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…)

In stories from four different wars and four different locales, four different writers honour men who chose to serve their country. Josh Lanyon, Samantha Kane, Victor Banis and George Seaton look at love when lives are at their worst and men are at their best.

This book is dedicated to those gay men who by not telling continue to serve our country with pride and honor. To those gay men who found the strength to tell and the courage to hold their heads high while being discharged in disgrace. To those gay men who have sacrificed their lives to maintain our freedoms while sacrificing their freedom to be heard.

Till we are judged for the honor and strength of our character and not by the prejudice and weakness of others…

I wish you Fair Seas, Following Winds, Safe Harbor & Silent Running.

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One of the best pieces of flying advice Bat got was from his brother Algernon who flew reconnaissance at the start of the war.

“Think down to the gunners,” Algie had said. “Treat it like a game. You’re pitting your skill against theirs. It’s a kind of sport, really. And remember, a chasse machine is rarely brought down by Archie. You’re too fast for them. There are plenty of ways to outfox them. The best pilots are the best sportsmen.” He’d ruffled Bat’s hair, adding grimly, “Or the chaps who learn to stop feeling anything at all.”

At the time Bat couldn’t imagine what he meant. (continue reading…)

Can ghosts influence the living? Can they make a man fall in love? Help him see things in different lights? William Maltese, AM Riley and Lex Valentine weave four tales that pose these questions and answer the question, LOVE ME DEAD?

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Ghost Hunters

Long Beach

AM Riley

“Ri-i-i-i-i-ta! Ri-i-i-i-i-ta!”

The voice echoed, disembodied, in the dark room. My hand tightened on the theater armrest, and something icy cold and damp touched me.

“Ah!”

“You want another beer?” whispered Rick, leaning toward me and touching the back of my hand again with the bottle. (continue reading…)

http://www.amazon.com/Conquest-S-J-Frost/dp/1608200884/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1257997251&sr=1-2
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?ISBSRC=Y&ISBN=9781608200887

Vocally gifted singer, Jesse Alexander, has dreams of taking his band, Conquest, to the top. Evan Arden was thought of as a musical genius when at the height of his career he vanished from the spotlight. Together, their relationship is just as intense as their music careers. With success pushing down on them, Jesse must decide between his life of music, or his life with Evan.

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Chapter One

“Jesse, sweetheart, it’s mom again. I wish you would call me back. I’ve been worried sick about you since last night. Your father, I know he feels horrible about what happened, and I know saying this is just going to get you angrier, but you can’t blame everything that happened on him. You know how his temper is, and you still provoked him by yelling at him and shoving him. If only you wouldn’t push him so hard to accept that you’re…you’re—”

Jesse snapped his cell phone closed to silence his mother’s stammering message before the roiling disgust in his stomach rose to his throat and choked him. He lifted his left hand, gingerly touching his fingertips to the light purple bruise on the left side of his jaw. His father felt horrible? Yeah, right. If there was one thing his father felt horrible about in regards to his two sons, it was that in his father’s opinion, they had fallen so short of being the men he wanted them to be. (continue reading…)

Big Diehl understood his nature, early-on. Raised as a cowkid on a ranch in northeastern Colorado, Diehl yearned for something more, something encompassing the truth of himself. He became a soldier. Served honorably in Iraq. Found precious love along the way. Yearned to return to Wyoming where his future awaited, where an unfinished reckoning beckoned.

This short story also contains a short teaser for the full length novel of the same name at the end.

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Chapter One

Diehl leaned against the wall inside the vintage World War Two wooden barracks, now a gym with free weights, a pull-up bar, an incline bench and two mats at either end of the room. Watched two boys wrestle, a circle of others sitting on the floor or on their knees at the edge of the mat, hollering at the duo to do this or that to the other, flung admonitions framed around the words pussy, wimp. Boys wrestling wore shiny nylon shorts, tennis shoes, flash of jockstraps. (continue reading…)