Monday, January 30, 2012

Kharaisma Rhayne: Bound by Temptation

Welcome to my guest Kharisma Rhayne! She is one busy lady. She is here today to share her thoughts on a sexy pastime and share one of her latest projects. BTW...this site is full of DWS Photography, so read Kharisma's guest blog and feel free to look around!

Thanks so much for having me here today, Laura :D

So, how about we talk about D.W. Skinner’s favorite sport? Voyeurism. Now, of course, I had to mention him right at the start. It was his topic suggestion, so let’s hope that I can do it some justice. I’ve only written about it once before. (By the way, if you didn’t know, he does some really wonderful photography and you should check it out.)

I sat here for a good long while and tried to decide what direction to take this post. Should I write an enticing scene and simply demonstrate it? I may, but first, since the topic gives me the opportunity to discuss it, let’s start in a different direction.

I’m going to be more honest on this topic than I’ve ever been. I’m a straight female and one of the genres I write in happens to be male/male. I often get asked why a woman would write gay stories. I mean, shouldn’t I only write m/f and things that I’ve done? Well, first off – really? Do you think the person writing about Vampires has met one? Lives next door to one? Has had dinner with one? Has slept with one? What about the Scottish Highlander from 1779? Or the Viking? Ok, so, we’ll just ignore that question.

On to the other question. While, of course, I can’t answer the reason for every female that writes in this genre, I can speak for myself. I am speaking for NO ONE but me.

Why do I write male/male fiction? I love men. I love their abs, their ass, their back muscles, their eyes. My favorite part? Well, what do you think? The part that makes them a man. It’s all, in the end, about the cock. No matter how you get there, it’s all about it.

I love being with men. That’s a given. However, I love the concept of watching two men. Have I done it in person? No. Would I if given the opportunity? Definitely.

Two men together are absolutely beautiful. They know what to do; they’re familiar with the “lay out” and the needs. Women, we guess at it all and wait for direction (well, if we’re smart we get the direction and learn what our man wants). Not only is it a turn on to watch them, you also get ideas of what you can be doing with your man later.

I think it’s another reason I’ve always found bisexual men interesting. I’m envious of those women that have gotten to watch two men and then afterward get their relief from the one that likes both men and women.

The last time I wrote on Voyeurism the big deal was the embarrassment. What if they knew I was watching? Some people enjoy that. Knowing someone is watching you can be pleasurable as well. It just depends on what works for you.

Isn’t that the concept of reading a book? While you aren’t reading about real people, you are peeking into another experience. It’s one that the author has created for you with their fictional characters. You picture the scenes in your mind. Based on that, I feel we all have a bit of voyeur in us. ;)

With that, take a look below at an excerpt (as well as other details) on my latest m/m erotic short, Bound by Temptation Book 1: Nigel & Lance. Think about actually standing in the room with them, maybe hidden partially by a wall. Watch them. See what I’m telling you in the scene. Try on your voyeur.
I can be found at: My BlogKharisma Rhayne BooksTwitter and on Facebook HERE & HERE


Nigel is a professional sports player with a wonderful boyfriend at home. Their sex is always hot and Lance is always willing to do whatever it takes to keep Nigel happy. But, what has Nigel been hiding?


As much as Lance tried not to respond, he knew fighting it was useless. Every time Nigel touched him his mind turned into mush and his cock got hard. He quit thinking and could only feel Nigel’s hands on his ass, knowing what was coming.

Giving in, he pushed himself against Nigel, feeling his arousal against his own. He heard a gasp as Nigel leaned over and brushed his lips against his. Realizing it was him that made the sound he knew, without a doubt, their conversation was over.

As Nigel felt Lance’s body relax, he knew they could enjoy the rest of their day. The conversation was over for now and they could enjoy each other.

It felt like forever had passed since they were in each other’s arms last night. Surprisingly, the longer they were together, nothing ever got old. Everything stayed new. Nigel desired Lance as much now as he did the first day they met.

Reaching to the back of his shirt, Nigel pulled it over his head and let it fall to the floor.
Instantly Lance latched onto a pierced nipple with his mouth. He loved Nigel’s bad boy look, the long hair, the pierced nipples and cock, the tattoos. It’s what made Nigel stand out. He had first been attracted to Nigel when he saw the huge dragon tattoo spanning across his back. Well, the muscles didn’t hurt either.

He ran his hand down Nigel’s muscular abs and heard him moan as his hand grazed the top of his cock barely sticking out of the top of the low slung waist. Urged on by the sound, Lance unfastened Nigel’s jeans, pulling them down as he dropped to his knees in front of him.

There was already a drop of precum glistening from the head. Game days were always great sex days. Nigel was overly stimulated and easily aroused.

Looking up at him, Lance licked the drop from Nigel’s rod and worked his hand up and down it.

Impatiently, Nigel grabbed the back of his head and pushed Lance’s mouth onto his cock, wanting him to take it deep. Thankfully, Lance willingly complied; Nigel was not in the mood to play games today. He was the warrior home from battle, needing an outlet for his energies, and Lance always built him up even further before bringing him down into a peaceful oblivion.

Nigel’s legs started to tremble as Lance sucked his cock and played with his balls.

Lance pulled away and stood up when he sensed standing was becoming a challenge for Nigel. He grabbed Nigel’s hand and led him into the dining room.

“We haven’t done it in this room yet. I want you to take me bent over the table,” Lance said in reply to the questioning look on his lover’s face.

Nigel strokes his own cock. It was clear that this first round was not going to be full of love and foreplay. He wanted Lance and he wanted him now.

“Take off your clothes and bend over the table.” Nigel knew his voice left no room for options.

Lance obeyed as he continued to watch Nigel stroke his cock. He walked over to the corner of the table, in front of his badass football player; spread his legs wide, and bent over the table.

Nigel let out a gush. “Like the view?” Lance couldn’t help but to ask.

You can pick up Nigel & Lance at the following locations:

You can also stay up to date on giveaways & book releases by following my blog: HERE

Sunday, January 29, 2012

Sunday Slice with Angel Martinez

One question writers are asked most frequently is where they get their ideas. Often, a writer may not know the exact answer. Other times the blame is solely on the voices we hear in our heads. Sometimes though, we see or hear something, and it so big, so wonderful, or so...disturbing, that the telling of the story is almost like self-defense. The story must be told.
Come read, as the divine Angel Martinez tells how she was inspired to write Aftermath.

It was a few years ago that a callous and idiotic comment on the radio prompted a story. The program, and I’ve no idea which program at this remove, concerned the suspected underreported statistics for the crime of rape. The point was made that nearly 10% of all rape victims are male, while only 3% of these crimes are reported.

Some moronic caller had the gall to say, “Well, if it’s a guy, and he’s gay, it’s not really rape, is it?”

Um, yeah. Jackass.

But this was the birth of Aftermath, the story of a couple’s struggle to cope with the consequences of such personal and destructive violence. First published in March of 2007, this was certainly not my first published work but it was my first under Angel, my first M/M romance.

This is the third edition, and I couldn’t be more pleased. New scenes, the resolution of certain nagging authorial issues, I can’t thank the helpful and patient folks at Romance First enough. We’re glad to be back, Vic, Cody and me. Feels like coming home.



Victor and Cody have the American dream—a house, two cars, upwardly mobile income, and each other—but all is not well in paradise. Cody's naïve belief in other people's goodwill led to a recent assault from which he struggles to recover. Returning to his art, he seems to find his balance, only to be betrayed by a friend and brutally assaulted again.

Victor, wracked by guilt and shackled to a grueling, time-devouring career, must find a way to help Cody back from the darkness and to keep him safe from his self-destructive behavior. With the help of a common-sense therapist, some loyal friends, and Cody's own impetuous nature, their recovery and their relationship have a chance. If the criminals who attacked Cody will only leave him alone, that is.


Vic slid into a pair of sweats and wandered downstairs where earnest noises of metal on metal drifted out of Cody's studio. Victor chuckled and shook his head. When the muse took Cody, he had to go to it. In the middle of dinner, at three in the morning, right after lovemaking. Vic didn't mind. This was what Cody did. To love Cody was to love his manic ecstasies of creation.

Understanding Cody's art was a different matter. He sculpted in metal and "found objects."

"You mean junk?" The first time inside one of Cody's studios, Victor had scratched his head at the pile of oddments Cody pointed to as his materials.

Cody's smile held all the enthusiasm of a little boy with his first bike. He nodded vigorously. "Yes, sometimes junk. Junk is a terrific resource. But sometimes things you have around, or see in an antique shop or a dime store, or the grocery store. Sometimes a thing you've had around for years and suddenly you take it apart and it's something completely different."

Only five years ago, but it seemed another universe, shivering in the pervasive cold of Cody's first studio, dimly lit and damp, with the ever-present audience of spiders and cockroaches.

Victor started coffee and bagels, took his shower, shaved and dressed, then gathered mugs and plates to take to the present studio. It was clean and bright, built to Cody's specifications. He shoved the door open and watched, lost in admiration.

In cutoffs, work boots, and a heavy, fireproof apron, Cody hammered away at a glowing piece of iron, forcing it to curl and conform to his vision. The light from his furnace painted his pale skin orange and gold, dancing in his hair as if it too were living flame. A miniature Vulcan at his forge, caught in the throes of creative imperative.

When Cody stopped to thrust the iron into a bucket of cold water, Vic cleared his throat. "Can you stop for breakfast, Michelangelo?"

For a heartbeat, those blue eyes stared at him without recognition. Victor waited. Sometimes Cody took a moment to return from his art. "Hey, baby." He finally broke into a huge grin. "Thank you, so thoughtful. Could you set it down for me? You off?"

"Have to be in for nine, yeah." Victor nodded, putting the coffee and cream cheese and jelly bagel down on the table by the door, out of the line of fire. "Listen, sweetheart, I'll probably be late again—"

"Aw, Vic, it's Friday," Cody interrupted mournfully.

"I know, little man, I'm sorry. That presentation to the board is tomorrow. God only knows why they have a board meeting on the weekend. But I've got to have everything ready and half the departments don't even have their data to me yet."

Cody let out a slow breath. "All right. You'll call me when you're coming home?"

Resting one butt cheek on the table, Victor sipped his coffee to give himself a moment. "Cody... I don't want you to feel like you're trapped here. What you said last night, it really got to me. If you go out, would you do me two favors?"

"Anything for you, sugar daddy." Cody chuckled. "Don't you wanna come out, too? Give me a call on the cell and come meet me?"

"Not tonight. Sorry, love." Vic shook his head. "Don't think I'm feeling up to it. Try to come home at a decent hour, all right?"

"Define decent." Cody's grin turned wicked.

"I'm serious here, little man. Before one, one-thirty, if you can manage it. And don't, please, don't go out alone."

Cody rolled his eyes. "Okay, Mom. And I know, I know. No Jonathan."

"Just make me happy. Find someone who'll watch out for you a little. Friends make sure their friends get home safe." Vic advised softly, hoping the message would slide in without throwing off Cody's good mood.

It was such a relief to see him in the studio again. After that one awful night, he’d been sliding between depression and wild bouts of self-destructive behavior. Vic hoped this was the end of the dark time. No more coming home to Cody passed out in a ruin of beer bottles, or not coming home until dawn, or simply sitting on the sofa staring at the wall, or refusing to eat for days.

For a long anxious moment, Cody chewed on his bottom lip, dark shadows wavering in his eyes. "Maybe I'll call Kurt n' Wyatt." He nodded. "Haven't seen them in, oh, God, ages."

Satisfied, Victor stood and gathered up his jacket. "Good idea. I'll see you tonight, sweetheart."

"Hey!" Cody's angry yell stopped him in the doorway. "You forget something?"

Victor looked down at himself, wondering if he'd forgotten his pants or his shoes. Nope, all there. In confusion, his gaze went to Cody and the hurt in those eyes jarred his memory. "Oh, chrissakes... I'm sorry..."

He put the jacket down, went to Cody, and took his sweet face between his hands. Victor tilted Cody's head up slowly and bent with a soft growl to capture Cody's lips, so soft and firm, in a deep, exploring kiss. "Better?" he breathed against Cody's mouth.

Cody's eyes were closed, his expression one of beatific joy. "Oh, man... yeah..."

"Have a good day, little man. Don't forget your breakfast." Victor waved on his way out. Despite the aching feeling of an oncoming cold, he felt better than he had in weeks.


Angel Martinez lives part time in the hectic suburban sprawl of northern Delaware and full time inside her head. When not at her evil day job, and not writing, she’s most likely talking to her cats or enthusing over the latest bird to grace the backyard. Sometimes accused of having a wicked sense of humor, Angel is still surprised when people laugh.

Where’s Angel on the net?





Where’s Angel’s stuff?

At Amber Allure:

Silver Publishing:

Romance First:

Thanks for having us, Laura, me and all my imaginary friends!

Friday, January 27, 2012

Special Guest: Remmy Duchenne!

What a way to start the weekend!  Let me give a very special welcome to the incomparable Remmy Duchenne! One of the most delicious people I know...

Hey everyone! I am so happy to be here! I will try to be on my best behaviour *fingers crossed behind back* I hope your new year has been going swimmingly so far and will continue to be a delight for you throughout! 
Today I wish to speak about my newest release, SONS OF EROS 1: Savaro's Honey Buns. This series is a series of novellas, following three brothers as they find love. But they just don't want any love--they want loves that can save them, make them feel safe and secure. They want the kind of love we are all looking for.  Also, I wanted these stories to be on the lighter side of things--the flirtier, happier, hipper side--this is not to say there aren't any sad bits.

All his life, people have been leaving Savaro Anatolis; his parents left while he was at school never to be seen again and lovers only wants him for his money. The only people he can count on, are his brothers. After he finish his training to become a chef, he opens his own diner in the medium size town of Eros. When sexy pro-Basket ball player Jamal Kendrick walks in and demanded to try his honey cakes--Savario knows he has to keep this sexy morsel at arms length or Jamal will break his heart.

Jamal Kendrick wants out of the spotlight for a while--he want to go somewhere, where he can at least pretend to be normal. But he didn't prepare for Savaro, his two brothers and fighting demons from Savaro's past. Is love strong enough to save Savaro, or is their relationship doom from the start?

Leaving the office, Savaro closed the door behind him and walked on trembling knees down the long corridor. He couldn't believe what he'd just done. But it was for the best. It had to be for the best. A naked little girl darted by him and Antoinette, one of the Care Workers, chased after her. Normally, Savaro would stop and scoop her into his arms so Antoinette could get some clothes on her but this time, he didn't so much as look back. Antoinette bounced into him and that didn't make him look up either. Walking around a caution, wet floor sign, he climbed the stairs instead of using the elevator for he knew it would only make his day worse. The elevator was over sixteen years old and always got stuck between floors.

Finally he reached the second floor and turned down another hall. Savaro walked into the room where his brothers sat silently and fell, like a full sack, on the bed between Laird and Rajan. He clasped his hands, pressing them nervously between his knees, and hung his head. His whole body was numb to everything around him but the thudding of his heart. It was so loud he wondered if he'd ever be able to hear again.

At sixteen years old the world was on his shoulders but he knew one thing for certain: he had to be loyal to his brothers. They were the only thing, the only thing of any value he had in the whole world and he just couldn't betray that. His eyes burnt with tears but he bit down on his lower lip to focus on another pain than what throbbed in his chest.

"How'd it go?" Laird asked after an eternity of silence.

"It didn't," Savaro said simply, praying they would just let it go.

"But he was really interested in adopting you," Rajan spoke up. "He's rich--you saw the suit he was wearing. I think it was Armani."

Savaro pushed from the seat and walked to the window with the bars on it. The place was like a jail so why hadn't he taken the chance to get out? There were some kids playing outside on the monkey bars. He glanced at the sky and made a face. The clouds were dark and the sun was gone. It was going to rain.

"Come on, Sav," Laird pushed. "There's something you're not telling us."

"Just let it go!"

"Jesus, Sav," Rajan spoke up. "What's the matter with you? We just want to know why he didn't take you. He was actually interested; I could tell. He had that look about him."

"He did want me all right?" Savaro stared out until the rain began pouring from the sky and all the kids ran, screaming back into the orphanage. "He told me of all the good schools I'd go to--my life if I went with him. It was amazing."

"Then I might be a little slow because I don't understand. Why are you back in here?" Laird grabbed Savaro's shoulder and tugged. Savaro flew around and his back slammed into the wall. "Why aren't you gone?"

"I couldn't leave you guys!" Savaro snapped, tears spilling down his cheeks. "I couldn't leave you and he wouldn't take you two so I told him to find another son."

"You idiot!" Rajan screamed from where he was. "You could have gotten a home--left all of this behind you."

"Could you have walked away from Laird and me?" Savaro demanded. He then turned his eyes to Laird. "Could you?"

Laird released him and walked back to the bed. He slumped to it and buried his face into his hands. Rajan went silent and Savaro knew the answer. He turned again to the window and pressed his forehead to the bar. "You guys are my brothers… you are family and you don't split up family."

Now Available at Silver Publishing

Thanks for having me! Please visit my links below: - The Peeping Hole Blog - my website


Thursday, January 26, 2012

No Need to Beg for Mercy!

Welcome to my friend, Mercy Celeste. We're having a bit of a hurricane party here, so grab yourself a nice glass of your favorite beverage and join up for a bit.

First I must thank Laura for having me on today. I just hope she knows what she’s in for, letting me loose on all of her unsuspecting fans and friends. It’s like giving to keys to the nuthouse to the head nut.

Hi, my name is Mercy and if you don’t know me then what rock have you been hiding under? Seriously, I’m a writer, and I write romance with an erotic slant. Because slanted is usually the best position, or bent, bent is always a good one too. I’m pretty flexible, I write both gay and het erotic romance. Some ménage. I do love me some all male ménage. Just wait a couple months and you’ll see why.

So far, I’m pretty new. My first book as Mercy Celeste just celebrated its first anniversary and I have four titles currently available. One het ménage, one het football, oh yeah, the ménage is football related too. And two gay or if you prefer M/M. I prefer gay but that’s just me.

Today, I’m releasing my fifth title, which was actually my second, but that’s a really long and involved story best left for another time. The 51st Thursday. In short it’s two hot men trapped together during a hurricane and all the fun they can get into in one night. Just a short story but I packed it full of heat. Dirty indoor basketball anyone?

I set the book in my current home town, and based on my extensive hurricane experience, I always wanted to write something completely different from my reality of those long hours waiting out the storm, not knowing if you’re far enough inland, or if the tree outside might stay planted through the night. That sort of thing.

I grew up in Florida and have never lived more than an hour from the Gulf of Mexico, hurricanes are a way of life down here. The price of living in paradise. Of course, I thought that was the alligators and the mosquitos but what do I know? I’ll tell you one thing, I’d much rather ride out a hurricane than open up the back door to find a full grown gator looking at me. Hurricanes don’t have teeth.

Are you still with me? Aw, aren’t you brave, remember that thing about the head nut? Waves hi.

The 51st Thursday by Mercy Celeste should, with any luck release today exclusively at Amazon and All-Romance ebooks. Check in periodically to see if I have somehow managed not to destroy my computer while formatting and uploading. And while you’re there, check out my other books.

So, Laura, it’s been nice, I had fun, I think she’s run away. Thanks for hanging out with me, I hope you didn’t run away too. And if Laura ever invites me back, until next time.


If you’re in the mood, you’re welcome to drop in and visit me here just be warned I post random blogs about the strangest things, some Torchwood fan fiction oh and did I mention the men. Lots of hot men. Fridays are especially lovely.

 Shelby Bainbridge, former championship winning quarterback and son of an Alabama Senator with presidential aspirations, lost everything one Thursday night fifty-two weeks ago. Lost, alone, battered, and broken Shelby finds comfort in the local bar called Deacon’s Place. Week after week, he finds himself drawn to Deacon’s for the beer, for the atmosphere, for the solace and for Deacon himself.

Deacon can no longer deny the desire he feels for the man he calls Thursday. When Deacon wants something Deacon is a hard man to resist. The problem is, Deacon never planned to lose his heart. Especially to a man who could be destroyed by an unexpected night of forbidden passion.


Chapter One

Outside, the storm clouds swirled ominously against a pewter gray sky. Inside, the five flat-screen televisions mounted on various walls were tuned to each of the local stations offering nonstop coverage as Hurricane Sally loomed in the Gulf of Mexico.

A Category Four, Sally was due to make landfall sometime after midnight and Deacon’s bar in downtown Mobile was right smack-dab in the crosshairs of the predicted path. That was the bad news. The good news was it was a small, fast-moving storm and it was only five in the afternoon. Plenty of time to batten down the hatches, as they say.
Deacon’s Place was Joe Deacon’s now, his daddy’s before him, and his daddy’s before him. Located in a pre-World War Uno era five-story brick edifice in the old part of town, Deacon’s had survived countless storms, including the monsters Ivan, Katrina, and Frederick.

Joe—or just Deacon as he was called by friend and foe alike—enjoyed the impromptu hurricane party going on around him, though the crowd was smaller than the one for Ivan had been. Once bitten and all that jazz, most people knew enough to get the hell out of Dodge, or at least stay their asses home and hope the old girl took a jagged turn in a different direction. However, the patrons who braved the squalls already coming ashore weren’t most people, as evidenced by their choice of dress.

Of course, it being the day before Halloween could account for the costumes or in one girl’s case the lack thereof, but hey, if she thought she was Lady Godiva then more power to her. As long as she kept the wig draped in the right places Deacon wouldn’t say a thing.
The light outside began to grow dimmer and Deacon glanced at the clock and then the open doorway where he watched rain pelt the street. Disappointment formed a deep well in his chest.

Of course, Mr. Thursday Night would be one of those people with enough sense to stay in out of the rain. Nevertheless, Deacon had hoped he would come in for a moment at the very least, but with each newcomer that hope was beginning to dwindle.

Trying to keep his mind on his business and not the door, Deacon stood mindlessly wiping the counter as he watched television. In particular, the red crawl at the bottom of the screen that issued the curfew warning. The new data streamed across the screen followed by the updated curfew of nine o’clock when all business in the greater Mobile area must close their doors.

Deacon tried to ignore the little spark of hope that twirled in the pit of his belly. Thursday could still come in. There were still three hours left until he had to close the place down. Three hours were an awful long time in which anything could happen. Realizing he was behaving like a fool, Deacon tossed the bar cloth into the sink. He was a fool. A fool waiting for someone he really didn’t even know to walk through his door.

Hell, he didn’t know Thursday’s real name. He didn’t really care, he told himself. Why should he care what Thursday’s real name was when he’d had fifty Thursdays to ask him? Why had he counted the damned days anyway, Deacon wondered, shaking his head at his own foolishness.

Try as he might, Deacon couldn’t help remembering that night fifty-one Thursdays ago. The night Thursday had rolled in, or rather staggered in as if he was on a weeklong drunk. Deacon hadn’t wanted to serve him anything until he proved he wasn’t drunk. Banged up and argumentative, yes; drunk, no; looking to rectify that situation, hell yeah. He was probably about the same height as Deacon, which was just an inch less than six feet. Not as broad across the shoulders but nicely made just the same. His eyes were sort of a green-brown color that defied explanation, his hair sandy brown. Incredibly pale, he looked as if the slightest breeze would knock him over. He was bruised, battered, and broken in more ways than Deacon could see from this side of the bar.

He’d asked for a beer. Deacon poured him one, he didn’t say anything else. After the third, he paid his tab and stumbled out into the dark. Deacon could see the cast on his leg as he left. A stab of something pierced Deacon’s thick skin that night, sympathy maybe.

He came every Thursday after that, earning him his name. Deacon was never sure what drew him, but he came at the same time, taking the same seat at the bar and ordering the same three beers before heading back out into the dark. Sometimes he came dressed in jeans, other times in business attire, but always in an oxford cloth shirt, usually white, sometimes blue. Deacon started noticing his clothes sometime in January. He didn’t usually notice his male patrons or their attire, he tried to keep his personal life as far away from the job as possible, but Thursday wore his in a way that made Deacon want to look.

Then in May, something changed and Thursday came for more than just the quiet spot at the bar and a few beers. He joined in a game of pool, which was just fine. Deacon enjoyed looking at his ass across the room as he leaned over the table to make the shot. He still didn’t say much. Then he left with one of Deacon’s waitresses.

The next visit, Deacon had to remove him and a couple of wannabe bikers to the parking lot. Thursday gave ‘em hell before Deacon picked him up off the pavement and put him a cab telling the driver to take him home. After that, Thursday kept his temper, except when he lost it. And when he did, it was a magnificent temper to behold. In June, Deacon noticed a pattern where Thursday was concerned. Woman, fight, brood alone in angry silence, rinse, and repeat.

That’s when he started wondering what made the man tick. Why just Thursdays? What was so special about Thursday? Why the reckless behavior? He was obviously well schooled and he wore expensive clothes and an air of authority when he was dressed in his Sunday go-to-meeting best. The blue tie with a discreet gold letter A tie tack. The choirboy haircut he wore at first became a thing of the past in May, and as of last Thursday, his hair just touched his collar, falling in soft waves that he constantly pushed out of his eyes.

Dark began to creep in the door, and Deacon gave up watching. He wouldn’t show. He’d gone farther inland. He would be safe, sitting in some other bar on a Thursday night. The fifty-first Thursday night. At the top of the hour, he turned up the volume on the closest television to catch the latest update on the projected path. Old Sally was hell bent and determined to take a trip straight up Mobile Bay.

Shit, it was going to be a long night.

In an hour or so, he’d do last call and send the brave souls out to seek shelter elsewhere. There was still work to be done before the old girl turned the street outside into a raging river.

At seven, the weathergirl started looking nervous. She was new to the area and this was her first hurricane, or so she said. Deacon looked around the tap room noting that most of the costumed customers had gone home. Only a few die-hard drinkers were left. Maybe he’d go ahead and call it a night, he thought; close up early so that he could finish the battening down the hatches portion of the program. He glanced outside at the rain falling heavily now, while he watched a yellow cab drove slowly past, stopping just out of Deacon’s line of vision. A door slammed and Deacon felt a tug of anticipation. Maybe. Irritated, he told himself to stop being a fool; the cab was just driving slowly because of the wet streets. Thursday wouldn’t walk through the door. Not tonight.

Then Thursday stepped inside, just as he had every week at the same time for the past year. He paused in the doorway to take in the place before taking the same seat at the bar. Tonight he was dressed in a pair of faded and ripped jeans, a blue button-down collar oxford shirt, slightly wrinkled and half-buttoned to expose a white tank undershirt and a pair of beat-up Top-Siders. His hair was wet from the rain; he ran his hand through the unruly mess pushing it back from his face.

Deacon nodded just as he did every Thursday night and pulled him a glass of the only beer he had on tap. “I’m closing in an hour.”

“Yeah, okay, thanks.” Thursday rapped his knuckles on the bar beside the beer and looked everywhere but at Deacon.

Satisfied, Deacon walked away to put another box in the storeroom while trying to ignore the strange sensations churning in the pit of his stomach.

Laura here...sneaking back in to recommend two other great  books from Mercy:

In From the Cold

Behind Iron Lace

See you all tomorrow with the delightfully bitable Remmy Duchene! 

Sunday, January 22, 2012

Special Guest Lisa Worrall

Welcome! I have a very special guest today. My good friend and writing partner Lisa Worrall has come to call!

Thank you to Laura for inviting me on Pen Is Envy today.

I was wondering what to say to you all, past doing a promo for my new release, THIRST.  Then it dawned on me… I’m on Laura’s blog and so what better to talk about than writing with a partner?

If you’d have told me eighteen months ago that I would not only be writing, but would be published, and not only that, but people would like it!  I’d have laughed in your face and pressed speed dial for the men in white coats. 

Then, if you would have said, hang on, Lisa, you will also meet fellow writers, one of which will not only become your writing partner on a series of novels, but also one of your closest friends… I wouldn’t have even bothered ringing the men in white coats… I’d have just driven you to the loony bin myself.

Apparently all the above is actually happening… so isn’t my face red!

The lovely Laura came to me and suggested that we write something together.  I was excited and we bounced off each other really well.  So well, that we ended up with a four book series involving a cowboy detective from Phoenix and a suave, upper-class inspector from Scotland Yard. 

Writing with a partner is challenging, exciting and lots of fun.  Ironing out the plot points, throwing ideas into the pot and creating two characters who gell has been uplifting, especially when you find someone who is on the same wavelength as you, just gets the creative juices flowing—in a purely platonic fashion, obviously. 

It’s been a hell of a ride and looks to set to pick up speed and I don’t know about you, but I’m just gonna hold on for the ride and take in as much of the scenery as I can, for as long as it lasts.
And for those of you are interested in tucking yourself in with a copy of Thirst… here is a little snippet to whet your appetite…


Detective Max Bowman is hunting a serial killer terrorizing the city, who leaves victims drained of blood. No fingerprints, no clues, no ideas. Only a mysterious inscription carved into each body.

Frustrated with the lack of progress, Max takes a break in a local pub.  Attacked by the attractive man buying him drinks, he is left for dead in the alley behind the bar.

Waking up in Carter Gray's bed was the last thing he expected.  Who was this mysterious man?  What was his dark secret?  Why does he make Max tremble with anticipation every time their eyes meet?

It becomes apparent that Carter is the only one with the 'expertise' to help him find the killer.  But is his attraction to Carter clouding his judgment and is he refusing to acknowledge that the killer may well be Carter himself?


Pain, lots of pain. Max tried to force his eyes open, but only one would comply; the other already swollen shut from the impact of a closed fist. He wasn't sure how long he'd been lying in the alley behind the bar. He dimly remembered a tall blond man with piercing blue eyes who introduced himself as Tony, or it might have been Tommy, buying him a beer, followed by way too many shots, he'd stopped counting after the fourth; remembered laughing and joking with him, flirting and being flirted with in return. Nothing seemed out of place. Nothing that was until the man suggested they go somewhere quieter.
Instead of heading out into the brightly lit street, Max had found himself being jostled from both sides into the alley behind the bar. The blond held onto him on his left and from nowhere a dark haired man grabbed his right arm. Too late Max realized that everything was out of place, just as the blond man's fist connected with his face and his knee with Max's groin.
The two of them punched and kicked him, and all he could do was curl in on himself on the ground and hope he could minimize the damage. He didn't want to think too much about the sharp snap he heard when a hard boot connected with his ribs, nor the meaty sounds of flesh upon flesh. Max was assaulted by a wave of dizziness and he felt darkness reach out to engulf him in its warm embrace, but he mentally shook his head and stubbornly refused to let it claim him. He felt hands grabbing at his keys and his wallet and then more pain as a boot connected with the muscle in the left cheek of his ass. His head was pulled back by a vicious hand twisting in his chestnut-colored hair, his glassy brown gaze locking onto piercing blue as the word "Fag" was spat at him and his head was slammed back down on the dirt.
Max heard their retreating footsteps and he tried to lift his head, the pain in his side causing a cry to fall from his lips at the movement. He coughed and cringed as he saw dark splatters of blood hit the ground. Wiping the back of a shaky hand across his lips, he stared at the stain of red on his skin. He stumbled to his knees, trying to use the wall beside him to pull himself up. His legs buckled, and he crashed back to the ground, a deep groan wrenched from him as he fell. Suddenly, he felt two strong arms, one around his shoulders and one under his knees, lifting him as if he weighed no more than a small child. His head lolled to the side, coming to rest on a firm shoulder and he had a glimpse of jade green eyes looking down into his as the dark claimed him once more.
* * * *
Carter pulled open the door of his black 1968 Ford Mustang and eased his ward carefully into shotgun, slowly reclining the seat to make the position more comfortable. Taking off his heavy woolen coat, he rolled it and slipped it behind the man's head to prop up the semi-conscious man. He gazed down at the battered face he had been watching all night from his dark corner of the bar, aware how beautiful it was underneath the swelling and bruising. The man's name was Max that much he knew, because he had heard him introduce himself to his assailant. He frowned, furious with himself that he had realized too late the blond twink and his accomplice's plans for the young man. If he hadn't been distracted, if he hadn't been so thirsty…
Carter slid behind the wheel, his green eyes glittering in the muted glow from the dome light as he closed the door behind him. A small smile lifted his lips as he headed his car toward home. The two men who had robbed and beaten Max and left him for dead had already paid for what they'd done. Glancing into his rear-view mirror, he parted his lips and ran his tongue down his elongated incisors.
They wouldn't be hurting anyone ever again, and he wasn't thirsty anymore.


I was born in Romford, Essex, but am now living in Leigh on Sea, ten minutes away from the seaside town of Southend on Sea, which boasts the longest pier in the world.  My claim to fame!  I am having a total ball creating stories for the characters clamoring in my head for attention. And I am totally amazed by the support they've received and hope to give them voice for as long as people want to hear what they have to say.

On a personal note, I am the single mother of two children, aged eight and six, which makes for some interesting conversations, which sometimes end up in my stories!  As if that wasn't enough to make me prematurely gray, we also have acquired a puppy called Winnie, named after my biggest vice... the Winchester brothers in Supernatural.

Facebook:  Lisa Worrall Author

Twitter:  Lisa_Worrall


Friday, January 20, 2012

Boys Just Wanna Have Fun! (NSFW/MM)

A special thank you to DSW Photography for sharing the photos this week and for ALL the photos on this blog.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

DWS Photography: Every Picture Tells a Story (NSFW, MM)

As Rod Stewart would say, every picture tells a story. With DWS, the stories unfold far beyond the initial "first look." The nuance of expression, the line of body against body, the shadows and light, all come together to tell of intimacy and passion. These photographs pulled me in, told me a story...took me from the first "Whatcha gonna do about?" moment to the good-bye that said this was so much more than either expected.


Come back tomorrow, because boys just wanna have fun...