Title	The Wages of Sin
Author	Alex Beecroft
ISBN#	978-1-60820-125-9 (ebook)
Release Date	January 2010
Paperback:	230 pages
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)

Charles Latham, wastrel younger son of the Earl of Clitheroe, returns home drunk from the theatre to find his father gruesomely dead. He suspects murder. But when the Latham ghosts turn nasty, and Charles finds himself falling in love with the priest brought in to calm them, he has to unearth the skeleton in the family closet before it ends up killing them all.

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Moonlight sucked the colour from damp grass and silvered rising wisps of dew. The deer-park lay dim and still to Charles’ left, receding to a black horizon. To his right, the Latham family chapel loomed dark against the lead-colored sky.

Sultan’s hooves whispered across the verge as Charles rode past the private graveyard’s wrought iron gate and averted his eyes from the white glimmer of Sir Henry’s mausoleum. It was one thing to laugh together over newspaper reports of vampires in Prussia while reclining in the comfortable lewdness of an actor’s garret—lamps blazing, the magic revealed as greasepaint, squalor and hard work—quite another to think of it here, beneath a slice of pewter moon, in a silence so huge it annihilated him.

A fox cried. Sultan snorted, ears flicking. His own heart racing, Charles gentled the horse over the gravel drive that swept up to the white Grecian pillars of the mansion. They turned towards the stable-yard—coach houses, stalls and groom’s quarters arranged about an enclosed square, entered by a short cobbled tunnel beneath the stable-master’s rooms. Both of them balked at the darkness beneath the arch, Sultan sidestepping as Charles dismounted. He wrenched his wrist, landed with a slap and slither loud enough to conceal the footsteps of a thousand walking corpses and stood propped against the horse’s strong shoulder, gathering himself. Sultan’s warm, straw-scented breath spiralled up comfortingly into the pre-dawn sky.

“Easy there, Sultan. Nothing to worry about.”

Thanking God that no one was watching his folly, Charles slung an arm about Sultan’s neck, took the hilt of his sword in the other hand. Emboldened by the feel of it, he urged Sultan forwards, towards his own stall and rest. (continue reading…)

This is the first in Maltese’s m/m “I” SERIES of books that will eventually include I, HUSTLER; I, SATYR; I, VOYEUR; I, MASTER; I, SLAVE; I, CATAMITE… I, DEBAUCHEE takes Maltese fans on a roller-coaster ride into the depths of corruption by intemperance and sensuality as one man is led and, then, leads others, via seduction, on the all-too-easily-taken detour from duty and virtue to homosexual excess and self-indulgence.
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Chapter One

I fucked Mallory von Burel on the large four-poster bed … as I’d fucked him in the basement dark room where I’d chained him to a wall, shackled to a rack, where I’d manacled his arms, head, and legs to a stake … as I’d fucked him in the Main Room of the Lodge with its galleries of stuffed animal heads, so many of them with record-breaking horns, but none as horny as Mallory and I … as I’d fucked him in the manicured parkland, his back and ass cushioned by emerald-green sylvan moss…

He was on his knees, kow-towed so his ass was elevated, his arms wrapping a pillow, his right cheek against the bright orange of a Draqualian-silk sheet. The exquisite overall tan of his body, with the exception of where a small European-style bikini swim suit was worn during more than one sunning session, looked even more impressive against the colorful backdrop. The rest of our covers were thrown back so that I had full view of the exquisite handsomeness of the young man I butt-fucked. The line from his asscrack to the nape of his neck was parenthesized by an intricate interplay of muscle in movement as I pressed my cock deep inside of him and, then, pulled free until only my cock’s corona remained implanted inside the rubber-band moue that was his gumming sphincter.

I firmly gripped his hips, not only to steady him but to exert those slight pulls and pushes that first securely anchored his asshole over my dick, then, slid him almost free of it. Occasionally, my cock fully buried, I let go just long enough to put my handprints to his asscheeks in coordinated slaps that had a way of echoing loudly in the large bedroom. (continue reading…)

Like that’s anything new.

January 17, join James at Kink On Tap the smart sexuality netcast for the kinkily inclined.

Tired of the pulp eroticization of sexuality? Annoyed by the self-aggrandizement of sex bloggers? Want a more thoughtful, heartier, smarter approach to sexuality, society, culture, feminism, and queer activism? These are the droids you’re looking for.  Kink On Tap is more than just a netcast about sexuality; it’s also a community of people for whom intelligent conversations about sexuality and how sexuality relates to other aspects of their lives is a motivating force for Doing Good.

The show will air live on Sunday, January 17, 2010, 8pm Eastern-5pm Central http://live.kinkontap.com/ you can log in, listen and chat in real time during the show.

Murder Above Fourth
Author	J.P. Bowie
ISBN#	978-1-60820-120-4 (ebook)
	978-1-60820-119-8 (print)
Release Date	December 2009
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Paperback:	228 pages

http://www.amazon.com/Murder-Above-Fourth-J-P-Bowie/dp/1608201198/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1261781439&sr=1-2
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/books/e/9781608201198/?itm=2&usri=mlr+press

Nick Fallon always knew there would be a day of reckoning between himself and Harold Forsythe, a millionaire who headed a secret group paying big bucks to watch young men and women have sex-sometimes dangerous sex, that had resulted in the deaths of two young men.

When one of the owners of ‘Above Fourth’, a popular San Diego nightclub, is needlessly murdered, Nick vows to take Forsythe down, but in his determination to see the man behind bars, Nick throws caution to the wind. In a reckless and ultimately dangerous move, he not only puts his own life in jeopardy, but also the future of his relationship with his lover.

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Eric Jamieson looked down the length of the art gallery, at the polished wood floor, at the paintings hanging in neat rows on both walls, at the green fern plants strategically placed here and there among the pieces of sculpture. He swiped a hand over his short brown hair, his light blue eyes gleamed, and he exhaled a long, satisfied breath of completion. Yes, he had done it, given the gallery the facelift he’d promised Peter Brandon, the gallery owner, and all before Peter was due back from his vacation. Actually, he’d been due back this morning, but he’d called to say he and Jeff Stevens, his lover, were running just a tad late and he’d see Eric in the afternoon.

Perfect, Eric had thought, that’d give him time to take lunch over to Nick’s office so they could spend the hour together—something they hadn’t had enough of recently, what with Jeff and Peter away on a two week vacation. Jeff was Nick’s business partner in the investigative business—Stevens and Fallon. Their office was within easy walking distance of the gallery. Eric could be there and back within the space of an hour or so. He picked up his cell phone from the desk at the back of the gallery and speed- dialed Nick’s number.

“Stevens and Fallon, Private Investigations. How can I help you?”

“Hi, Monica, it’s Eric. Is he there?”

“He sure is.” Monica sounded edgy. “And I sure hope you can put him in a better mood than I can. He is Mr. Grump today.”

“Sorry.” Eric knew a bad-tempered Nick could be worse than a threat of weapons of mass destruction—and just as loud. “What’s he mad about?” (continue reading…)

How much heat do two men need to melt so much snow? Stories from three of the hottest gay erotic romance writers in the genre will show you. Feel the heat with William Maltese, Jason Edding and Ethan Day.

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Chapter One

My eyes fluttered open, and the overcast daylight filtering in from the huge picture window slowly came into focus. was looking out over a panorama of snowy mountains dotted with sprouts of green from the evergreens that poked through the white blanket. The small mountain town of Summit City, Colorado, stretched out along the floor of the valley below. The light drizzle of snow was softly floating from sky to ground. I heard rustling coming from behind me and I sat up, realizing I didn’t know where I was.

I lifted my hand to my forehead as the dull, achy-throbbing began – my hangover waking up with me. How much had I had to drink last night? Not that it took much, but damn. I rubbed my temple and cringed as the swimming in my head began to settle. One more thing I blame Phillip for. I looked down, realizing I was naked, and was startled again by the rustling to my side. Slowly turning my head toward the source of the disruption, my eyes widened taking in the wide, expansive muscular back.

I quietly began to scoot toward the edge of the bed and winced from the twinge of pain coming from my backside. What the hell had he fucked me with? Christ on a cracker…my ass felt like it had been reamed, but good. I shook my head and continued to crawl over to the side of the massive bed. Probably another bartender, I thought as I finally made it to the edge. This happened every god damn time I drank. Why couldn’t I just leave a nice tip like a normal person? Honestly, Boone, do you really have to offer up your ass? Are you seriously that cheap? I reached back and rubbed my ass somewhat thankful I had no memory of last night considering it felt like this dude had seriously fucked the hell out of me. (continue reading…)

I know I haven’t been a particularly good boi this year, but I haven’t been a complete asshole either.  So, on the theory that only those who ask get, I have a small Christmas list.

I was wondering if you could cram a couple of more hours into the day.  Between the Evil-Day-Job, the Spawn, eating, sleeping, Dommeing…I really need a few more hours to fit writing in.  Yeah, I’d be trimmer if I cut out the eating part, but then I’d pass out while roaring down the 101, flip the bike and it just wouldn’t be pretty. 

Do you think the elves could develop plot bunny birth control?  I’d like to finish one project before a dozen ideas for other’s are born.  It’s not so much that I mind the overabundance of story lines, it’s just that they tend to mature and hop off somewhere else to find their destiny as card-sharks or pole-dancers before I can catch them. 

Intravenous Caffeine.  You of all people have to understand the glory of the concept. If you can’t add any time to the day at least I could be hyper and amped at later, or earlier, hours.   

Maybe you could manage for all the ultra conservatives to wake up on Christmas morning with the sudden realization that if they put all the energy they use fighting against things like Marriage For All, Inclusive Hate Crime Bills, repeal of exclusion of GLBT in the military and expansive Reproductive Health and Sex Education, into say solving world hunger….shit, can you imagine what they could accomplish?   That’s probably pushing it huh?

Alright, well, then maybe Santa, you might manage to get a few people to just make another person’s day a little brighter with a smile, or by opening a door, or just telling the poor wage-slave behind the Micky-Ds counter, “thanks.”  If we could start there, I’d be happy.

That’s about it.  Don’t bust the elves too hard and maybe get the reindeer a new whip, ‘cause we all know they like that crack across their rumps.  Take care,

Love

James

Two men: one with memories he can’t escape, the other with memories he can’t recapture — both trusting strangers who lie.

Amnesiac Peter Killian, suspected art thief, can’t understand why LAPD detective Michael Griffin takes his memory loss so personally.

American expatriate Jack Stoyles, exiled in a distant Atlantic outpost, is suddenly in love with a stranger who kisses him — and then dies. With good reason Jack calls his place “Heartache Cafe”.

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You wouldn’t think it even gets hot in a place like this, but let me tell you, brother, it does. Around the middle of July, the fog clears away, and the sun comes out, hot enough (as they say around these parts) to split the rocks. It’s a different sort of place, not like anywhere I’d ever been before, but when you have to leave home as suddenly as I did, you don’t much care. You just pick a direction on the map and head out and hope things turn out okay. Twelve hundred miles as the crow flies to St. John’s, Newfoundland, from my hometown of Philadelphia; I slept nearly the whole way, never mind the roaring of the airplane engines. Some things hit harder than others, and I’d been dealt a knockout punch.

When we landed at the airstrip in this little town called Torbay, I felt like I’d come to the end of the world. Nothing much to see except trees, black spruce and tamarack and scrub pines, and the red gravel airstrip. I got out of my seat and climbed down, stiff and sore, feeling like I’d been run down by a truck. I guess I was still in shock a little bit. The air was colder than I was used to; even Philadelphia winters don’t have this kind of soggy bite. All I wanted was to get inside the little terminal and maybe get a cup of coffee. I had five hundred bucks, American, in my wallet, a passport and a copy of my discharge papers from the army. I guess I should have felt ashamed, because here was Hitler stomping his jackbooted way across Europe, and there was nothing I could do about it. Unfit for active service. Yeah, that’s me — thirty-eight years old and already broken beyond repair.

This — all of this — was a blur to me. I was seeing other streets and hearing a different accent, and I was remembering walking into Moe’s first thing in the morning for a cup of joe, sitting down at the counter to look over the newspaper before I went outside and took a sharp left toward the waterfront. Maybe that’s what drew me to this place: the promise of cold salt air and the tang of the sea in my nostrils, the bustle of the waterfront, and ships coming and going at all hours of the day and night. I loved the idea that I could do the same, just go whenever I wanted to, anywhere I liked in the world, and not have to answer to anybody. If I felt like it, I could hop a freighter to some other place and work my way across the world. It was something Moe and I had talked a lot about whenever I was in there. You thinking of going somewhere? He’d always refill my coffee cup without my having to ask, and I’d always leave a tip. Thinking of leaving old Philly, huh? Right up until the last, I wasn’t sure. Even after it happened, I figured I could just keep on the way I was, doing all the things that I’d been doing. I figured I was strong enough to take it, right up until I stood on the Delaware River Bridge one morning, looking down into the swirling water and wondering if I had the nerve.

You want to know what stopped me? (continue reading…)