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New Release Blitz: Like You’ve Nothing Left to Prove by E.L. Massey @el_masseyy #GayRomance #NA #LGBTQ #Giveaway

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Title: Like You’ve Nothing Left to Prove

Series: Breakaway, Book Two

Author: E.L. Massey

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 03/14/2023

Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 66200

Genre: Contemporary, contemporary, gay, interracial, new adult, sports, ice hockey, uni student, ice skating, professional athlete, physical disability, anxiety disorder, coming out, service dog, cooking/foodies, stanning, homophobia

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Description

As the headline-stealing captain of the Houston Hell Hounds, nineteen-year-old Alexander Price has one goal: the Stanley Cup. He’s got the talent. He’s got the drive. But he’s also got an anxiety disorder and his therapist on speed dial. And, oh yeah, he’s gay. And he’s not willing to hide it anymore.

At eighteen, figure skater Elijah Rodriguez has already had his Olympic dreams crushed by an accident that left him with a seizure disorder and an existential crisis. Now a popular vlogger and freshman in college, Eli is trying to figure out what his new future will look like. Which is a little difficult because, oh yeah, he’s dating Alexander Price.

Eli and Alex are happy. It’s sort of a new state of being for both of them. But Eli is out, Alex isn’t, and their very visible “friendship” is already raising eyebrows. They have a plan: Alex will make their relationship public at the end of the season, hopefully with a Stanley Cup in tow. But what happens when that plan is derailed by an overzealous fan who outs them—right before the Hell Hounds’ playoff run?

Excerpt

Like You’ve Nothing Left to Prove
E.L. Massey © 2023
All Rights Reserved

The problem with dating a celebrity is that sometimes they have to do ridiculous things like take a call from their agent on Christmas Eve when they should be cuddling with their boyfriend.

Something about a sponsor and a New Year’s appearance and an upcoming photoshoot that had to be rescheduled? Eli lost the thread pretty quickly. He watches all of Alex’s games and has made an effort to actually understand hockey rules (though what actually counts as goaltender interference is still a mystery to him). He thinks his boyfriending duties are pretty well covered. He doesn’t need to know which jockstrap Alex is currently endorsing or whatever.

So Eli is reading Great Expectations, proud of himself for getting a head start on next semester’s readings, hoping his boyfriend comes to bed soon, and feeling very sleepy. Though that could be the Dickens. Actually, that’s not fair. He enjoys Dickens a fair amount. But Great Expectations is certainly no Bleak House.

He flips the page and glances up as Alex paces into the bedroom from the hallway, where he’s been in and out of earshot for the last half hour.

Eli’s parents are asleep at the opposite end of the house downstairs, and his sister, Francesca, is still awake next door if the music coming through the shared bathroom door is any indication.

“Hey,” Alex says, tossing his phone onto the top of the dresser. “Sorry about that.”

Eli waves Great Expectations at him in a conciliatory manner. “No problem. But since you’re up, I left my Chapstick in the bathroom.”

Alex gives him a fond look that Eli is still getting used to: a little squint, a little crooked smile, a raise of one eyebrow. “Is that a request?”

Eli tries to look as cozy and pitiful as possible. “Please?”

Alex rolls his eyes but slips through the bathroom door and switches the light on, painting the wood floor gold.

“I loved him against reason,” Eli shouts after Alex, “against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be.”

“I already said I would get it,” Alex shouts back. “You don’t need to woo me with Dickens.”

“Ah, but I must always woo you, my love,” Eli argues, affecting a terrible English accent, “With Dickens or otherwise.”

“Can you do your wooing a little more quietly?” Francesca yells from her bedroom.

Eli stifles his laugh in the duvet.

Alex turns off the light, runs into the cedar chest, swears, and then crawls up to flop inelegantly on top of Eli. He tries, very ineffectively, to apply the Chapstick for Eli until, laughing even harder, Eli wrestles it away from him and does it himself while Alex pretends to pout.

“Hey,” Alex murmurs, smudging the words into Eli’s neck, “do you maybe wanna do that thing where you drag your fingernails up and down my back until I fall asleep completely blissed out on oxytocin?”

Eli slides his book and then the Chapstick onto his nightstand and moves his hands automatically to Alex’s shoulders. “How did you know? That’s exactly what I wanted to do.”

“Oh.” Alex makes a point of settling in further before going absolutely boneless. “Well, that’s perfect, then.”

The bruises on Alex’s side look particularly stark when painted in moonlight, and Alex is warm and sleepy and vulnerable. His curled fingers in the periphery of Eli’s vision make Eli’s chest ache in a way he can’t explain with anything other than love. This soft, tactile man, who smells like VapoRub and Eli’s detergent, is so far removed from the visceral, overconfident Alexander Price, whose skill and notoriety sell out hockey arenas. In the dark and the quiet of Eli’s childhood bedroom, it almost feels as if they’re two different people. Except Eli is the only one privileged enough to know this gentle night-time version.

“Mm,” Eli agrees, dragging his nails lightly, so lightly, up the expanse of Alex’s back. “Perfect.”

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

E. L. Massey is a human. Probably. She lives in Austin, Texas, with her partner, the best dog in the world (an unbiased assessment), and a frankly excessive collection of books. She spends her holidays climbing mountains and writing fan fiction, occasionally at the same time.

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Release Blitz ~ Blue Billy’s Rogue Lexicon by David Lawrence #HistoricalRomanticComedy #RomCom @GayBookPromo

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RELEASE BLITZ

Book Title: Blue Billy’s Rogue Lexicon

Author: David Lawrence

Publisher: Broadbound Publishing

Cover Artist: Jane Dixon-Smith

Release Date: February 21, 2023

Genre: Historical Romantic Comedy

Themes: Coming-of-age

Length: 75,000 words/ 245 pages

Heat Rating: 2 flames

It is a standalone story and does not end on a cliffhanger.

Goodreads

 

Buy Links – Available in Kindle Unlimited

Universal Link | Amazon US | Amazon UK

 

A Laugh Out Loud, Bawdy, Historical Romantic Tale

Blurb

William Dempsey was a wonder among wonders.

By 18, he had risen from a gang of London street rogues to be the personal plaything of the Marquess of Argyll. Maintained in splendour, celebrated at masquerades – with everything he could wish for.

Now all has come crashing down. He is put out in the rain without patronage, his West End apartment, or a place among the ton.

So on a stormy night, he arrives at a house in Southwark. Marathon Moll’s in the Mint – the bawdyhouse he worked in during his ascent and where he earned the name Blue Billy.

But is Marathon Moll’s a place from which to rise again? For there is one in the crowd, who catches his eye. Who takes his hand and promises something better.

Or does Moll’s signify a return to his roots? For one day, a second and very different young man raps on the door. Takes his hand and asks him to return to his past.

To the cat language of vagabonds. The canting dialect of thieves.

To the schemes, and the dreams, of his youth.

Excerpt

The Mint, Southwark, 1771

Chapter 1

Abram Cove

among thieves signifies a naked or poor man; also a lusty strong rogue

“And what have we here?”

“Let us in, Moll. Beast of a storm tonight, ain’t it?”

“Aye,” returned Moll, cinching her silk wrap while maintaining a hand behind the front door she’d opened just an inch. “Stormy for some, by the look of it.”

The wind sent rain barrelling into this secluded yard in the Mint, taking the standing, shiftless dregs of chamber pots for an airy jaunt. Souls Yard, a misshapen cul-de-sac of three freestanding abodes, consisted of a squat, squalid cottage, from which no light entered or emerged. A converted barn with modish ventilation in every wall and door, the slope of its gambrel roof rather like hands praying for intervention. And the jewel of the Yard, Marathon Moll’s: a double-fronted, two-story block tethered at east and west with slender chimneys touched with scoliosis.

“Have you lost your way tonight, Billy?”

With a look of wounded indignation, William Dempsey said, “Ain’t it enough to wish the company of an old, dear friend? ‘Old’ meaning previous-like,” he added, “nothin’ more.”

The door remained unmoved; Billy was left to shiver on the tilted stonework of the front elevation. Wiping the endless stream of August rainwater from his face, he pressed himself against the opening until their faces nearly touched. Moll’s – with its native jaundice, like dirty lemon juice upon features which arrived at too many points. Billy’s – a canvas of creamy white, flushed with health and whose boyish pout Moll herself had often declared a criminal provocation.

“‘Old’ you have defined, Billy, but how do you define ‘dear friend’?” said the bawd, pushing up her aquiline nose. “That term implies paying calls of friendship, or at least of courtesy (which are not calls to steal from my house, mind you), and I’ve not seen your pretty face these two years.”

“That Blue Billy outside?” came a second voice from within. “Let him in out the rain, for God’s sake.”

Recognising the voice of one of the house’s most devoted patrons, Dempsey said, “‘Dear friend’ I define as Dip-Candle Mary there behind you, who I hear’s set to be married next week, so I come to bestow my congratulations.”

All around Souls Yard, eyes were opening within cracks in the ramshackle barn and, one sensed without ever quite knowing, at the darkened front window of the cottage. For though a code of honour kept the inhabitants of each from inquiring into the business of their neighbours, scenes in the Yard were fair game for all.

After a moment, and a great sigh from Moll, the door withdrew just enough to allow into the vestibule Dempsey’s small, slim form. Mary hurried forward to embrace him. He was a tallow chandler from Shoreditch, Dip-Candle Mary being his house name. Such names were customary in these houses, which referenced either one’s profession or physical appearance. Indeed, Billy had never known him by any other, though the man had always been sweet on him. Sweet enough to forgive the trinkets Billy had lifted from his dressing table when staying the night. That silver-handled comb the man really didn’t need seeing as how he kept his hair so short. That errant bit of coin taken from coat pockets…

From the dark vestibule, Billy looked toward the glow of the front parlour. The room was filled with claret wallpapering before which replicas of Roman forms thought or gloried or sported in alabaster relief. Chintz upholstered sofas and settees of various conditions reclined before the fireplace, currently cold, its salt shelf crammed with crucibles of scented oil waiting to ignite on crackling nights. The parlour was lit by two fat beeswax candles stuck into halves of an antiquated urn hung over the mantle. The widely cast light lifted a glow from the gold threading of the furniture and, for a moment, a glow in Billy himself as he recalled the handful of good times he’d enjoyed while living here.

No question, Moll had come up in the world. When his eyes returned to hers, pride shone in her face as though to say: only observe all I have accomplished since I got rid of you. When Billy took a tentative step forward, she held up a thin finger, forbidding him to take another step, dripping like a rainforest. He began to undress.

 

About the Author

I am the author of two queer historical novels – ‘Hugh: A Hero without a Novel’ and ‘Blue Billy’s Rogue Lexicon’. As a writer, I love taking a deep dive into the social norms and historical events of 18th century England, told with humour and whimsy, while presenting what I hope are compelling and unique coming-of-age tales.

A native of the American Southwest, I have spent much of my life in Great Britain, France, and Finland. I now live in the American Northwest – Helena, Montana – with my Finnish partner.
By day I love hiking under the Big Sky of my beautiful adopted state.
By night, however, I prefer wandering the byways of 18th century London…

 

Social Media Links

Blog/Website and Newsletter Sign-up | Facebook

 

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New Release: Secrets of Ishtabay, by Mark David Campbell #Giveaway #LGBTQ #Gay #Mystery #Belize

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Title: Secrets of Ishtabay

Author: Mark David Campbell

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 02/21/2023

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 84700

Genre: Historical, anthropologist, gay, murder, Mayan, Belize, secrets

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Description

In the western jungle of Belize, in 1962, Father Carl, an American missionary priest was found lying dead on the floor of his study. People from the nearby Maya village of San José were blamed but, strangely, no one was ever officially charged or found guilty. This is only one secret within a carefully guarded web of desire, envy, and guilt which torment and isolate people in this village.

Thirty years later, with the introduction of water and electricity, satellite TV, and the completion of the Western Paved Road, the village is connected to the outside world: people collide and their secrets unravel, sometimes tragically.

Secrets of Ishtabay takes you into a world of mysticism and antiquity and introduces you to a people who are suspended between an eroding past of ancient lost cities, half-forgotten myths, and subsistence farming, and a hostile present with encroaching global economics, illicit drugs, artifact smuggling, and civil wars.

Excerpt

Secrets of Ishtabay
Mark David Campbell © 2023
All Rights Reserved

Well before the rooster crowed, Rosalinda had stoked the fire, slapped out a stack of tortilla cakes, and roasted them on the flat iron comal cooking plate.

Now, as the sun crept into the morning sky, she stepped through her little wooden gate on her way down to the river. The warming rays had taken away the lingering chill and turned the night dew into steam which hung in the vegetation along the path. She adjusted the large blue plastic laundry tub balanced on her head.

The thick air felt so different from the cool thin air of her highland home in Spanish Honduras, but that was more than thirty years ago. She and her husband, José, had escaped here to Belize when it was called British Honduras and still a colony of Britain. They had no other choice. The coffee growers in Spanish Honduras had claimed there were Cubanos in the villages and had sent in the army to keep the Indians quiet. Bullets were fired, blood was spilled, and her village disappeared. She’d not heard from or seen her family since and didn’t know if they were dead or alive. Rosalinda delicately clasped the small wooden cross dangling from her neck and kissed it. All she had with her when she left was the gold crucifix her mother had given her, and she no longer had that. Now even her daughter, Alicia, was gone. At least she still had her son, Geraldo and grandson, young Solario.

By the time she arrived at the river the other village women were already gathered at their washing rocks gossiping loudly above the sound of the flowing water. No one looked up to greet Rosalinda as she set her tub down, hiked up her plain white cotton skirt, tucked the hem into her waistband and stepped into the cool green water. The shade from the trees on the far bank still blanketed the river as she washed out a pile of dirty socks, underwear, and T-shirts. After scrubbing and beating them clean on her rock, she rinsed out the soap, wrung out the water and loaded them into the washing tub. Then she picked up the tub, stood up straight and balanced it on her head. Now that it was filled with wet laundry, it was a lot heavier. Her feet and shoulders hurt as she walked up the hill toward home.

While she hung out the wet laundry along the hibiscus hedge bordering her yard, boys and girls wearing blue uniforms paraded past her gate on their way to school. Geraldo, her son, had already left for his milpa plantation up in the hills and José, her husband, was sitting slumped over on the three-legged stool, dozing in the shade of their wattle and daub thatched house. She said nothing to him as she went inside to hurry young Solario along for school and to set the afternoon beans on the coals to simmer.

By the time she stepped out of her gate again the sun had climbed well over the trees. As Rosalinda approached the front of the church, she saw Señora Uk coming out wearing a black shawl over her head and clutching a plastic rosary in her hand. Señora Uk came to church every morning to pray for her husband, whose body had been found in the river four years ago. As always, she looked at Rosalinda and turned away.

Rosalinda dropped her head and skirted past her through the doorway into the shadowy interior. The air inside the church was clammy and smelled of must and copal incense. She placed an embroidered handkerchief on her head, dipped her finger into the water in the small cement fount and genuflected. Then she walked up the aisle wooden benches and sat down on the third from the front, as she did every morning. When the light coming in through the blue and red colored glass window moved across the room and touched her, she would know it was time to leave.

The wooden statue of San José, the patron Saint of the village, stood frozen to the left of the altar, his brown hands stretching out to receive her, but, as always, Rosalinda refused him. She turned toward the small plastic gold-framed picture of Maria di Guadalupe, which hung on the wall beneath the plain wooden cross. It was the Virgin she had come to see. Rosalinda fell to her knees, held her crucifix to her lips and bowed her head.

“Hail Mother Mary, full of grace, for I have sinned,” she whispered, then closed her eyes, not daring to whisper more. Sounds emanating out of silence became voices, shadows floating across her closed eyelids became forms and she was carried to that morning thirty years ago when she was only a girl, herself.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Mark David Campbell is a Canadian Italian who has lived in Italy for the past twenty years where he teaches, writes, and paints, moving between lago Maggiore and Milan with his husband. Prior to this, he spent more than fifteen years working in archaeology and anthropology in Belize and has a PhD in anthropology from the University of Toronto. He enjoys pizza, beer, swimming, and salsa. Find Mark on Facebook.

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Release Blitz! Rhyme of Longing by Emily Carrington @CarringtonEmily #Giveaway #LGBTQ #MM #EroticRomance #Paranormal

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Title: Rhyme of Longing

Series: Jack and Gil #1

Author: Emikly Carrington

Publisher: Changeling Press LLC

Release Date: February 17, 2022

Heat Level: 4 – Lots of Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 169 pages

Genre: Romance, Action Adventure, Dark Fantasy, Paranormal Romance, Suspense, Urban Fantasy, Elves, Dragons & Magical Creatures, Gay, Multicultural & Interracial, Shapeshifters

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Synopsis

Gilbert Sullivan hates his name, but refuses to go by Gil because of a rhyme he fears is a prophecy. When he meets Jack Sowerby, the new head of SearchLight, he’s terrified the rhyme will come true and he’ll lose his place as Crown Prince of the basilisks, but his attraction to Jack won’t let him stay away.

Jack, born human, is, above all things, practical. Still, when he meets Prince Gilbert, his need for the prince blossoms and he’s unable to resist — at least until he’s forcibly changed into a magical creature. He’s terrified of the new world he’s entering. When Gilbert tries to fight the rhyme, will their shattered relationship ever be restored?

Excerpt

All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2023 Emily Carrington

Jack wanted so badly to be done with this night that he felt uncomfortable in his skin. That was not the proper way to begin thinking about his sixty-eighth birthday, his five-year anniversary as the head of SearchLight Academy. This was a party for both those things but no one said “no” to Agent Weinberg.

Not necessarily the most powerful magical being in the world, she was still the head of the entire organization. Even though she held the nominal title of “head of Public Relations,” SearchLight’s whole reason for existing was to protect the relationship between magical and nonmagical peoples. Which was, of course, officially, no relationship at all. SearchLight was a secret and must remain so.

The influence she held would make most magical creatures bow in submission. Jack, being merely human, was suitably impressed. And although as yet not cowed, he was too fond of his life to waste it needlessly. Not that Agent Weinberg had killed anyone. Recently.

Jack took a deep breath in through his nose as the limousine pulled up to the curb. He’d been commanded to take this limo and the implicit service of a driver, and although he hadn’t enjoyed it particularly, he was glad that he hadn’t needed to find a place to park in downtown Washington, DC. So, unsure if he was supposed to tip the driver but wanting to show his appreciation, he stepped around to the driver’s side after the car was parked at the curb and offered the person behind the wheel, whom, his telepathic sense, told him wasn’t human, ten dollars.

“Would you be trying to bribe me to take you home, Agent Sowerby?”

Jack saw the humor in the green eyes turned up to his and smiled. “Never in life,” he told the Irish-sounding sprite or Faery or leprechaun. Damn, sometimes he wished for a werewolf’s sense of smell so he’d know the magical creatures around him at once.

“You’re a good man, Agent Sowerby. Don’t let her bully you now.” And with that, he winked and rolled up his window. Jack stepped around the car to the sidewalk and watched the limo drive away.

“Hey there.” The voice was soft, lightly accented, and full of a syrupy, sarcastic undertone that put Jack’s hackles up. He turned more slowly than he could have, wanting to appear older and so less threatening. He gazed at the three people facing him and saw they were all armed.

He was aware of others watching from the doorway of the restaurant but knew they wouldn’t intercede unless it became obvious he couldn’t handle himself. That was one thing about Agent Weinberg he didn’t like much. She believed in the “sink or swim” philosophy.

The woman who’d spoken was smiling in a particularly condescending way. “Got a handout for me?” She twirled the knife in her right hand as she reached out with her left for the ten spot Jack still held.

Jack offered it, keeping a good distance from her, forcing her to step forward to take the bill. He was aware of the other two moving to flank him. He disliked using his telepathic sense against what he considered to be defenseless people, magical or mundane, and yet he wouldn’t risk his own life to preserve theirs. “I suggest you take this and be on your way,” he said softly, putting a slight psychic push into the words. He blanketed the area with his calming presence, lacking the ability to focus on more than two people at once. Both of the men who’d been flanking him stopped. One of them shook his head but the other was definitely under Jack’s control.

“Back off,” Jack said and watched the woman lower her knife a little.

She snatched at the bill and her knife hand flicked upward.

Jack dropped the ten spot and caught her wrist. The knife’s blade skidded across the waterproof material of his trench coat. He forced her to drop the knife as he said, “Go away.”

The man under his control turned and fled. But the other lunged at Jack. Yanking the woman close, Jack used her as a shield. The other man’s blade slid between her ribs. He swore, stumbling back, and lost his grip on his knife. As he turned to flee, Jack lowered the woman to the ground. He shouted, “Someone call nine-one-one.”

Someone joined him out on the sidewalk. It wasn’t Agent Weinberg. It wasn’t a SearchLight agent he knew. There was regal bearing in the other’s posture as he crouched beside Jack. “Let me heal her.”

Jack didn’t protest, although he did skate his telepathic sense outward to determine if this was a magical creature. The fact that he’d said “heal” rather than “help” argued for him not being human. He came into contact with an impenetrable psychic wall and winced as his telepathic sense bounced off. Well, there weren’t all that many humans who could resist even his most casual reach. Ergo, this was a magical creature.

Jack nodded and said, “Go ahead.” He retreated inside his own head and as he pulled out his cell phone, unwilling to trust to others to call for help, he watched the broad-shouldered male beside him spit into his hand and press the palm against the wound even as he pulled the knife free.

Dragon, Jack thought. Dragons could heal with their saliva or a blood exchange. But this wasn’t a dragon Jack knew.

Purchase

Changeling Press LLC | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | iTunes

Meet the Author

Emily Carrington is a multipublished author of male/male and transgender erotica. Seeking a world made of equality, she created SearchLight to live out her dreams. But even SearchLight has its problems, and Emily is looking forward to working all of these out with a host of characters from dragons and genies to psychic vampires.

Fantasy creatures not your thing? Emily has also created a contemporary romance world, called Sticks and Stones, where she explores being “different” in a small town.

Website | Facebook | Twitter

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New Release Blitz: To Mend a Broken Wing, by Fearne Hill @FearneHill #LBGTQ+ #Giveaway

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Title: To Mend a Broken Wing

Series: Rossingley, Book Four

Author: Fearne Hill

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 02/07/2023

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 71800

Genre: Contemporary, contemporary, gay, bisexual, interracial, NA, British, physical difference/phocomelia, found family, coming of age, humorous, cricket competition, children

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Description

“I think,” Lucien began, “that we accept the love we believe we deserve. And unfortunately, Noah doesn’t believe he deserves any.”

For twenty-two-year-old Noah, the revelation that his biological father is an ex-professional footballer is like tearing the wrapper from a cheap chocolate bar and discovering he’s won the elusive golden ticket. Every homeless young man’s dream, right?

Wrong. Because his father has also served a lengthy prison sentence. For murder.

With nothing to lose and facing a winter sleeping rough, Noah travels to France to meet him. Despite an angry encounter, Noah reluctantly agrees to stay at the ancestral home of one of his newfound father’s friends until he finds his feet.

Twenty-five-year-old Toby loves his village of Rossingley so much he’s never left. Working as a manny caring for the children of the eccentric sixteenth earl is his dream job. Sure, he’d like to travel someday and maybe find a boyfriend, one who doesn’t treat him like a doormat. But with his deformity denting his confidence, Toby counts his blessings and takes what he can get. That is, until a sullen, handsome misfit comes to stay, flipping Toby’s ordered village life upside down.

Excerpt

To Mend a Broken Wing
Fearne Hill © 2023
All Rights Reserved

Toby

“Darling, which do you prefer, Moonlit Navy or Magenta Surge?”

The job description had outlined caring for three children, all under the age of five. The wording had been economical with the truth. By my calculations, there were four. Number four had recently celebrated a milestone birthday and was a smidge sensitive about it.

“The navy’s good,” I hedged, examining the nail polish on both of the earl’s elegant index fingers, pressed side by side. “It complements your…er…outfit.”

He sighed in consternation. “Moonlit Navy is my go-to normally, darling, but I’m concerned it’s beginning to complement not only this divine outfit but my knobbly blue veins too. Don’t you think?”

During my three years of study at childcare college, none of the modules had offered handy tips on how best to sensitively reassure a gay earl dressed in a sky-blue satin nightdress that he could paint his fingernails navy, magenta, or pink with yellow spots, and no one would notice. For the simple reason that the trillion-carat diamond adorning his ring finger, not to mention the other sparkly rock in his ear, and the string of boulder-like pearls around his neck, kind of drew the eye. And did I mention the nightdress?

“Magenta,” came a masterful deep growl, accompanied by two strong arms wrapping themselves loosely around the earl’s shoulders from behind. “I like you wearing magenta.”

Leaning back into his husband’s wonderfully secure hold, my boss tipped his face up to meet Dr Sorrentino’s and accepted a tenderly loving kiss on the end of his patrician nose. Thank God. The cavalry had arrived. I averted my eyes as they shared a swoony moment.

“Magenta Surge it is, then,” the earl declared. His voice took on a throaty, sultry tone.

Never taking his eyes off his husband, he addressed me. “Toby, my darling. I do believe Jay and I will sojourn to the west wing for a while. The light is so much better up there for nail painting, wouldn’t you agree?”

As sex euphemisms went, this was typically delicate.

“Absolutely.” As if I’d ever dare disagree with my boss on such matters. “I’ll listen out for the children.”

“Thank you,” the earl replied graciously. “You are an absolute treasure.”

Tell me something I didn’t know. Pushing himself back from the table in a single fluid movement, the earl stood and took Dr Sorrentino’s waiting muscular arm. Another swoony kiss; anyone would think they’d been married six minutes, not six years.

“I don’t know how we’d cope without you, Toby,” he added, giving his husband’s arm a squeeze.

You’d have a hell of a lot less sex with the delicious Dr Sorrentino, probably. I pushed that thought aside. I did not envy my boss. I did not envy my boss.

I watched them dreamily wander out of the kitchen, already oblivious to my presence. The earl’s satin nightdress trailed soundlessly along the floor behind him, and I shook my head, smiling to myself as I cleared away the forgotten pots of nail polish.

My phone pinged—a daily text from my mother, checking all was well in my world. And, as usual, it was, as long as I ignored the teeny fact that my knight in shining armour had missed his cue to take centre stage. Despite that, I shouldn’t and wouldn’t envy the earl. He might have the delectable Dr Sorrentino carting him off to bed at two o’clock on a Thursday afternoon, but how could I ever be envious of a man with his grim family history?

The tragic deaths of the fifteenth earl and his oldest son and heir eight years ago had cut deep into the soul of Rossingley. I’d been fifteen years old, and the shroud of grief that settled over families like mine was a testament to the Duchamps-Avery stewardship of the village. Rents in Rossingley for local families were low, and the Duchamps-Averys had never succumbed to the lure of greedy property developers. The current earl’s money kept the village pub alive, provided the school with much needed extras, funded new church bells as required, and repaired holes in the church roof.

The profound impact of the accident on the current earl didn’t bear thinking about. While Rossingley mourned, Lucien Avery vanished, leaving my Uncle Will, the estate manager, to keep the Avery affairs functioning while the reclusive new earl grieved in private.

Stories sprang up about him, of course, almost overnight. The silliest being that he was a vampire. Or a ghost. That he’d died in the helicopter crash along with everyone else. That his continued existence was a fabrication to prevent his wicked uncle getting his hands on the dosh. That he’d been sighted wearing a flowing white dress, dancing in the moonlight down by the still lake. That he swam in the lake at midnight. That he walked on water. That he spent his days wandering the attic rooms calling for his lost brother. That he was crazed and locked in a basement asylum.

Uncle Will debunked all these myths, and more, but people carried on spouting them anyhow. Why let the truth get in the way of a good story?

Like all gossip, two-thirds were total bullshit, but some held a grain of truth. The earl did wander the estate dressed in flowing gowns, albeit with the addition of green wellies. I’d seen him with my own eyes, an almost ethereal, waiflike presence, as I helped Uncle Will refence the north fields during the school holidays. I recall I’d stared and stared at him, fascinated, half expecting him to float away on a strong puff of wind, up to the heavens to join his beloved family. When my uncle noticed my staring, he ordered me to let the poor guy grieve in peace. Joe, who worked in the gardens, reported the new earl spent his days sitting on a bench smoking himself to death. Steve—another gardener, now retired, said he’d been ordered to place fresh flowers on the family graves every single day.

And then, a couple of years later, a ray of light burst through the new earl’s grief, lifting the thick bank of clouds. Once again, bright sunshine beat down on the lush green fields of the Rossingley estate. By then I was eighteen and working with Uncle Will every spare moment I wasn’t in school, saving for college. A mysterious new car appeared in the big house yard, a flashy red Audi, its owner a burly hunk of masculinity, equipped with brawny arms and a mass of black curly hair.

They were spotted together, the stranger and the earl, holding hands by the lake, kissing against the south wall of the old stone chapel. Reuben, the new gardener, told everyone the stranger was another doctor, that the new earl had found his one true love (Reuben was a French romantic), that the man with the Audi would be staying for good. Seemed he was right because a wedding followed not long afterwards. The village celebrated; I drank far too much free champagne, vomited in the walled garden rose bushes, then snogged Rob Langford, the dairy farmer, for the first time. But that’s another story.

I busied myself with preparing the children’s supper. Five-year-old twins, Eliza and Arthur, were at their weekly riding lesson with Emily from the village. Orlando, the most scrumptious bundle of fifteen-month-old goodness to ever exist on this planet, would soon be awake from his afternoon nap. Mary, the housekeeper, had finished for the day, and the earl and Dr Sorrentino would be indulging in afternoon delight for at least another hour. Which gave me a rare quiet moment all to myself.

The house phone rang, a number known only by a very few—Dr Sorrentino’s family, the earl’s family, Uncle Will, the children’s school, and the earl’s closest friend, Marcel. All other calls were routed through the estate office. The chance of interrupting Dr Sorrentino in whatever pleasures he was currently providing, in order to answer a phone call was roughly as likely as my Prince Charming galloping through the kitchen on one of the children’s ponies. So I answered it myself.

“Oh, Lucien, you are never going to believe what’s happened. You should probably pour yourself a glass of something orange and vile and sit yourself down.”

The voice sounded breathy, flustered, foreign, and familiar.

“Uh, hello, Marcel. Sorry, it’s Toby. The manny.”

“Oh, my goodness. Toby! So sorry! Is he around? I called his mobile, but he didn’t pick up.”

Right. First rule of Rossingley: you do not talk about Rossingley.

“Um…yes; he’s…um…somewhere, I believe?”

“Thank goodness. I’m having a teeny-tiny, non-asthma-related crisis, and I’d really appreciate his pearls of wisdom right now. Although, obviously, don’t ever tell him I admitted that.”

“Obviously.”

I’d experienced one of Marcel’s non-asthma-related crises the last time he came to stay. It involved a tricky sudoku and the French Minister of the Interior. From his urgent and breathless manner, this one sounded more serious. I checked the time. The earl had been gone less than twenty-five minutes.

“Okay.” I stalled, rapidly assessing the situation. “I’ll…um…shall I…um…ask him to call you as soon as he’s…um…available?”

Second rule of Rossingley: When Dr Sorrentino eye-fucked his husband in that tone of voice, then tugged him purposefully towards the west wing, it was a brave soul who dared interrupt. Or someone who had been best friends with the earl for yonks, like Marcel.

“Toby, my dear?”

Some of the breathiness left Marcel’s tone, replaced with a touch of steel. “Lucien is in bed, isn’t he? In the middle of the day, with that ravishing hunk of a husband.”

“Um…well, I…possibly?”

“Listen. And this is very important. Go upstairs to the west wing, bang on the bedroom door—loudly—and inform Lucien I need to speak to him. I expect he will decline.”

“Um…yes…I, yes, you may be right.”

Marcel knew my boss exceedingly well.

“When he does, you have my permission to inform him if he doesn’t bring his skinny, oversexed, ridiculous aristocratic self to the telephone at once, Marcel will whisper in Jay’s ear a little story about a porcupine cactus, a Cuban waiter, and a silver teaspoon. During that memorable trip to…aah…Morocco.”

Morocco. Third rule of Rossingley: If ever Marcel dropped the M bomb? Fetch the earl at once.

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Meet the Author

Fearne Hill lives deep in the southern British countryside with three untamed sons, varying numbers of hens, a few tortoises, and a beautiful cocker spaniel.

When she is not overseeing her small menagerie, she enjoys writing contemporary romantic fiction. And when she is not doing either of those things, she works as an anaesthesiologist.

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Release Blitz: Roanoke River Omegas, by Will Okati #LGBTQ+ #Giveaway #NewAdult #ActionAdventure #BoxSet #Romance

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Title:  Roanoke River Omegas

Author: Will Okati

Publisher: Changeling Press

Release Date: January 13, 2023

Heat Level: 4 – Lots of Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 246 pages

Genre: Romance, New Adult, Action Adventure, Box Sets, Paranormal Romance, Gay, Sex/Gender Shifters & MPreg, Single Parent/Pregnancy Romance

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Synopsis

Unusual Omegas and unique Alphas falling in love and finding families? There’s never a dull moment in Roanoke River.
 

Conceivable (Roanoke River Omegas 1)

Omega Jory’s in love with his best friend, Alpha Darius, and Darius has no idea. Darius’s in love with Jory, and Jory has no idea. But when Jory asks Darius to father his baby, everything’s about to explode.
 
Inexplicable (Roanoke River Omegas 2)
Kit had no clue he was pregnant. Now everything’s changing, including his long distance love affair with Deacon. Babies do what they want, when they want. Just like Deacon used to. But now that he’s a father, he’s got to convince Kit he’s in this — and their lives — for keeps.
 
Combustible (Roanoke River Omegas 3)
Long, lean, wild and unconventional for an Omega, Zane rocks and rolls Alpha Grant’s world. Zane can’t be predicted. He can’t be contained. And Grant freaking loves it. Their love affair is gonna be complicated — and downright combustible.
 

Excerpt

Copyright ©2023 Will Okati
Excerpt from Conceivable
 
What did you do with a drunken sailor?
 
Why, anything you wanted, that’s what. You could tie him up tight with a crimson ribbon, dip him in a pool of melted butter, run him through a room of screaming fire alarms, and when he got done with all that, then you could tuck him in bed with an Alpha’s lover. And every last bit of it sounded fine when sung at the top of three dozen-odd throats at Happy Hour on a Friday evening in MacInnes’s pub.
 
Better still when Darius could raise his mostly empty glass and swing it in time with the song. Best of all when tucked into a booth with his best friend beside him, warm as toast and smelling faintly of Omega and largely of burnt-sugar whiskey.
 
As weeknights went, this was a good one.
 
The last lines of the chorus were still echoing off the ceiling when someone who fancied himself a soloist stood on top of a table and started belting out a boozy version of “Danny Boy.” He got a few catcalls and the occasional coaster tossed at him, but he had a decent deep tenor and most of the rowdies settled down to listen. Darius included.
 
Still laughing, still warm, he slid back into the booth he shared with Jory and kicked his legs forward to tangle their feet together. Best friends — closer than blood since they’d met in another bar on weekend passes five years back — they’d always been in each other’s space ever since. Didn’t bother them any that Darius was an Alpha and Jory an Omega. Darius was Navy and Jory part of the Peace Corps, sure, but the military kept everyone on hormone suppressants to cut down on hanky-panky in the ranks, so what did it matter?
 
“Another round?” Darius asked when their impromptu soloist paused to drown his own thirst.
 
Redheaded and usually fair as cream, Jory’s cheeks were cherry pink tonight from the two whiskies and a pint of Guinness he’d already downed, but he gave Darius a blazing grin and raised his empty glass. “You’re on. And I mean it, you’re on. Last round was mine.”
 
Was it? Darius shrugged, not bothered either way. They always took turns. He halfway stood to wave at their waiter — a friendly Beta who could pull pints fast as lightning strikes — then thumped back down in a comfortable slouch. Jory, still grinning, made him laugh. Made him content. Being around him made something inside Darius feel… satisfied. Good.
 
“So,” he said, after tipping back his empty glass in search of just a few more drops. “You were saying, about the kids, before that racket started up?” Jory had gone into teaching kindergarten after getting out of the Reserves, and taken to it like a duck to water.
 
“That they’re adorable. Today I had to teach one of them not to lick the drinking fountain because that wasn’t how it worked. Also? ‘Racket’ my hindquarters, you love it.” Jory’s smile shone smile softer, warmer, teasing. “As if you weren’t singing along.”
 
Darius bent his head, only a little sheepish and only for half a second. He came up with a glint in his eye and clinked his glass against Jory’s. “Shut up.”
 
Jory clinked back. He knew this game. “You shut up.”
 
“Bite me.”
 
“Needs ketchup.”
 
“Kiss my ass.”
 
Jory laughed. “Bend over!”
 
Their pert, pretty little Beta waiter — what was his name, Adam? — rolled his eyes as he swung by their table with two full glasses. “Drown yourself in these, would you?” He softened his words with a gentle love tap on the back of Darius’s dark head and a rustle through Jory’s auburn tangle. “Drink up, boys, order some more, and leave a good tip. I’ve got bills to pay!”
 
“Good thing I have a steady job,” Darius remarked as Adam sped away. He’d left the Navy a year after Jory mustered out and would have settled where his best friend did regardless, but he thanked his lucky stars Jory had picked Roanoke Rapids, North Carolina. Made finding work on the water easy, and Darius had settled into a good hands-on position at the lake. Solid work that left him aching with sore muscles every day, but satisfied down to the bottom of his soul. “Or I wouldn’t be able to afford taking my best friend out for booze-ups at fancy joints like this.”
 
Jory wrinkled his nose. “Speaking of kids, how are the new hires you were talking about?”
 
“Eh, there’s a few bright stars,” Darius said with a shrug. “Some better than others. Time will tell. But they do already know how to use the water fountains. Probably.”
 
“They’re not as cute as a baker’s dozen of toddlers, though.”
 
Darius waggled one hand to and fro. “They probably think so, especially when they’re out looking to score some tail, but nope.”
 
Jory nodded in satisfaction, making him a pleasure to look at. Darius had always liked his friend’s face, not exactly handsome but friendly and open but with fine, well-shaped bones. Very dissimilar to himself, with his tall leanness, his longer features and darker complexion. His general attitude was sharper-edged, more serious. But whenever Darius got too stuck in his head, Jory pried him out, and whenever Jory’s warm heart got a little too bruised, Darius was there to pick him up and settle him down.
 
What he’d do without Jory in his life, Darius didn’t know. And he didn’t want to know.
 
Darius downed his drink and wiped the Guinness foam away with a sigh of satisfaction. “So did the kid wrap his head around how water fountains worked, in the end?”
 
“Hmm?”
 
Darius cocked his head. “I said…”
 
But Jory’s attention had drifted. He did that sometimes — wandered off in thought and lost himself in daydreams. Darius didn’t worry about it, as he always came back, but every now and again it was interesting to try and track what’d caught Jory’s fancy. He let his gaze go slightly out of focus, turned toward Jory’s line of sight, and…
 
Ah. There it was. Courting couples. Of which there were plenty, no matter where you went, but especially in MacInnes’s when the beer was flowing and the whiskey bit back. Darius followed Jory’s regard, jumping from pair to pair.
 
First an Omega couple — interesting, you didn’t see that too often — in their, hmm, mid sixties? Yes, and comfortable with each other in a way that said they’d been an odd couple for decades. Nice. From there, a couple of Betas who were plainly just friends, but with a few saucy benefits like the hands tucked in each others’ back pockets. A thirtyish Omega buying a jar of spicy brined pickles for a laughing Alpha who rode him piggyback and kissed his ear, and a widower Darius knew who always drank one Long Island iced tea with a picture of his mate on the table with him.
 
Humanity, in all its infinite variety.
 
And then, something Darius knew Jory would zero in on as special. An Alpha with an Omega on his arm, the two of them so in love it almost rang from the rooftop and echoed in everyone’s ears. Total hearts in their eyes, and eyes only for each other. Young, maybe on the uphill climb to twenty-five, but the Alpha had a toddler on one hip and the Omega’s stomach was proudly curved, maybe six months gone with a second cub. He rested one hand on the swell, an unconscious gesture but one that spoke of pleasure and pride. His Alpha glanced down and wrapped his free arm around the Omega’s shoulders, giving him a cuddle.
 
Darius shook his head, but with a lopsided smile. The whole effect was so sweet it’d give a man diabetes, but he wouldn’t complain too much about it. He glanced at Jory to see that Jory had noticed him in turn. “Busted?”
 
“Nosy,” Jory said, giving his shin a gentle nudge under the table.
 
“Look who’s talking.”
 
“But that’s all right,” Jory continued, undaunted. “You can buy the next round. Again.”
 
Darius snorted. “Anyone ever tell you you’re not a cheap date?”
 
“Every now and again.” Jory checked his watch. “Actually, make it a cup of coffee instead. It’s getting late, and I need to sober up.”
 
“Why? We’ve walked home three sheets to the wind before.”
 
“I have my reasons,” Jory said without further explanation, leaving Darius to wonder what he meant by that. It seemed to be something that made him a little nervous. He pushed his glass back and forth in the circle of condensation it’d left on the table, but didn’t drop any handy clues. “Did you see the couple with one in arms and one on the way?”
 
Darius nodded. Of course he had. Ah. Two plus two came together. “Is that the water fountain kid?”
 
Jory’s smile blossomed, warm and pleased. “It is. He’s adorable, huh? He wants to name his baby brother Mr. Ed.”
 
A swallow of beer almost went down the wrong way. Darius coughed. “He wants to what, now? How does he know Mr. Ed? I don’t even remember where I heard of Mr. Ed.”
 
“No telling.” Jory laughed too. “His parents are just hoping he’ll come around to plain old ‘Corey’ when he’s born.”
 
He fell quiet again, but Darius could tell he was still watching the couple. Darius had to admit they made entertaining viewing. The baby must have been awake, inside. The Omega patted his belly, trying to soothe him, and the Alpha tracked his movements with one palm, fascination written across his face. Little judo master, Darius thought the Alpha said at one point. He winced in imagined empathy, and — the strangest thing — a flicker of jealousy.
 
Jealousy? Darius frowned down at the remnants of his Guinness. He’d been a bachelor since he presented as Alpha, and hadn’t really minded. When he needed company or he went into rut he knew where to find what he needed. Aside from that, it didn’t seem so important. He had Jory, and they kept each other busy. Besides, Jory had decided to stay on military-grade suppressants when he went civilian to keep himself level and lower the risk of getting pregnant by accident, so it’d never been an issue. But now, Darius wondered.
 
No. He knew. He’d seen that look on Omega faces before, and it surprised him to see it on Jory’s, but then again it wasn’t a shock. It looked… natural. Nice. Darius tapped the back of Jory’s hand with one finger. “I see. You’ve been thinking about it.”
 
Jory, still captivated by the scene, raised his shoulder a fraction of an inch. “On and off.” He shook his head and focused, looking back at Darius. “No, that’s a lie of omission. I have been thinking about it. I can’t stop thinking about it. I want that, and I can’t stop wanting it.”
 
“A baby?”
 
“Enough that I stopped taking my suppressants,” Jory said, simple and clear. He settled his hands around his glass. “Three days ago. You know suppressants. They start working fast, and they stop just as fast. Should be gone by the weekend.”
 
Darius blinked. Jory really meant business, then. The thought fascinated him in a way that surprised Darius. The mental image of Jory as round and curved and full as that Omega gave him a jolt like electricity applied deep down inside, something that sparked too much heat to ignore.
 
He stamped that down carefully, tightly, and securely. Darius had never been immune to Jory’s charms. He’d had dreams, fantasies. Wishes. Desires. But he’d refused to let himself take one single step past plain and simple friendship. Nothing that’d start them down the road to a messy breakup. He’d seen it happen before — too many times — when friends hooked up. Hell, he’d encouraged Jory to date other people. He’d been glad that Jory was living with Alpha Whateverhisnamewas when he moved into town so the question of sharing an apartment couldn’t come up.
 
Darius realized he was staring. To cover his reaction, he cleared his throat and hurried on. “Fertile. No kidding. Who’re you going to get to be the father?”
 
“That’s the thing,” Jory said, his gaze fixed calmly on Darius. “I was hoping it would be you.”
 

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Meet the Author

Will Okati (formerly known as Willa) has lived through a few Interesting Times, but come out the other side a little grayer, a little wiser, and ready to get writing. Still as passionate about coffee, cats, and crafts as ever, but knowing that to your own self you must be true. Also still one of the quiet ones to watch out for, but life — like storytelling — is always a work in progress.

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