
ISBN-13: 978-0-9872328-6-1
Category: science fiction
Flames: 4
Length in words: 86700
Page number: 195
Publication date: April 2012
Price: US$8.99

art on this post is drawn from the blog of the artist -- if you'd like to see it at full-size, visit this post: A little gay romance near Saturn, circa 2170

NEW! Stablemates by Linda Hines

NEW from DreamCraft!

STABLEMATES
by Linda Hines

ISBN # 978–0987172495
Word Count: 16,195
Heat Index 4
Genre: Contemporary • Erotica • Gay Fiction • Horses
Price: $2.99

BUY EBOOK HERE

BLURB:

Yates Whitaker is an ambitious accountant who avoids close relationships, choosing career instead. His brother, Colin, is serving in Afghanistan, and he’s caring for Colin’s horse, Rouge. When Rouge is injured Yates rushes to the stable, where Gavin Blalock’s horses are also boarded. Gavin seems familiar, and Yates soon recalls him from school, where Gavin – even then gay and out – defended him from bullies. Rouge had already been treated when Yates arrived, and, while he recovers, the men ride, have lunch … and admit their powerful mutual attraction, but Yates is stubbornly focused on work. Once again he seems about to let romance fade away – until the phone rings. Rouge is reacting badly to the antibiotic, and he could easily die. Gavin and Yates stand a painful vigil which compels Yates to face the realities of loss, death – and a man’s need for love.

EXCERPT:

“All you ever do is work.”

Preoccupied, Yates Whittaker pushed his designer glasses up the bridge of his nose. Spread out before him were the tools of his trade. His personal and business laptops, Blackberry, calculator, spreadsheets, pens and a yellow notepad covered half the kitchen table. He noticed the cat clock above the door already read nine. “I thought you and Stephanie were off to Savannah this morning.”

“We are.” Tall and lean, Trent was already in his T-shirt and cutoffs. He was also a CPA, who worked in the audit department of the large Atlanta accounting firm where Yates specialized in corporate taxes. About twenty-seven, and graduates of UGA’s Terry School of Business, both had worked hard to get where they were today professionally. “But what about you, Yates? It’s a four-day weekend, for Pete’s sakes. I know you’re not seeing anyone right now, but at least get out of this apartment! Sure, you have the partner’s attention because you volunteer for all this extra work, but I think you’re headed toward a burnout.”

“You sound like my mother.”

“Well, she’s right – and you know it!”

Yates grinned. “I’m gonna check this one more time – and then click send.” They had been friends since little kids. Trent knew him too well.

“Good.” Eyes narrowing, Trent crossed his arms. “So what are your plans while I’m gone?”

Yates shrugged. “Make some more beer, I think. Swim. Hang out. Maybe play some golf.”

“Sounds like fun,” Trent said dryly. “I’m surprised you’re not going home to work on your Mustang.” He chuckled. “How long’s that been now?”

“I got it when I was a junior in high school.”

“Well, I guess you don’t want to rush things.”

“That’s right.” Yates laughed. “And I might go home after all.”

“When was the last time you checked on your brother’s horse?”

“Ummm, three weeks ago, I think. You know Mom takes care of him.”

Yates threw his duffle into the trunk of his silver Chrysler 300, wishing once again he still had his old red Ford Ranger to handle the gravel road which led to the barn. Driving out of the complex, he was impatient with the congestion. However, he appreciated the amenities and close proximity to his office in midtown Atlanta which this location offered.

He maneuvered the car through the heavy traffic around the perimeter highway and headed up route 400, preferring everything about the northern suburbs except the horrendous rush hour commute. He was especially fond of Alpharetta. When his folks moved up there in 1980, one traffic light served the town, and large family properties and horse farms dominated the area. Now, the once-beautiful pastures were expensive subdivisions, and Alpharetta was as congested as any other community one might find on the north side of Atlanta.

Yates thought again of his brother, and offered a quick, silent prayer for his safety. Colin was a medic in the U.S. Army, assigned to a headquarters company in Kabul, Afghanistan. He was grateful Colin was able to call home as often as he did, but he surely did not want to have to tell him his horse was badly hurt. Colin had bought Rouge as a four-year-old. The big sorrel was now sixteen, and considered a family pet.

He pulled off the highway and headed east. He was above Alpharetta now, in a community known as Shake-Rag, and he welcomed the open spaces, white fences and green pastures which surrounded him. At least up here there were still trails one could ride for miles without crossing paved roads. Not far now – there it was on the right.

The sign was elegant, colorful, and engraved. Below the words ‘Pinetree Stables’ were images of a loping mare and a foal. He turned down a gravel road flanked by pastures where well-fed horses contentedly grazed.

The fall morning was fair and brisk. The sky was cloudless and brilliantly blue. The barn was near. An ornate wrought iron signpost stood at the junction of two paved drives. One marker pointed to the right and read ‘Trailers.’ The other guided cars to the left and read ‘Stables,’ which was Yates’s destination.

Maneuvering the winding byway, he drove his Chrysler into the designated area. Parking beside a powerful black 3500 RAM Laramie pickup, Yates got out of his car and walked toward the barn. Crossing the smooth cobblestones which covered the stableyard, he savored the antique ambience and the lure of the past he always felt when he came here.

Built as a hunting lodge in 1898, the magnificent stone and timber structure had been repurposed into a fine barn about sixty years ago, when the property became part of the thousand-acre Strickland family estate. The Stricklands were horse people – right now it was their grandchildren who rode. The stables were well-kept; the stalls offered to boarders were always full, and Rouge had lived here in contentment for the past five years.

Yates ran a hand through his sandy-colored hair. He appeared tall and lean-hipped in his well-worn jeans, and his blue polo shirt revealed a trim and muscular form. Professionally, he spent his days behind a desk. On his own time, he was handy with tools, and known as a hard worker who was knowledgeable in many construction trades. All his summers, from child to grad student, had been spent working at a century-old summer camp nestled in the beautiful North Georgia foothills.

Entering the coolness of the barn, he welcomed the heady scent of fresh hay, oiled leather and well-cared for horses. This was his getaway – thoughts of deadlines or professional concerns were not allowed through the big barn doors. Amused, he considered this place his ‘stress-free zone.’

He ambled past the office and feed room and down the stable aisle. Most of the stalls were empty now, as the horses were turned out, and the barn was quiet. A ginger-colored cat perched precariously upon the ledge of a stall door, and Yates paused to pet him, responding to old Tommy’s demanding mew.

A deep, soothing voice filtered through the whirr of the ceiling fans. He approached and saw Rouge cross-tied in the stable hallway. A tall stranger was speaking softly as he caressed the handsome sorrel’s head.

Yates was intrigued to meet someone his mother had spoken of kindly for years. Gavin slowly turned, and Yates was struck by the drama of his gaunt cheeks, angular features, and soft brown eyes. A thin, neat beard outlined his jaw. His dark hair was soft and thick and worn longish at the nape.

Rouge raised his head and pricked his ears. The sorrel was strikingly beautiful, with his rich red coat and lustrous white mane and tail.

“Hey!” Yates offered his hand and an engaging grin.

Gavin met his grasp. “Glad you could come.”

With a gentle hand, Yates swept aside Rouge’s heavy forelock. “Oh, you sweet boy,” he crooned, stroking the silky jaw. Slowly, he ran his hand down the arch of his neck, withers and onto his broad back. He frowned when he saw the half-moon cuts high on Rouge’s flank, and all those stitches.

“So what did Doc Mackey need to do?”

“He cleaned the wounds well and sewed him up. He also gave him tetanus and antibiotic shots.”

Yates stroked the big sorrel’s neck. “How’d Rouge take all of this?”

Gavin’s tone was affectionate. “This horse has a lot of sense. As soon as the local anesthetic took effect, he was pretty stoic about it, really.” He turned aside. “And it could have been worse,” he reasoned. “He may be hurting from the kicks, but he’s not lame.”

“Well, I’m glad you were here.”

“I’m sorry Rouge was hurt, but I got between them as soon as I could.”

Yates watched him move away. “I know your horses.” The buckskin gelding and bay mare had been Rouge’s stablemates for two years. “Strange we’ve never met.”

Gavin turned and leaned his back against the stall gate. The handsome bay placed her head over his shoulder. Gavin seemed amused. “From what I hear, your schedule is as demanding and unpredictable as mine has been.”

“What’s your line of work?”

“I’m a PA-C and a CSA…a physician’s assistant and surgical assistant. Until last week, I worked closely with a prominent neurosurgeon.”

“Until last week? What? Did you win the lottery? Are you retiring?”

“I wish.” Gavin chuckled. “Soon, I’ll begin a position with a neurology group in Alpharetta. I traded high stress and big bucks for regular hours and a shorter commute.” He stroked his bay mare’s pretty head. “I want to spend more time with my horses.” He turned toward Yates once again. “And what do you do?” He seemed amused. “I must admit, though, I feel I already know you. Your mother has mentioned you and your professional endeavors often over the past years.”

“I bet,” offered Yates dryly, “in that ‘my son, the accountant’ sort of way.”

Gavin’s tone was kind. “There’s nothing wrong with being proud of a son who knows what he wants and works hard to realize his potential.”

As they exchanged glances Yates’s smile was soft. He felt comfortable with this man. Again, he studied Gavin’s features, which seemed to him vaguely familiar. “Have we met before?”

“I wondered if you’d remember.” Gavin’s grin was lopsided. “We went to the same high school. You were a freshman when I was a senior.”

“That’s right,” Yates suddenly recalled, “a lowly freshman. We never once spoke, and yet I remember passing you in the halls.”

“I used to watch the baseball games,” Gavin said. “I remember you played third base and had a helluva throwing arm.”

Yates narrowed his gaze. “I remember something else, too – about the last weeks of school that year. A bunch of older guys had cornered me in the locker room, giving me a hard time.”

“Jealousy, most likely – they felt threatened by your skill.”

Yates nodded. “The usual disparaging remarks – insinuating I was less than a man, and calling me names, calling me gay…”

“You mean, back when words like that had the power to hurt you?” Gavin murmured.

“Yesss,” Yates admitted slowly. “I was just a kid, and not yet comfortable in my own skin.” Silence fell as their eyes met. “But then you entered the locker room,” Yates said. “I remember now. You told those guys to knock it off, or you’d knock it off for them. And they backed off in a hurry! I … I only learned later who you were – captain of the track team and president of the student council. More importantly to me at the time, you were openly gay and didn’t care who knew it.”

“It’s not particularly pleasant to remember such vulnerability. And yet it was a rite of passage most of us have shared. I suspect, though, you gained strength from the challenges they threw at you.”

“I did.” Yates smiled. “I never looked back.” He returned to Rouge’s side. The powerful sorrel liked having his face rubbed in a certain way. Chuckling softly, Yates was pleased to comply. “A thousand-pound baby, that’s what you are.”

Gavin strolled away and returned with an armful of hay, which he placed in the corner of Rouge’s stall. Yates unhooked the cross-ties and led the horse in. He pulled the halter over Rouge’s ears and stroked him for a long time before he closed the door.

“Thanks again for taking care of him, and talking to the vet.”

“Sure,” said Gavin. “You would have done the same for me.”

Yates nodded. In the stall next to Rouge was Aztec, Gavin’s big dappled buckskin quarter horse. “So what’s on your agenda?”

Gavin smiled as he led his bay out of her stall. “It’s a beautiful fall day, and I want nothing more than to ride my horses.”

“Sounds like a pretty good idea to me.” Yates stroked Aztec’s soft nose.

“Well, why don’t you come with me?” urged Gavin. “I have two horses who would certainly be pleased with the attention.”

“But what about Rouge?” Yates was hesitant. “Shouldn’t I stay here and watch him?”

“Rouge is fine where he is, and likely feeling a little dozy from the anesthetic,” Gavin assured him. “Well, you can stay here and watch him if you like or…” He gestured up the stable aisle. A stocky girl with short red hair and dressed in overalls rolled a wheelbarrow toward them. She picked the pitchfork from the barrow and turned toward the men. “Look, Janie is back now. She knows all about what happened this morning.” Gavin turned to the girl. “Hon, could you keep an eye on Rouge for awhile?”

“Sure, I can,” she said with a bright smile. “I’ll be here for a couple of hours, cleaning these stalls.”

“Well, good then. Thanks, Janie!” Yates glanced at Gavin. “Who would you like me to ride?”


BUY EBOOK HERE

A Daring, Devoted Heart by Linda Hines

Published by DreamCraft
ISBN: 978-0-9807092-7-8
Genre: Western Romance.
Length: 37,500 words.
Cover: Jade.
Heat rating: 3.5
Price: $4.99
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Years ago, revenge brought Emeric von Gondrecourt to New Mexico. Now, the force keeping him there is loyalty to the Metairie family — and his love for the young Calder Metairie, who has grown up while Emeric watched.

The two men are separated by geography, history, language, culture — one, born an Austrian prince just before upheaval in Europe would rob him of his birthright, the other born to head a cattle ranch as vast as small European countries. Both were born to different kinds of power, positions of command, and lives bound by duty. And both share a secret.

Being gay at this volatile time in America's history is damned dangerous. Being two men in love is a hazard Calder and Emeric fully recognize —

But the simmering frustration with which Calder grapples, every moment of every day, is Emeric's stubborn refusal to allow himself to love, and to express his feelings in any physical sense. For Emeric, the situation is a labyrinth of duty and loyalty, desire and the determination to honor promises he made to the Metairie family in the wake of his one terrible mistake. The Metairies forgave Emeric once, and he enjoys a certain comradeship within the great Alteza cattle empire. He has worked long and hard to earn their trust and respect ... but would they forgive him a second time if his crime, this time, were to lay a lover's hands on Calder? For an Austrian warrior prince, the dilemma is bleak.

The situation between the two men is already like a powderkeg on a short fuse only waiting for a spark, when horse thieves steal Emeric's priceless Andalusian stallion, Lagrimas. The horse's name is prophetic ... it's the Spanish for tears, and this magnificent animal is at the epicenter of troubles, danger, which will bring Emeric and Calder face to face with their personal devils, once and for all.

A DARING, DEVOTED HEART is a Western with a difference. Not merely an m/m romance, it's also "quest fiction," taking a pair of mismatched heroes through country which brings to mind the works and words of Zane Grey, and culminating in a double-barreled climax — it's a hail of hot lead and a struggle to survive, before Calder Metairie and Emeric von Gondrecourt take those devils by the horns.

Chapter One

Beside the shaded riverbank, the buffalo grass was abundant, protected from the parching late summer sun of northern New Mexico by a leafy veil. Scattered sunlight filtered through the heavy foliage, dappling the leaves and painting whimsical shadows across the curly mesquite which blanketed the ground. Great branches stretched out across the river, coloring the canopied pools a cool viridian. Two riders halted from their journey there, as the hardwood gallery of bur oak, green ash and cottonwoods hailed a welcoming retreat.

Dismounting the big buckskin, Calder Metairie turned to his dark companion and laughed, as if once again wishing to rouse the prince from his serious thoughts. "Enough, I say," chided the spirited cowboy, hands on hips. "You voice concern when there is none. I am a man well grown."

"Too well grown," retorted Emeric von Gondrecourt, black eyes narrowing as he studied him. Carefully groomed to manage the Metairie Cattle Company's huge operation, Calder Metairie was impressive in stature and a skilled leader of men. Confident and charismatic at twenty-three, he was a young giant. With his handsome features, commanding presence and engaging ways, the young rancher attracted attention wherever he went. Too much attention, mused the prince, and usually of the wrong sort!

Amused, Calder tilted his Stetson to reflect his audacious personality. The bright blue shirt he wore contrasted sharply with his partner's darker garb. Worn and stained shotgun chaps covered his long, lean legs. A gun belt was prominent on his hip. Fancy silver spurs crowned the heels of his custom-made Coffeyville boots. And an elegant silver buckle graced his hand-tooled belt, the distinctive stylized M, a bold and recognizable symbol of strength throughout the rugged territory.

"I said enough, Emeric." Calder unsaddled Riago and pulled his bridle, freeing the buckskin gelding to graze among the high grass. Irritated still, he tossed his hat aside, brushing back his long dark hair, tying it at his nape with a rawhide cord. "Who are you to advise me on men? I don't try to pick your lovers."

"A man of more experience," he declared. "And there have been no lovers for you to pick." Prince by birth, warrior by circumstance — now at thirty-four, Emeric's features were quite striking, angular and gaunt. Lean, broad-shouldered, and physically powerful, Emeric von Gondrecourt was a haughty beast. A life hard fought had sharpened his mind, strengthened his body; its emotional scars lent his movements a wary leonine grace, and to those who threatened, he emanated a silent danger.

He was known as Jaeger along the Mediterranean and across the battlefields of Europe. The family he protected called him the Hunter.

Beneath long, thick lashes the cowboy's eyes changed with his moods, and Emeric noticed, now they were a deeper blue. "Calder, what may be accepted between two men in a warriors' camp, or behind closed doors at a princely court, can surely get you killed in the American territories in 1878."

"Emeric," Calder challenged with a wounded expression only his trusted companion understood, "I know of your life before, and the passion you once shared. But that was years ago. Why do you bridle your love now?"

"Calder," Emeric said softly to the man he knew who loved him — a feeling he deeply shared, but was honor-bound never to acknowledge, "because the only man I love is the one I cannot have."

"Me?" They stood close enough to touch, their words a whisper and a lamentation.

"Yes, you know that well enough."

"Emeric, why?"

"Your uncle extended to me his trust; my word, his only demand. Now, by my honor, he has me bound foot and hand."

"We are alone. Who would know?"

"I would. I gave my word to protect his family. I doubt that includes taking you to my bed."

"But it's not right. Who is he to set such boundaries?"

"Calder, what we share knows no boundaries. I feel your desire — know your love by every word you speak and every thoughtful action you perform."

"It is not enough. I need your touch. I need you part of me."

Emeric sighed. "I yearn for your touch as well. More than you will ever know. But it is the choice we were given. I can be here with you now. Choose devotion over desire. Or I must leave. For me, there is no other way."

The gaze they shared seemed endless and was the invocation of their longing. Both men knew words were not enough. Desire ached, and then it burned.

Deviled by discontent, young Metairie turned away. Quickly, he unpacked the harness and with a gentle stroke freed Mythos, the gelding who carried their supplies. The striking blood bay and golden buckskin presented a pleasing scene as they grazed at river's edge. Nodding to his companion, the cowboy set off to gather firewood, leaving Emeric to attend to his stallion and prepare their camp. Stripping his fine mount of leather and pack, Emeric loosed the silvery gray to quench his thirst and join the horses along the riverbank.

The viridian pool mirrored the prince's reflection, and he stared into its depths. He was plainly dressed in the European fashion. His shirt was of the finest linen; his waistcoat and breeches were black and severely cut. He possessed the long, muscular legs of a horseman; his tall gray boots, which were of the richest and most supple leather, seemed a part of him. A revolver on his hip and a black, low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat were the sole concessions to his presence on this continent.

Running a calloused hand through his dark, rumpled hair, Emeric turned his thoughts to ordering the camp. Eyes narrowing, he glanced through the tangle of trees, pondering their words, impatient for the return of his young companion.

"Lagrimas!"

The magnificent Andalusian stallion raised his sculpted head, dark eyes peering brightly through lustrous strands of silvery forelock. Neck arched, heavy mane tousled, he shook his head in spirited fashion. He was a big horse, strongly built, compact yet elegant, with a long, exquisite mane and tail.

One of the oldest pure breeds in the world, the Andalusian was known for its intelligence, sensitivity and docility. The horses originated on the Iberian Peninsula in Spain, where ancient cave paintings portrayed their noble breed. The chosen mount of captains and kings, the Andalusian was praised for its prowess as a war horse and prized by the nobility. The breed was used as a tool of diplomacy by the Spanish government, and was known as the Royal Horse of Europe. Alas, warfare and disease during the early nineteenth century had reduced the herds dramatically, and exportation from Spain had been restricted since that time.

"Come," he called, as Lagrimas nickered impatiently. Quickly, the gray approached, halting only when Emeric felt the rare stud's silky jaw brush gently against his own gaunt cheek. The soldier's whisper was a caress. Emeric had raised the stallion from a foal, and in 1873 brought him to America from the Mediterranean on his own great ship.

A Habsburg of both Spanish and Austrian descent, Emeric had often visited his austere grandfather in Spain — a nobleman of high rank and domineering ways. The Andalusian was bequeathed to him upon the old man's death. Honoring the stern old warrior, missing him still, Emeric named the spirited colt Lagrimas, which in the Spanish language meant tears. Now, along with Emeric's beloved books, the magnificent stallion was the only physical reminder of his life before.

The Hunter left his mount with a gentle word and a long caress. Inquisitive, the gray followed, gracefully bending his long neck to nuzzle about the saddles and packs spread haphazardly upon the ground. Amused, Emeric found pleasure in the antics of his silver stallion.

Of a splendid intellect, and a daring, devoted heart, Emeric's powers were all combined upon a single purpose: atonement.

Protecting Mariah Metairie, her daughter and her sons was his fervent vow.

But adversity molded the man, not condition of birth, as each experience, success and sorrow, shaped the mind and impacted the heart. Now, Emeric remembered once again the dramatic events which brought a dispossessed Austrian prince to the wildest territories in the American West — an old lover, misplaced passion, and an unforgivable lie.

From Trey #3 by Bryl R. Tyne

Excerpted from Trey #3 by Bryl R. Tyne


M/M/M Contemporary Action/Thriller

Trey wants his job.

Drew wants Trey.

Travon wants them both, but must avoid the law.

When boyfriend Drew and twice a month fuck buddy Travon decide to go in together on a local Las Cruces pawnshop heist, neither expects to find Trey working behind the counter. Funny, both Drew and Travon figured the accountant-degree-holding Trey to be a safe bet. Both are fiercely protective. None expected to meet.

With the loot bagged, the ironic love triangle exposed, and the cops on the way, what's there to do but drag Trey along for the ride?

Trey discovers sometimes choosing between the lesser of two evils is all but impossible.

Excerpt: 

It seemed no matter how diligently I performed my duties, how loyal or dependable I proved myself to be, I had no control over who my last three bosses hired or fired. Though I had a degree in accounting, when I landed this minimum-wage customer assistant's job, I took it because I needed work, needed to keep my mind busy, active. Besides, they paid shift differential—a whole fifteen cents. Even if this shop was on the lower eastside of town, I didn't mind my job. At least I had one—again.

Could've been worse, Drew reminded me, on the afternoons I slogged out his front door, dragging my dark cloud with me. I shook my head as I crouched to lockup the remaining Rolex cases. At least I had Drew . . . and yeah, I had the man right where I wanted him almost every day for the past six months, to be exact.

Bells jangled, announcing someone's entrance. I let my ring of keys snap back to my belt. Broom in hand, I met the late customer at the jewelry counter. "We're getting ready to—" Before me, on the other side of the counter, stood the one person I never expected to see on this side of town. "Drew?"

Why he wore sunglasses in the dead of night, I'd never understood, but he did it often. He lifted them off his nose and pushed them to his head as he stared. His mouth opening and closing like a starving goldfish, he tried to ask the one question I never wanted to hear—especially, not here, inside Jackie's Rings and Things. "What are you doing—?"

"I work here." Duh. I shook my head, not caring if I sounded like a PMSing bitch. "Don't rub it in, either."

I leaned the broom against the counter and strode to the end. Lifting the hinged door, I stepped under it and let it slam behind me. Well, I'd had Drew . . . as in, "It's been swell," and, "See ya later." Exactly the reason I'd avoided telling him about my new job. A man like Drew would never understand.

He wasn't one of those rich boys born with a silver spoon in his mouth. No. From what I knew of his lifestyle—his condo, his 2010 Dodge Charger, his ever-present bankroll—I was certain his mother had birthed him inside a bank vault. As soon as the—my boyfriend works in a pawnshop—sunk in, I'd be out of his life. There was no doubt in my mind.

Instead of the argument I'd expected though, Drew smiled—a half-hearted, odd kind of twist to his lips. He glanced behind him at the door, wiped the sweat from his forehead as he met my gaze again.

"Just say it," I said, a little creeped out by his unpredictable reaction.

He wrung his hands together, once again eyeing the exit over his shoulder. "I-I'm looking for a ring."

A ring? At eleven o'clock at night. "Okay. Just let me lockup first."

"No! I'll miss my ride . . . I know what I want." Drew stepped to the display case of sterling rings and pointed. "Right here, in tray number three."

Something told me I was a fool for getting my hopes up, but still, I complied, ever hopeful Drew had finally decided to commit. I returned behind the counter, unlocked the sliders, and pulled out the third tray of silver rings. "Which one did you have in mind?"

My daydream lasted all of two seconds, for as soon as I set tray number three atop the glass case, the door burst open.

Tall, dark, and ski-masked kicked it shut after he entered, and, aiming his pistol at me, shouted, "Hands in the air!"

I complied immediately, not a heroic bone in my body. He could have the entire fucking store for all I cared.

"Don't move," Drew whispered.

I glanced to Drew, who had yet to heed the asshole's order, then looked back to the rapidly advancing armed robber. Put your hands up. I mouthed the words, hoping Drew would see me.

Much to my surprise, he stepped between the robber and me, whipped around, reached over the display case, and caught me around the middle. In a flash, he dragged me across the counter and onto the floor, shocking me further by manhandling me onto my stomach and binding my wrists behind my back with what felt like strips of plastic. "What the fuck are you—?"

"Just keep quiet," he said, "and you won't get hurt."

Holy Christ. One side of my face pressed to the floor, I closed my eyes and started to pray. Who in the hell had I been fucking these past six months—been considering moving in with? This sure as fuck wasn't the man I knew . . . thought I knew. My heart pounded in my ears. Hard-soled shoes came to a stop beside me, and I clenched my eyes tighter.

"Shut him up or I'll—oh, shit."

Oh shit, was right. I recognized that voice. Jackie's Rings and Things would-be bandit was none other than Travon Sanders, my mother's twenty-nine-year-old neighbor—my friend and twice-a-month fuck buddy. Well, soon to be ex-friend, along with Drew. I'd made up my mind, with a knee between my shoulders.

"You know him?" Drew asked tall, dark, and dangerous.

I could feel Travon's stare burn into my upturned cheek. "No, man—You?" He backed away, not waiting for Drew to answer. "Just looks like a guy I used to know."

That's right, motherfucker . . . used to know, you sonofabitch.

Drew released the pressure on my back and then stood, yanking me to my knees. "Get up." He pulled me to my feet as Travon helped himself to my keys and the store's valuables.

"Prick."

Drew backhanded me across the face; a second later, he winked. "I said, keep your mouth shut."

Fuck you. I spat at his face, missing by a long shot. He stared at me as if I'd lost my fucking mind.

At that point, I'd already decided I had indeed lost it. Who in his right mind would attempt to build a life with a career criminal while fucking an armed robber on the side? The only one I knew crazy enough to do either stared back at me from the glass of the gun display case as Drew shuffled me behind the counter and shoved me into the first open office.

"Stay here 'til I figure out what to do with you." He shut the door behind him.

"Bastards." Before I stuck my dick in anyone ever again, I was hiring a P.I. to run a full background check. This was ridiculous. What were the fucking odds?

Bryl R. Tyne is a wrangler by nature and a writer by choice, published with Noble Romance Publishing, Ravenous Romance, Dreamspinner Press, STARbooks Press, Untreed Reads Publishing, Changeling Press, and Coming Soon to Amber Allure with TOUGH GUY. You can find out more about Bryl at: bryltyne.com