The Beast Of Bodmin Moor


I’m sorry there has been such a barren patch on the writing front. I think my head imploded and refused point blank to do anything useful whatsoever.

Last week, while reading the wonderful Legendary Loves 2, I remembered a story I’d written many moons ago and went for a rummage to see if it was worth dusting off. Since then I’ve edited/rewritten a fair chunk & wanted to post it in serial form as a Halloween offering of sorts…


Two years ago Jake McCain met an irresistible stranger at the Glastonbury festival. A few days later his life, as he knew it, was over.  Enter Jack. The ‘two’ of them have…cohabited ever since. Much to Jack’s dismay, Jake shows no sign of relenting in his bid to be the most bloody minded human a jackal ever had the misfortune to manage.

Phin Finley has set off on a magical mystery campervan tour of south-west England. Having flown the family nest for the first time, he is determined to prove to his parents that he can manage just fine, despite being a bit too…Phinnish for most folk’s comfort, his mum’s peace of mind and dad’s constitution.

This is the tale of his adventures; a story about finding your (happy) place in the world, making (foxy) friends and the fabled Beast of Bodmin Moor. 


It’s a shape-shifter story,  but it is also an own voices tale too. Part 1 (5,000 words).


🎃 🎃 🎃 🎃

The Beast of Bodmin Moor


‘There is no doubt that Bodmin Moor is a creepy place. Should you happen to find yourself alone there as dusk is falling, try not to think about the layers of legend, horror and mystery associated with this wild and rugged landscape, and in particular, whatever you do, try not to let your mind dwell on The Beast… ’






Jack inhaled, low and deep, drawing the scent of darkness into his lungs; a lush shimmer of air as laden with riches as the shriek of silence. For all was not still this night, nor any other; the rustle of foraging creatures resounded as clearly as the whisper of wind rifling the scrubby grassland. As audible as every beat of his own heart…strong, sure, steady.

He stood, drinking in the magnificence of a moor drenched in moonlight, bleached to bone and shadow. A rugged, brutal beauty that beckoned to the Need, impossible to resist. An ever flickering flame that flared anew when dusk drew its veil over the day, warming him through as he waited. Waited, watching, every night. For Him to come.

Jack snapped his head around with a sharp sniff, dredging the breeze for its faint trace of that scent. Yes. There it was. As heady as opium, a smell as seductive as a clarion call… as if the very air had been saturated in musk and marshmallows dipped in brandy. The husky warmth of the latter assaulted his system with Jack’s next breath; almost as welcome, though nowhere near as enticing, as his scent. 

‘Speak for yourself…’ grunted Jake, his ever ornery human. ‘I wouldn’t say no to a decent bloody drink.’ 

‘Is this where I humbly apologise for not coming complete with pockets?’ Jack guessed.

‘Pockets?’ accompanied Jake’s snort of disgust. ‘I wish you’d never come at all.’

‘I do believe that was your department, dear sir…’  Jack couldn’t resist pointing out.

‘Shut up…’  This was Jake’s go-to retort when his face would have flushed beetroot red, had he been wearing it at the time. 


Jack was beginning to give up hope that Jake would ever come to terms with a fate he found about as fortuitous as herpes. Hope. That was a sore point; a concept Jake had denounced as cruel as the craggy rocks onto which the Wreckers once lured unwary ships. Jack knew all too well that his human was convinced he had none whatsoever. No future when he might ‘doom’ a potential paramour to the fate that had befallen him.

Paramour? F’fucksakes. You’ve been watching far too much French porn.  Tell me…what exactly would be the point of hoping? You sure as shit can’t eat him. I sure as hell can’t talk to him. ‘

Jake wouldn’t even permit them to settle beside Him and luxuriate in His very presence.  Oh, how Jack coveted the slow caress of a palm along the serrated sweep of his spine… as forbidden as the burrowing of fingers into fur. A thought that sent a ripple of phantom pleasure thrilling through Jack’s body, twitching every hair to attention in a ruffling sigh of sound. 

Jack crept forward a few inches, low in the long grass, stomach skimming its scrubby tufts and ancient crumbs of rock as he crawled closer. His prey, as was His wont, had seated himself amidst the ruins of an engine house. Remnants of a time when the Old Men; the tinners and miners had given their lives to the Cornish quarries. Lives that lingered still in the scars they’d left scattered across the moors. 

There were far more obvious places in which He could have chosen to while away a few hours; stone circles, standing stones, tors…even a neolithic burial tomb. None of which had lured him from this very spot since. Jack had expected Him to move on after a few nights when its charm faded with familiarity, but He showed no sign of tiring of this tumble of granite nestled in a bleak expanse of nothingness. To human eyes, at least.

Jack should never have embraced the rush of relief that flooded his every fibre of his being each time that scent assailed his snout. Least of all here—in the one place he felt fairly safe—protected by legend and lore. Where all evidence of his existence was credited to ‘The Beast of Bodmin Moor’. Jack had never seen hide nor hair of a huge black panther, nor caught so much as a whiff on the wind, which did tend to suggest he wouldn’t find himself slaughtered by a five foot feline any time soon. Nevertheless, Jack was guiltily grateful for an ‘existence’ that safeguarded his own anonymity. Better yet, the Beast’s myth had but been enhanced by Jack’s midnight feasts, which was a bonus not to be sniffed at. He had, much to his amusement, become something of a boon to the Cornish Tourist Board… rather than a monstrous predator who left the moor littered with carcasses. 

Jack lay low, watching, breathing, luxuriating in the heady fix now wafting his way. It would have to be enough. It had to be…and yet, the Need was relentless. A yearning that set his senses aflame, prodding him moorward; boiling through his blood, bones, body. Sinews straining with longing. Lust. A desire as devouring as the instinct to tear, shred, take…slake. Claim Him as his own. 

Worst of all was the Want, because Jake wanted him just as much. He was somehow…  unlike other humans. Entirely himself. It was an innate recognition; as inviolate as truth. A certainty gleaned by instincts as sharp as the glint of silver in moonlight.

Who was He, this strange creature of the night who wandered the moors like a wraith? The clumsy grace of those overlong limbs was that of a newborn foal, observing the world through eyes wide with wonder; windows to a soul untainted by the petty trivialities humans prized. There was an air of the ethereal in his fearlessness; his scent carried no taint of unease, nor care for consequence. Might he be…fae? Jack didn’t have the foggiest idea whether faerie folk roamed the Earth or not. He’d never met a Vampire either…and Jake? Jake had been just as oblivious to the existence of his own kind until it was far, far too late…  




Phin sat atop a craggy crumble of rock, content as can be in his happy place. 

It was his haven, his very own sliver of heaven. A sacred spot where the twenty-first century had quite forgotten to come charging in like the cavalry, hell-bent on rescuing it from perfection.

He felt more right on this ancient moor than anywhere else. When his camper van had rumbled up the windy road and Phin first clapped eyes on the vast sweep of scrubland before him, he’d felt strangely home, all of a sudden. Strangely, because he’d never had a ‘home’—not a proper, permanent one. His family just followed Major Finley from one posting to the next and set up camp in an endless parade of Army accommodations. Homes don’t have barbed wire. 

Here, Phin could breathe, bathe in blissful isolation. Alone in this tumbledown place but never lonely. Loneliness was feeling alone in a room full of people. Not here. Phin had never been comfy in company. It was tricky to focus on appearing ‘normal’. Impossible when faced with more than one person at a time, when he was besieged by a torrent of Too Much: too loud, too bright, too many colours clashing in a cacophony of sound. That’s how it felt, as if all Phin’s senses had been bunged in the washer and switched to spin cycle. 

All this was befuddling in itself, even before having to pretend that folk were not fibbing, when they were. Fact. Phin liked facts. He found them too fascinating to ignore, which made his mind waft off to ponder matters-far-more-interesting instead. He shouldn’t do this when he should be listening to people try to persuade him they felt things they didn’t instead—to make them seem kind—when they weren’t. 

It was very important to pretend to believe people who portrayed themselves as someone they aspired to be. It was a frustrating waste of time in which Phin could be doing something interesting instead. Or at least less scratchy. 

He hated feeling like a fraud. Most people seemed to prize things Phin couldn’t fathom the point of. The impression they made on others. How they were ‘seen’. A concern that had nothing to do with donning orange jumpers, apparently, which would have been an understandable worry. Phin wouldn’t be seen dead in said detested hue (that was an idiom, not a fact, as it didn’t make sense in the scheme of things). He would be dead, and ergo, unable to see. Let alone be in any fit state to insist that his corpse was not desecrated by a despicable sweater. 

Nope, Phin Finley didn’t much care for the company of people, but he adored animals. They could be trusted—even predators—because they were honest. They didn’t pretend to like you before biting your head off, did they? He loved that the animals dotted across the moor were allowed to roam fairly free. The cows often pottered across the road and parked up when they fancied a rest or a gazeabout. They didn’t give a stuff, just stood there staring over their shoulders with mild disinterest if a queue of cars started honking at them. For all the world as if that might persuade them to shift their furry butts.

An animal’s love was unconditional. They never, ever, made you feel as if you weren’t good enough, or that you’d let them down when you couldn’t help but be yourself. Phin felt that way a lot—even with his family—especially with his family, who had become ever more polarized. With Phin stuck in the middle like an equatorial embarrassment. His poor mum and elder sister adored him despite himself and defended him with lioness finesse. This was far more than Phin deserved and made him feel dreadful when they bore the brunt of consequences that doomed his dad to a son who would never do him proud. Quite apart from subjecting him to social humiliation horrifics that made his younger sister’s hair curl. Despite her heroic struggles with an evil contraption that made her smell like a singed cat. 

The older he got and the more Phin tried to work people out, the less he felt he knew, let alone understood. A confusion too far when his head was already overstuffed with too much— well, too much everything. As far back as he could recall, he’d been sure he didn’t see the same things through his eyes that everyone else saw through theirs. His brain wouldn’t work in the same way, either. It was ‘just wired differently’, his mum said… a belief she’d expounded overandoverandoveragain, ad nauseum to his dad. Who thought this was piffle…so he’d spent the last twenty-odd years trying to rewire Phin in order to prove his point. Efforts that seemed uncannily similar to something called ‘a contradiction in terms’ to Phin. If he wasn’t wired wrong, then why did his dad persist in trying to fix him?

It ate away at his heart that his mum had to endure this endless tussle of wills, so Phin had decided that it was high time she got some much deserved peace. The spoke in their family wheel was as obvious as the nose on Phin’s face (not half as obvious as the rest of him, but idioms need not concern themselves with seventy four inches of trivial detail). The solution was simple; remove said spoke. If Phin took himself off that would free his lionesses from all such friction, and Phin from fretting about being the cause of it. Having determined upon this, he hadn’t been too fussed where he went. Going—the joy of getting there—mattered far more. 

Phin had to admit that landlords, deposits and adhering to contract stipulations might just be a disaster waiting to happen, so he’d bought himself a camper-van with the savings his gran had stashed away for him. He’d always retreated to his inner world when the wider one felt too confounding to fathom, so he’d fixed upon finding that feeling elsewhere. A safe place in which to potter about with less fear of mishaps and making folk miffy. A rural idyll, where traces of ye olde times might linger still. 

His family had latterly been stationed in Dorset, which had swiftly become his favourite place they’d stayed for many a moon. Figuring that the further west he went, the more he might like it, Phin decided to head to Devon and then onward, into Cornwall. A plan that seemed to ease his mum’s fears a smidge; she’d already suffered more than enough on his behalf. Nothing would stop her worrying about whether he’d remembered to pack his bicycle clips and a clean hankie, but that was ‘her job’ she insisted, so Phin would just have to ‘suck it up’. 

Cornwall it was then. Kernow; ancient land of his Celtic kin. Still stubbornly steeped in its own heritage and clinging to its right to remain itself. A feeling Phin had every sympathy with.





It was with a ghostly glide of muscle over bone that Jack crept a little closer, inching towards Him, nearer than he’d ever dared venture before. Too close for comfort, but far from close enough to sate the craven clawing in his guts.

His prey shifted, perhaps to settle more comfortably, extending his right leg. Long, so long… it stretched across the tumble of rock towards Jack as if the devil himself was hell bent on driving him demented. It was all Jack could do to suppress a whine as he slammed his eyelids shut, which only intensified the need to nuzzle it. To nudge it with his nose, rub his fur along a lavish sweep of thigh… snuffle at the soft skin shrouded in a sheath of tight denim.

A tut pinged from plush lips when he attempted to slip a hand into the pocket of his coat. With a huff of impatience, he clambered to his feet, unfolding himself to his full, glorious height. Towering so tall that the top of his tufty head seemed to brush the stars as Jack gazed up from his lowly crouch on the ground. Once upright, He slipped his fingers inside with ease and rummaged in the pocket of the buff-coloured trench he invariably came wrapped in each night; vast swathes of fabric that shielded him from Jack’s ravenous gaze.

It was then that a whimper of want made an abrupt bid for freedom, shattering the quiet like an air raid siren. He jerked his head up, shooting a puzzled glance over each shoulder, but his pulse rate didn’t spike with anxiety and no trace of fear tainted his scent. When no further sound suggested that aught was amiss, he shrugged, as if suspecting that he’d imagined whatever he thought he’d heard. Then bent to place a palm on the rocks for support as he reseated himself. Shit. With a sudden, horrifying lurch to the left, his foot slipped on the rubble and a snatched-off cry shredded Jack’s senses.


There was a desperate scuffle as his feet fought for—failed to find—purchase, then a shriek shattered the night and a loud crack splintered the sky when his forehead bounced off a boulder with a hideous crunch. His body crumpled to the rocks in a tangle of limbs, slumping in a sad pile of crumpled cloth. He lay utterly still, like a broken toy tossed onto a trash heap.


NOOOOOOO… Jack sprang forwards, cleaving an arc through the darkness to land sure-footed beside him. For a split-second, heart-searing moment, dread obliterated all reason, despite the fact Jack knew with innate certainty that he was not dead. 

After turning his muzzle into the wind, Jack dragged in a huge, clean breath and held it. Creeping closer, he dipped his head low and began to nose gently at a ghostly pale cheek, nudging his face away from the rocks. A large gash glistened above his left eyebrow, gristle gleaming in the ragged tear. Jack watched a bead of blood trickle down his temple, teeth gritted in agony. Nnnngh…that scent…he was still holding his breath, but he could taste it on his tongue; a rich ruby sweetness that lashed at his loins. Jack threw his head back and howled, every sinew straining as he fought to suppress his shrieking instincts.  Nooo…  

Rage blistered through Jack’s veins, clamouring for supremacy with the dull drag of despair, battling it out with instincts that clamoured for more. Wet, warm, as potent as port wine…just a little lick…  For heavensakes, Jack wasn’t going to sink his teeth into skin, there was no urge to rip, tear, hurt. He didn’t think so at least. The shaft of pain that staked his heart when temporal bone had slammed into stone felt akin to being bludgeoned. In that split-second when Jack had thought He was dead, he’d known exactly where the blame lay; an agony far worse than the first time Jake had fought the shift. Worse than his human’s realisation that this is what he’d become…and would ever remain.

It was Jack’s fault. Then. Now. Guilty. The whimper had as good as fired the starting gun of horrors that caused the fall. Lust had led them to this moment, just as it had then…that night. A thought he shoved aside, this was no time to indulge in a self-pity party. He needed Jack. But what the hell could he do? Cocking his head, he contemplated the blood still seeping from the cruel gash that marred his beautiful face. He is beautiful, not merely handsome, Jack noted. A face like a fallen angel, grubby with gravel, crusting at the edges of the wound. Fuck it…hovering about a breath from the wound, Jack touched the tip of his tongue to the angry tear, oh, so gently. Nnnnggh. He snatched his head back, breath clawing his throat as he fought a need so furious it made his eyes bulge as he gulped great gasps of air. No. No…yesss…no… 

The guilt was gutting but he had to get the goddamned grit out. Yes, he wanted…of course he did. But that didn’t make it the wrong thing to do, did it? Or, was he fooling himself that it was the right thing for that very reason? He knew not. Does it matter anyway? Why the hell was Jack conducting a debate on his own dubious morality—with himself—while He bled to death on the moor?

After inhaling a lungful of somewhat less tempting air, Jack lowered his nose to the rivulet of blood and began to lap with infinite tenderness. An impossible feat in itself.  This, as his taste buds erupted in a riot of sensation—like an explosion of Pop Rocks in his mouth—unleashing a blood rush so intense he thought his brain cells might combust with bliss. His brain cells? They were the least of Jack’s worries…his cock was so engorged it might never slip back inside its furry foreskin. It felt fit to burst…and still Jack’s tongue slithered across skin.

Jack had never, ever, tasted anything this…delectable. Divine. Nothing on earth had ever tasted like this. His own blood couldn’t begin to compare. Neither could the blood of the creatures he stalked most nights. The raw rump steak Jake gnawed on for breakfast sure as hell never tasted like this.

He flickered delicately at the jagged edge of the gash until the grit dislodged; senses so finely tuned that each grain felt like a boulder clinging to Jack’s tongue. A sudden thought—one so blisteringly obvious it should have hit him over the head with a house brick before Jack started lapping away at His head like a lollipop—struggled to the surface as Jake’s voice fought through the liquid layers of lust, longing and sheer gut instinct.

‘Are you sure this is…safe? What if—?’ 

No…he couldn’t, surely…? Jack had no idea. He’d been fretting about a bit of grit as his saliva seeped into His system and…no please, no…NO. Jake would never, ever forgive him. Jack wasn’t sure which part of that night had…sealed Jake’s fate. No idea exactly what had triggered his dormant jackal. 

Sex? Blood? Nails? Teeth? The bites? Or…the kiss that led to the rest of it? Crap. He’d lost his tiny mind. It was too bloody late now. So stuupid.

‘Moronic shit for brains jackass.’

Ha. Ha. Very funny. Not. Next stop; the world’s first shape-shifting stand up comedian. They should turn up for the Britain’s Got Talent auditions, that would be a riot. Literally…when everyone rushed for the exits.

It was far, far too late to worry about it now. Much too late to torture himself with the fact that a not-so tiny part of his pea-brain yearned…No. That was despicable, beyond contempt. Jack could not —would not—wish this upon Him. He would detest them both for it.  Loathe his flea-ridden arse enough to bury a spade in body when he discovered what Jack had done. Yet, even as he acknowledged this, his baser instincts were effectively rolling their eyes and suggesting that he shut his trap and have at it, lap away to his heart’s content.

It was hard to say which was more ludicrous: tonguing His forehead while having an internal scrap with his own conscience. Or the fact Jack was considering whether to let Jake carry Him to the campervan and see to his wound properly.


A splendid plan, I’m sure. It’s a delightful evening to go for a bare-ass naked midnight stroll across the moors cradling a bleeding, unconscious, six foot plus man as if he weighs no more than a bottle of brandy.

I’ll probably get arrested. The press will have a fucking field day. How ironic, when never, not once since that fateful night, did I imagine that I’d wind up as ‘The Beast of Bodmin Moor’ as a bloody human.

Should I risk it? Not so much the flasher-on-the-moors part; there’s no trace of human scent for miles…but can I risk him waking to find his formerly unconscious self being abducted by a naked man?

The very act of carrying him across the moor stretched credulity, as it didn’t seem highly bloody likely that a 5’ 9” bloke, best described as ‘wiry’, could carry a six-foot-plus man over rough scrubland like a babe in arms.

Is there another option, when we sure as hell can’t leave him here; broken and bleeding on the moors?  The Beast of Bodmin Moor. Christ. A pervert preying on the soon-to-be-drop-dead-gorgeous, if one of us doesn’t do something. 

‘I did my best!’ Jack finally protested after enduring that internal monologue for… ever.  

‘Something other than indulge in a surreptitious slurp, dogbreath.’  


The gash looked slightly less angry, but blood was still seeping from the wound, so Jack bent once more to lap at the fresh trickle of ruby trailing toward His ear. Nnggrrrh…  

When Jack’s eyes began to roll back in his head, it became clear that the brief interlude had merely made paradise all the sweeter, so he yanked his muzzle back, before he could not. The injury did look a little better; it was now clean, free from crusted dirt and grit, so he might be imagining it…but it did seem less inflamed. Which was something.

‘Not a fat lot, you must admit, but better than bloody nothing. ‘

Gazing down upon him, at a face as pale as moonlight, the sooty sweep of long lashes, plump lips softly parted, Jack knew he’d never had a choice from the start. This realization had no sooner dawned than he was sure he saw the slightest glimmer of movement. Had he imagined it? No. Feathery lashes flickered once, twice more and then, slowly, they parted to reveal a midnight gaze, hazy with pain and puzzlement. Bottomless eyes met his own for a heartbeat… and then fluttered shut again.

Fuck. In the brief second he glimpsed that dark gaze, Jack knew. Knew with inviolate animal instinct that it was… over. The battle lost before it began. Not even jackal-vision had prepared him for the impact of those eyes from mere inches away. It felt as if he were staring into his soul. ‘Those eyes.’ Jack huffed, breath puffing out in a cloud of contempt. Calling those limpid orbs ‘eyes’ was akin to describing His blood as ‘quite tasty’. They were…eternal. Drowning pools of liquid darkness. Deep enough to die in. Into which Jack would undoubtedly dive even if he knew it would be the last thing he ever did. He was ruined.

Jack backed up a few paces and pulled his focus inwards. Changing back was, in fact, harder than unleashing the jackal. This had come as something of a shock to Jake. It had taken some time before he’d been able to comprehend the chaos well enough to understand that Jack simply surfaced, stretching as if from slumber. Much as the subconscious assumes control during dreams; your secret self rising to the fore as your conscious self sleeps.

The power was always present; waiting in the wings for Jake to embrace it, mind, body, soul. It was simply a matter of letting go… allowing it to bloom like a lily until it spilled through his skin, fur flowing like water to ripple over reformed muscle and bone. Jake had denied the truth at first, even as his furred self unfurled from the matter of his own body. Brain. He still, two years on, flinched from the knowledge that the jackal’s lusts were pulled from his own psyche. Worse than the agony of the transformation was Jake’s realization that Jack wasn’t a separate entity. He was the dark self Jake had spent twenty five years trying his damnedest to restrain.

Jack might be a murderous mutt but at least he was bloody honest. He gloried in the joy of the hunt almost more than the satisfaction of sinking his teeth into succulent flesh. Relished the hot pulse of blood filling his mouth. Revelled in his liberation from Jake’s dogged grip on civility. The most ludicrous part of their pact was that Jake was wont to wonder at the fact that it was harder to drag Jack back to his dungeon, rather than fling open its doors. 

Jake had spent a lifetime snarled in self-loathing, suppressed rage and terror as pure as it was toxic. All of which he’d battered into submission, then shrouded in studied cool and self-deprecating wit.

Where his human overthought everything, gnawing away and getting nowhere, Jack’s needs and desires were simple, with clear-cut solutions. His pain was easy to manage. Jackals are creatures of instinct; if he was hungry, he ate. The occasional sting of teeth and claws, when supper fought back was fleeting, his wounds healed in a matter of moments. Every hurt prompted a clear choice to take, and an action to end it. If Jake could be honest with himself for once in a bloody-minded lifetime, he might just admit that it was a relief to let Jack resume the reins. That he relished every minute of liberation from his miserable existence. Freedom from the quicksand mire of his own mind, free to roam as he wished, free to run, run with the wind ruffling his fur in an exhilarating rush of power and pounding paws.




Jake focused. It felt akin to pulling on a rippling swathe of silk; tugging it inwards, as if it were sucked deeper inside with every beat of his heart to crouch at his centre. Strangely similar to packing a parachute into a backpack. Or sucking a sock up a hoover pipe. Schllurrrp. It sounded horribly similar too.

Closing his eyes, Jack concentrated on the silent shimmer, on drawing it within, to the  epicentre of himself; the nucleus of all he was. Harnessing his secrets once more, until his human self was all that remained. Visible.  

Jake McCain rose to his feet and stood upon the earth, dragging in a deep lungful of that deadly scent. Still strong, but bearable now. The longing to sink his teeth into ivory flesh was no longer quite so insistent. Not as a snack, at least. Jake’s hair fluttered around his face, flirting with the wind. The only part of his entire self that now felt free.

His skin gleamed like marble in the moonlight as Jake bent to scoop (at least) six feet of unconscious man into his arms and cradle him close to his chest. Lust licked along his veins, an inferno of need boiling his blood. His proximity was incendiary. Intoxicating. Jake was crackling with so much energy he could probably saunter to the summit of Ben Nevis. Fucknows how his human heart was still functioning in the face of so much. Every fibre of Jake’s being had fused to focus on Him.  A focus so fervent, furious, that its rage could raze the world to the ground if it did Him harm.

I am holding Him in my arms…which was so much more than Jake had ever dared dream. Everlasting legs were draped over his left arm, his right curled beneath Him to support His upper body. So far so good. Except for the slight matter of the erection attempting to drill into His back. Jake was now so strong, and his cock so hard, he could probably balance his precious cargo just so, as if serving Him up on a platter. Now there was an image to save to his mental hard-drive. It would certainly make for a spectacular finale to Jake’s Britain’s Got Talent act.

He’d just better hope that his patient didn’t waken before they reached the sanctity of His campervan. The starkers-as-the-day-he-was-born part was bad enough, but Jake clearly hadn’t thought it through. Perhaps he should start praying to Anubis for divine intervention. Or perhaps not. Calling upon the Protector of the Dead—he who ushered souls into the afterlife—thus drawing all-powerful attention to the man in his arms possibly wasn’t the finest idea Jake ever had.

Cradling Him carefully so that He wouldn’t be unduly jolted, Jake began to run.





Release Blitz · Reviews

Legendary Loves 2: release blitz & review


Legendary Loves must be the most delightful collection of stories you could curl up with this Halloween. ‘Tis a hat-trick of treats not to be missed. Three charming tales steeped in legend and lore; each featuring a lesser-spotted (not least in fiction) shifter at its heart…





Collection Title: Legendary Loves Volume 2

Publisher: JMS Books, LLC

Cover Artist: Written Ink Designs

Length: 71 700 words

Release Date: October 19, 2019

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Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07Z7G17JM/

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07Z7G17JM/



JMS Books’ Trios are themed collections of three gay romance stories by a trio of authors. Each story is available separately, but readers can get all three for a discounted bundle price.

Legendary Loves Volume 2 contains three paranormal shifter M/M romances just in time for Halloween!

It contains these stories:

In My Arms Again by Nell Iris: Oxen is lonely, feeling like he’s waiting for something, and can’t focus. But when a very ill stranger collapses on his doorstep, everything changes. The stranger, Vinge, is a Pegasus unable to transform. Both men feel an instant connection that swiftly grows deeper. The questions surrounding Vinge are many. Why is he so familiar? What will it take for the depth of their connection be revealed?

The Murky Depths by Kassandra Lea: Tired of the daily grind of his job, Keston heads out for a weekend at his family’s cabin in Kona Woods. Turns out he isn’t alone, though, as there are others lurking in the shadows. When a near-death experience brings Ness waltzing into his life, everything Keston thought he knew is turned upside down. Will facing what scares him bring to Keston’s life what it’s missing most?

Weekend at Bigfoot’s by Addison Albright: There’s nothing about perky — twinky? — Oliver Hughes that would make Sensational News’ (Never Fake! We Swear!) reporter Wilson Banks think Bigfoot actually exists. But while pursuing soundbites for a tabloid story about Bigfoot, Wilson witnesses something he wasn’t meant to see. In Wilson’s new reality, is there room for love with someone whose dreams are as big as his … er … feet?

Buy Links

The books will all be 20% off at the publisher’s site through October 25.

Legendary Loves, Volume 2

Publisher | B&N | Kobo | iBooks

Amazon US | Amazon UK



Book Title: In My Arms Again

Author: Nell Iris

Publisher: JMS Books, LLC

Cover Artist: Written Ink Designs

Length: 21 809 words

Release Date: October 19, 2019

Genre/s: M/M Historical Paranormal Fantasy Gay Romance

Trope/s: Soulmates, age difference, hurt/comfort

Themes: Finding your soulmate, reunited, family conflict, acceptance

Heat Rating: 3 flames

It is a standalone story.

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Two strangers. An unexpected familiarity. Instant connection.


Trapped in a growing sense of restlessness, Oxen the hunter is lonely. Feeling like he’s waiting for something—or someone—he’s unable to focus on getting ready for winter. But when a handsome and very ill stranger collapses on his doorstep, everything changes.

Vinge is from a Pegasus family but has never been able to transform. As soon as he awakens in Oxen’s care, both men feel an instant connection, which grows deeper as Oxen nurses him back to health. Something profound within each man calls out to the other, but neither knows what it is.

The questions surrounding Vinge and their deepening relationship are many. Why is Vinge so familiar to Oxen when they have clearly never met? Why are they both reluctant to take the first step to a real commitment? And what will it take for the true depth of their connection be revealed?



His eyes are still closed when I kneel next to the bed again, but I can tell he’s awake by the way his head tracks my movements.

“I will lift your head and help you drink,” I explain before touching him again, and he tilts his chin down, giving me permission. I slide my hand around his neck, cup the back of his head, and ease it off the bed. He drinks in deep gulps until the bowl is empty, and when I lower him back down to the pillow, he sighs.

“Thank you, Hunter.”

I stiffen at his words. “Do you know me?”

Slowly, he moves his hand from his side and lays it on his chest. “I feel you,” he says.

“How?” My head is spinning with all the questions this man’s arrival has brought. For every passing hour, they multiply, and I can no longer keep track of them all.

The stranger doesn’t answer my question—somehow I knew he wouldn’t—so I try another approach. “I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I know not who you are.”

His pries his eyelids open, long eyelashes fluttering like a hummingbird’s wing. Even in the dim light of the cabin—cast only by the flames in the hearth—I can make out the color of his eyes: so dark they’re almost completely black, generously sprinkled with flecks of gleaming gold, and despite the obvious tiredness, his gaze is bottomless and intense. It pulls me in and settles some of the restlessness in my chest at the same time.

And when he looks at me, I understand what he’s talking about.

I can feel him, his presence. As though his heart beats next to mine in my chest. As though his breath mingles with mine when it leaves my mouth, as though I see myself through his eyes. As though I know him.

“My name…” His voice falters.

“…is Vinge,” I finish, a gasp escaping at my own words.



In My Arms Again is all that a story from the head and heart of Nell Iris promises to be. Beautifully written and told with genuine warmth, drawing you into a world where people are pure of heart and noble of spirit, no matter what fate thrusts in their path. They suffer but never become bitter. There is a rare grace in her stories which makes them sing, a calibre of character as seductive as a roaring fire on a frigid night. Men who encapsulate the very essence of: ‘Nothing is so strong as gentleness. Nothing is so gentle as real strength..’ 

There is a weight in words that flow with the life giving force of a mountain spring, their warmth as irresistible as the glisten of sunlight off its surface. 

In My Arms Again is every bit as magical as the mythical creature at its heart. A tale of two kindred spirits who had lost all faith in themselves and the value of their existence.  Soulmates who see their best selves reflected in the eyes of one another and strive to honour that image. Theirs is a story of acceptance and the power of affirmation upon self. Of hearts made whole and encapsulated in a single sentence:

‘I’ve finally found somewhere I belong…’

As beautiful as it is brilliant. 




Book Title: The Murky Depths

Author: Kassandra Lea

Publisher: JMS Books, LLC

Cover Artist: Written Ink Designs

Length: 20 106 words

Release Date: September 19, 2019

Genre/s: M/M Paranormal/Urban Fantasy

Heat Rating: 1 flame

It is a standalone story.

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Who…or what is lurking in the shadows?


While Keston enjoys his occasional video game tournaments with the kid across the hall, he’s grown tired of the daily grind of his job. With a bit of a push from his boss, he heads out for a weekend at his family’s cabin in Kona Woods. A little time away from the hustle and bustle sounds like just the thing he needs.

Turns out he isn’t alone, though, as there are others lurking in the shadows. When a near-death experience brings Ness waltzing into his life, everything Keston thought he knew is turned upside down, and he runs in fear.

But will facing what scares him bring to Keston’s life what it’s missing most?



“Crap,” he growled. Keston scrambled for the paddle as the first fat raindrop landed on his cheek, coursing down like a year he didn’t remember crying. The once gentle rocking was becoming stomach upsetting and mixed with his actions threatened to capsize him. “Crap, crap, crappity.”

Why didn’t you check the weather forecast, you fanned fool? Instead of being a sitting duck for an electric charge you could be sitting safely before a fire while letting the storm rage on. Even sticking to his original plan would have had better results, he’d simply have raced back through the woods with prayers of no branches falling on his head. Being soaked head to toe he could accept.

Which might happen sooner than he hoped.

The wind picked up, forcing the trees to dance and tearing the leaves from their branches. Keston pitched dangerously to one side and narrowly avoided taking an unwanted swim by shifting his weight the other way. His belongings slid back and forth along the bottom of the canoe. Lightning. Thunder. His pounding heart prodded by fear and adrenaline. And then it hit, the deluge of rain, almost like having a bucket of water dumped over his head, or perhaps this was how coaches felt after the end of a great game when thee players got all excited and doused them in Gatorade or whatever.

He was soaked instantly.

And it was a cold rain, one that dropped the temperature significantly in a matter of seconds. Gone was the beautiful autumn day replaced with a chill that left each breath as a puff on the wind. Keston shivered, somehow managing to wrap his fingers around the paddle. He gripped it tightly and dipped one end into the lake, which by now was tossing him about as if he was a rubber ducky in a child’s bath.

The waves were getting worse.



The Murky Depths by Kassandra Lea 

This might be the shortest story, but therein lies a lot of plot. A feat in itself to one who can scarce cram a dinner date into twenty thousand words. Better yet, the legendary creature at its centre is one I never imagined I might encounter in a romance; a fact so splendid I was seduced from the start…and there is lots to love. A quirkiness of character I found enchanting; creatures of legend and lore, living their lives, going about their business, every bit as credible as they are incredible. 

‘Little did he realize he was being watched, had been since the second he turned down the barely two lane road that wove like a scar through the mostly untouched landscape…the forest abuzz with the arrival of a human. There was a ripple of concern on what he planned to do, how long he’d stay and if he knew. Those who remembered him as a youngster questioned if he recalled any of the events that transpired when he was a child. 

Minds were more easily manipulated back then, more willing to believe in the magic that tried its best to remain hidden.’

As an adult, I’ve held firm to that belief; never quite relinquishing the hope that I’ve simply become too damnedly grown up to share in secrets too sacred to be sullied by adult sensibilities. 

 ‘Shall we be on with our adventure then?’                                                                                  ‘Um, one tiny problem, dear, we’ve no boat to get me there…’

Boat schmoat...it was wonderful to spend a wee while in a world where such matters are mere mundanities when setting forth on life’s great adventure with your soulmate.





Book Title: Weekend at Bigfoot’s

Author: Addison Albright

Publisher: JMS Books, LLC

Cover Artist: Written Ink Designs

Length: 29 800 words

Release Date: September 19, 2019

Genre/s: M/M Contemporary Paranormal Gay Romance (with a pinch of Mystery and Comedy)

Trope/s: Meet Cute, Forbidden Love, Fling Turns into More

Themes: Love (or at least lust) at first sight, secrets, paranormal surprise

Heat Rating: 3 flames

It is a standalone story.

Add on Goodreads


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It wasn’t supposed to be REAL!


It wasn’t supposed to be REAL! Bigfoot doesn’t actually exist. Yetis, shifters, creatures of the night … none of those exist. Right? Right?

There’s nothing about perky—some might even say twinky—Oliver Hughes that would make a skeptic like Sensational News’ (Never Fake! We Swear!) reporter Wilson Banks think otherwise. But while pursuing soundbites for a tabloid story about Bigfoot, Wilson witnesses something he wasn’t meant to see.

In Wilson’s new reality, is there room for love with someone whose dreams are as big as his … er … feet?

This fun novella has a paranormal twist, a hint of mystery, and a flavorful dollop of romantic comedy. Mix it all together for a satisfying HEA!



Wilson’s gaze traveled lower, and if possible, widened further. Because holy mother of Sasquatch, Yeti, and the Abominable Snowman, Emma Pearson had not been exaggerating when she’d insinuated that Bigfoot was well-hung. If anything, she’d underplayed it.

Bigfoot—that’s who he had to be—squawked again with a noise that had an admonishing tone, as if calling out Wilson’s rudeness for gawking at his junk, then covered said junk with his massive hands.

“Sorry,” Wilson muttered. It was reflexive and seemed weird in the circumstances to be calmly apologizing to Bigfoot. Why the hell wasn’t he freaking the fuck out? Most normal people would be.

A vision of Mark screeching, “I don’t think I’ve ever once seen you get worked up over anything,” flashed through Wilson’s head. Apparently Mark had a point.

Wilson blinked. There would be absolutely no way to get the mouth and flaring nostrils of this…creature so perfect in such a close inspection if he wasn’t real. He was real.

And if this was the ultimate test of pragmatism, then—Wilson straightened his back—he was going to pass it with flying colors.




Weekend at Bigfoots by Addison Albright

I adore Addison Albright. If that were not true, I may never have come across this treasure trove of tales as I rarely read shifter stories. That matters not; some authors are exceptions to all such customs. A truth that has reaped rich rewards along the way and gifted me one of my very favourite trilogies. I had never read a castaway tale before, nor imagined that I might. 

I devoured the ‘Vows’ box set (Til Death do us part, From This Day Forward, To Love & To Cherish) for all the world as if I’d been marooned for five years with nary a book to feast on in the interim.  

If informed that I might salivate in anticipation of a Bigfoot tale, I would have scoffed. Rather than scoffed it with relish. The latter proved true…I never doubted for a moment that it would. I’d already delighted in being stranded in scorching sunlight without a stitch to my name, and figured (for some reason) that I was about to freeze my bits off with the abominable snowman in Alaska. I may have got super(natural)heroes in a muddle. No matter, off I set; snowbooted and suited to brave the elements. Instead, I found myself transported to Tallbear, Northern California to reside among the finest townsfolk I’ve encountered for many a moon; as quirky as their tourist town is quaint.

How I loved this story. How I laughed. I hadn’t reached the foot of the first page before I was cackling away to myself like a crazy ol’ cat lady on the subway. This, on accounts that our hero, Wilson—none too keen on the prospect of said trip—was offered the following alternative: 

“You want to interview all the victims of the chimney shitter in Bosie?”

Chances are, I’d have delighted in the shitter’s story just as much, had its author elected to immerse me in it.😋 Shitters or shifters…like I said, it matters not a jot.

I may have fallen in love with Oliver the moment we met. Swiftly after being bedevilled by jam. Jam is my very favourite word. (This is partially Eddie Izzard’s fault. Never has the word Jam been uttered with such luscious relish and to such chuckle-fest effect).

Strawberry with lemongrass—perchance you were wondering—the latter adds ‘tang’ promised its purveyor. The allure of Oliver can be attested to by his attention snaffling proclivities from said preserve. 

‘But what really made him stand out was his bearing–the “I’m going to be me and I don’t care what anybody thinks” jut of his chin that came across more as a life philosophy than as a challenge to all comers.

Okay, maybe the  shoulder-length black hair with sparking streaks of silver, gold, and purple stood out too. And the azure-blue eyes that seemed too brilliant to be real–yet Wilson sensed they were…’

Wilson may not be a supernatural being, but he is far from your bog-standard sort of scribe. Despite working for a tabloid newspaper, his cynicism is infused with a warm humour that never belittles his subjects. He is never cruel or careless in pursuit of his prey; instead he radiates a charm that never feels forced. Even his innermost musings are free from ridicule in the face of the unfeasible…no matter how unlikely the claims of his interviewees, or their steadfast insistence upon them.


Pegasus, Ness and Bigfoot unleashed in a five star Halloween treat t’die for.




About the Authors

Nell Iris

Nell Iris is a romantic at heart who believes everyone deserves a happy ending. She’s a bona fide bookworm (learned to read long before she started school), wouldn’t dream of going anywhere without something to read (not even the ladies room), loves music (and singing along but let’s face it, she’s not Celine Dion), and is a real Star Trek nerd (Make it so). She loves words, poetry, wine, and Sudoku, and absolutely adores elephants!

Nell believes passionately in equality for all regardless of race, gender or sexuality, and wants to make the world a better, less hateful, place.

Nell is a 40-something bisexual Swedish woman, married to the love of her life, and a proud mama of a grown daughter. She left the Scandinavian cold and darkness for warmer and sunnier Malaysia a few years ago, where she spends her days writing, surfing the Internet, enjoying the heat, and eating good food. One day she decided to chase her life long dream of being a writer, sat down in front of her laptop, and wrote a story about two men falling in love.

Nell Iris writes gay romance, prefers sweet over angsty, and loves writing diverse and different characters.

Author Links

Blog/Website | Facebook Author Page | Facebook Profile

Twitter: @nellirisauthor | Instagram: @nell_iris | Goodreads

QueeRomance Ink | BookBub



Kassandra Lea

Born to a military family, Kassandra Lea has been reading since she could hold a book. Growing up she wanted to be Batman, then she discovered writing and realized she could be whatever she wanted if she lived vicariously through her characters. When not writing, she can be found hanging out with her dog, pursuing her love of horses, and cheering on the Packers. She lives in southern Wisconsin in an old house with her mother, a gang of furry monsters, and a ghost.

Author Links

Facebook | Twitter: @Cheddarsgal | Instagram | Goodreads


Addison Albright

Addison Albright is a writer living in the middle of the USA. Her stories are gay romance in contemporary, fantasy, and paranormal genres. She generally adds a subtle touch of humor, a smidgen of drama/angst, and a healthy dose of slice-of-life to her stories. Her education includes a BS in Education with a major in mathematics and a minor in chemistry. Addison loves spending time with her family, reading, popcorn, boating, french fries, “open window weather,” cats, math, and anything chocolate. She loves to read pretty much anything and everything, anytime and anywhere.

Author Links

Blog/Website | Facebook Author Page | Facebook Profile | Twitter

BookBub | QueeRomance Ink | Amazon

Newsletter sign-up | Instagram: (@addison.albright) | Audible




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your choice of ebooks from each author’s backlist (3 books for each of 3 winners)

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Guest · Release Blitz

Special Guest: Maggie Blackbird

My very special guest today is the wonderful Maggie Blackbird with her latest release: The third book in her fabulous Matawapit Family Series – Sanctified.



The Matawapit Family Series Book 3
by Maggie Blackbird
Genre: Inspirational Contemporary Romance
In the midst of a battle for leadership at their Ojibway community, two
enemies of opposing families fall in love…​
After suffering a humiliating divorce, infuriated Catholic Jude Matawapit bolts to his
family’s Ojibway community to begin a new job—but finds himself
thrown into a battle for chief as his brother-in-law’s campaign
manager. The radical Kabatay clan, with their extreme ideas about
traditional Ojibway life, will stop at nothing to claim the
leadership position and rid the reserve of Western culture and its
religion once and for all, which threatens not only the
non-traditional people of the community, but Jude’s chance at a
brand-new life he’s creating for his children.
Recovering addict Raven
Kabatay will do anything to win the respect and trust of her older
siblings and mother after falling deep into drug addiction that
brought shame and anger to her family. Not only does she have the
opportunity to redeem herself by becoming her brother’s campaign
manager for chief—if he wins, she’ll have the reserve’s backing
to purchase the gold-mine diner where she works, finally making
something of herself. But falling in love with the family’s sworn
enemy—the deacon’s eldest son, Jude—will not just betray the
Kabatay clan. It could destroy everything Raven believes in and has
worked so hard for.
sanctified teaser 1.png


Jude shouldn’t care if Raven was about to undress. He’d seen many students remove their outerwear in class. But the down parka on Raven didn’t swallow her ballerina-lithe body like a garbage bag. The coat was the fashionable snug style, silhouetting her supple form. Long strands of black hair lay against her sharper-than-razors cheekbones.

Her perfectly applied winged eyeliner gave her slanted black eyes a mysterious cat-shape appeal. Rich burgundy lipstick, matching the shade of his tie, plumped her lips to a sensual pout, or maybe her mouth naturally retained a pucker. As she stood to drape the parka over the chair, she gave him a nice view of the skinny jeans painted on her slender thighs and gently rounded butt.

She whipped her head around, peeking at him through the fringe of her super-long lashes.

Heat climbed onto Jude’s face. He shoved the pen back into his mouth and chewed on the cap. Adult or not, she was a student—his student. Maintaining a professional distance was a must.

Raven’s moist-looking mouth tugged at the corners. A hint of triumph flashed in her eyes. Well, well, she’d stolen a look purposely, expecting him to check her out. A hot coal flared in Jude’s chest. He rounded his desk, ensuring to move slowly, heels clicking one after the other on the floor. She’d get the hint he meant business.

“Why don’t you catch up on your lessons. There’s no point in reviewing the next one until you’re finished those.” He used his pen to point in her direction. Traditionalist or not, she could suck up his supposed rudeness. In his world, pointing told another a man wasn’t screwing around or willing to play games.

Raven sat. She flipped open her textbook and binder.

“Which lesson are you working on?”

“History. A pity. We are the First People, but it’s all about…those who sailed over here.” Her husky voice, deeper than most women’s, with a light scratch to the tone was sensual nails grazing Jude’s skin.

He gripped and re-gripped the pen. “At my former school, we were building the curriculum into the current courses.”

“Did you teach high school or elementary? You taught for the Catholic Board of Education, didn’t you?”


“I see.” Raven lowered her head. Her black hair veiled her face. Not narrow like Clayton’s hawkish looks. The hollowed cheeks, delicate long nose, and tapering chin complemented Raven’s smoky eyes and wide mouth. A traditional diamond-shaped face like the Indigenous people of the old days.

No wonder she’d stolen a glimpse at Jude when she’d removed her parka. Raven was probably used to men gawking at her wherever she went. If the fashion designers ever took a chance on hiring Indigenous women to model, they’d be scrambling to photograph Raven.

Why was he still thinking about her anyway? This was ridiculous.

Jude plopped in the chair. If she didn’t require assistance on her lessons, she should’ve finished her assignments at home. All Raven had done was make him stay late.



The Matawapit Family Series Book 2
Genre: Contemporary Inspirational Romance
A single woman battles to keep her foster child from his newly-paroled
father—a dangerous man she used to love.
Bridget Matawapit is an Indigenous activist, daughter of a Catholic deacon,
and foster mother to Kyle, the son of an Ojibway father—the
ex-fiancé she kicked to the curb after he chose alcohol over her
love. With Adam out on parole and back in Thunder Bay, she is
determined to stop him from obtaining custody of Kyle.
Adam Guimond is a recovering alcoholic and ex-gangbanger newly-paroled.
Through counselling, reconnecting with his Ojibway culture and
twelve-step meetings while in prison, Adam now understands he’s
worthy of the love that frightened him enough to pick up the bottle
he’d previously corked. He can’t escape the damage he caused so
many others, but he longs to rise like a true warrior in the pursuit
of forgiveness and a second chance. There’s nothing he isn’t willing
to do to win back his son–and Bridget.
When an old cell
mate’s daughter dies under mysterious circumstances in foster care,
Adam begs Bridget to help him uncover the truth. Bound to the plight
of the Indigenous children in care, Bridget agrees. But putting
herself in contact with Adam threatens to resurrect her long-buried
feelings for him, and even worse, she risks losing care of Kyle, by
falling for a man who might destroy her faith in love completely this time.
redeemed teaser 1



The Matawapit Family Series Book 1
Genre: Contemporary M/M Inspirational Romance
It’s been ten years since Emery Matawapit sinned, having succumbed to
temptation for the one thing in his life that felt right, another
man. In six months he’ll make a life-changing decision that will
bar him from sexual relationships for the rest of his life.
Darryl Keejik has a decade-long chip on his shoulder, and he holds Emery’s
father, the church deacon, responsible for what he’s suffered: the
loss of his family and a chance at true love with Emery. No longer a
powerless kid, Darryl has influence within the community—maybe more
than the deacon. Darryl intends on using his power to destroy Deacon
Matawapit and his church.
Hoping to save the church, Emery races home. But stopping Darryl is harder
than expected when their sizzling chemistry threatens to consume
Emery. Now he is faced with the toughest decision of his life: please
his devout parents and fulfill his call to the priesthood, or remain
true to his heart and marry the man created for him.
This is very erotic book about a spiritual journey.

blessed teaser 2


blessed teaser 3
An Ojibway from Northwestern Ontario, Maggie resides in the country with
her husband and their fur babies, two beautiful Alaskan Malamutes.
When she’s not writing, she can be found pulling weeds in the
flower beds, mowing the huge lawn, walking the Mals deep in the bush,
teeing up a ball at the golf course, fishing in the boat for walleye,
or sitting on the deck at her sister’s house, making more wonderful
memories with the people she loves most.
Follow the tour HERE
for exclusive excerpts, guest posts and a giveaway!


Release Blitz · Uncategorized

Fighting Chances: Release Day


Today I am celebrating the release of Fighting Chances: a Charity Anthology of Enemies-to-Lovers MM Romance by 10 fabulous authors.


Each book sale at $2.99 gives the org about $2, which is what costs to feed a child healthy meals for a week.



An opportunity to put his hands around his enemy’s… neck.

What can a man do when the spark of hate ignites the fire of passion? Can desire bridge the gap between two men on opposite sides of a fence? A kitchen isle? What about a war? 

Can love heal years of resentment and little hurts? And is the line between hate and love really all that thin?

In these almost 200,000 words of stories by well-loved M/M authors united by a common cause, you can find men in conflict with each other and with themselves… ready to give love a fighting chance.



The Duke & Dandy: Review


Thank you so much @ THE QUILLE AND LAMPE

The Duke & Dandy Highwayman Trilogy Review


This was a beautiful intro to an amazing Authoress! It’s bad enough that I’m a total sucker for historicals and erotica but when combined perfectly? Implosion! I loved this book so much that I spent a week dipping into it again and again (let’s not mention that I read it from beginning to end twice immediately) because I was slain. From the first page, it delivered well-written dialogue that sucked me in. From the moment out heroes met, there are sparks and fireworks sizzling through the air and my veins. I felt almost sorry for Mr. Highwayman because the Potent Prince is a law unto himself with his own gravitational pull and a mind like a titanium trap…

review cont…


cover reveal · Guest

Fighting Chances: cover reveal

Cover Reveal for the Charity Anthology

❤ Fighting Chances ❤


Can love heal years of resentment and little hurts? And is the line between hate and love really all that thin?

In these almost 200,000 words of stories by well-loved M/M authors united by a common cause, you can find men in conflict with each other and with themselves… ready to give love a fighting chance.

Pre-order at only $2.99 –> https://smarturl.it/FightingChances

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For a chance to win a free copy, share
on you wall/group.
Every 50 entries, a copy will be given away!
Help make this anthology a success for children! ❤

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cover reveal

Charity Anthology: Fighting Chances

Coming Soon:
fightingchances COVER reveal2.jpg
#AlmostACoverReveal #ImaTeaseSorryNotSorry
Are you intrigued yet…?
Tags in these enemies-to-lovers stories:

#contemporaryMMRomance #nerdjock #sizeDifferences #BigSmall #baker #nerd #Crossdressing #MistakenIdentity #lingerie #manties #SecondChanceRomance #biracial #closeted #alwaysaBridesmaid #SistersBestFriend #wartime #WarEnemies #Soldiers #Magic

Guest · Release Blitz

Guests: Quin&Perin – Rich Kids 2



I couldn’t resist hosting today’s guests. I adored Quin-Perin’s recent release – Black – and am partial to a taboo tale. Thus, without further ado…



Book Title: Rich Kids 1+2 (Role Play)

Author: Quin Perin

Publisher: Quin Perin

Release Date: July 11, 2019 (Rich Kids 2)

Genre/s: Taboo, Dark, M/M Romance

Trope/s: Brocest, Forbidden love

Heat Rating: 5 flames

Length: 60 000 words/ 200 pages

Rich Kids 1: HFN

Rich Kids 2: HEA

Add on Goodreads

This is a role play by Quin&Perin. Please check the warning section inside the book.

“Rich Kids” features detailed adult m/m content


Buy Links – Available on Kindle Unlimited

Rich Kids 1 – 99c for a limited time

Rich Kids 2



Forbidden lust. Forbidden love.


My name is Nathaniel Preston. Second son of the Preston estate.

I’ve been raised to be perfect, to be ahead of every game, not to do wrong. Sem, my crass and vain older half-brother, is the complete opposite of me. All he seeks is his next high. To get there, he cheats, blackmails, and seduces.

Which wouldn’t be a problem, if one day he didn’t decide to tape me in a very compromising position…




With a last drag on my cigarette, I pushed the door to the kitchen open. And once I did, silence broke. I could hear something. Sounds that sparked flames inside my gut, twitching to life. The kitchen’s old chimney was connected to the one on the upper level, the one in father’s bedroom.

I heard moans, grunts; I heard furniture move, scrape across the hardwood floor. Goosebumps spread across my skin, making me forget what I was here for. I put out my cigarette and tossed the rest of it into the sink. Someone was fucking in his house, in our father’s bedroom. I just had to find out who.

With a grin in place, I took off, back down the hallway, up the stairs. I used the railing to pull myself up faster. I felt like a child, so fucking excited that my mind raced to all kinds of options. Perhaps it was one of our maids or the gardener. But Jesus, in my father’s bed? That was quite bold. I loved it. So forbidden. So taboo. My favorite kind. I couldn’t stop grinning as I headed down the hallway to his bedroom. My heart thundered in my chest as my hand closed around the door handle. I counted to three, listening in on the lewd noises that were so much clearer now. So much louder. Unhinged. Like in a really dirty dream. Or a porno.

In one quick move, I yanked the tall door open, and my heart almost stopped. Jesus Fucking Christ. There were three men in the middle of the bed. Two blonds, lean, tanned, on either side of…Nate.



I needed Nate, and he needed me.

To breathe, to stay somewhat sane. Which was funny because before we began seeing each other, we’d both been running around like headless chickens. Or cocks? Roosters. Anyway. Now, almost two years later, we’d settled into a routine. Something I thought I would hate. Routine. But with him, it was never predictable. Never boring. Nate kept me on my toes. Ever the brat I left behind. And while he’d begged me not to go and called me crazy for telling him to fuck other guys, I knew better. Nate was a cockslut. My cockslut, but one nonetheless. He would venture out eventually, most likely when we were fighting, which happened rather frequently. Then he’d fuck around and crawl back on his hands and knees when he was done — begging for forgiveness.

It was how he worked. How he functioned.

He loved sex, but he craved the control he could gain from it.

To hurt me. To make me mad. To be the hunter, not the prey.

So, I figured, I’d best give him rules, make it less taboo, a game we both played, before he could act out and destroy both of us in the process. He was allowed to fuck anyone if (1) he told me about it, (2) live streamed or recorded it, and (3) played safe. No one was going bare with him. No one.


About the Authors

As a pair of genre rebels, Quin and Perin—from the US and Germany—are constantly maneuvering time zones and plot bunnies to whip up Gay Novels. Expect plenty of heat and elevated smut. With a dash of drama, a pinch of sweet, and a hefty amount of kink on the side, they serve up stories that will leave you full and satisfied.


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Release Blitz

Charity Anthology: Come Play

Out now…a wonderful anthology of stories to support the most worthy of charities:

All proceeds will be donated to




Book Title: Come Play – An MM Erotica Charity Anthology

Authors: Quin Perin, A.G. Carothers, E.M. Denning, Emma Jaye, K.C. Wells,

Lynn Van Dorn, Luna David, Sara Dobie Bauer, T.M. Chris, T.S. McKinney

Cover Artist: Morningstar Ashley

Release Date: June 11, 2019

Genre/s: M/M Erotica, M/M BDSM

Trope/s: Including hurt/comfort, first time, forbidden and others

Themes: Anthology includes BDSM and erotica.

It has a wide variety of tastes/themes

Heat Rating: A mix of 4 and 5 flames.

This anthology features a collection of erotic MM short stories.

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Watch and Learn if the Coach’s Little Kitten can be Tamed.

Follow the Doctor’s Orders and read all about Brotherly Love.

Understand Abstract Love and then take a peek at A Kink Chronicles Short.

It’s all about Pretty Boys, The Kiss, and Particular Tastes bundled up in this must-have erotic anthology.


Come, play with us.

Abstract Love by Sara Dobie Bauer

A Kink Chronicles Short by Luna David

Brotherly Love by Lynn Van Dorn

Coach’s Little Kitten by Quin Perin

Doctor’s Orders by Emma Jaye

Particular Tastes by T.S. McKinney

Pretty Boy by E.M. Denning

Tamed by T.M. Chris

The Kiss by A.G. Carothers

Watch and Learn by K.C. Wells

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Buy Links – Available on Kindle Unlimited

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Quin Perin

A.G. Carothers

E.M. Denning

Emma Jaye

K.C. Wells

Lynn Van Dorn

Luna David

Sara Dobie Bauer

T.M. Chris

T.S. McKinney


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Guest · Release Blitz · Reviews

Special Guest: Addison Albright


I couldn’t be more chuffed to participate in the Release Blitz of Addison Albright’s new novel The Best-Laid Plans

I am a huge fan of her writing, which never fails to whisk you to whichever world you are fortunate to find yourself in.  I was delighted to find that a follow-up to The Contingency Plan was on its way as I’d longed to learn what fate had in store for our newly wedded Princes…



The Best-Laid Plans picks up where the first story left off and sweeps you to its faraway kingdom with the warmth of a familiar friend. Addison Albright has a true gift for storytelling. No matter whether we are castaway on a desert island or whisked to a world realms away from this, it is a place inhabited by characters who feel as real as their stories are resonant. The Best-Laid plans is an enthralling adventure that seems far more realistic than many a more mundane tale. Characters who are relatable despite their lofty status, crafted with a depth that far exceeds its length. I adored Prince Marcelo, whose self-perceived flaws make him braver than he believes and as believable as he is beautifully written. Prince Efren is magnificent; a hero as compelling as he is charismatic. The Best-Laid Plans is the perfect follow up to The Contingency Plan; a thrill ride of derring-dos and developing love that delivers far more than a fairytale happy ever after. I loved it.




Book Title: The Best-Laid Plans (Plans, book #2)

Author: Addison Albright

Publisher: JMS Books, LLC

Cover Artist: Written Ink Designs

Genre/s: M/M Fantasy Romance

Tropes: abduction, hurt/comfort, princes

Heat Rating: 3 flames

Length: 28 130 words

Release Date: June 1, 2019

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A death that wasn’t what it seemed…
A kidnapping that isn’t what it seems…
Time is running out.

The morning after his wedding night, Prince Marcelo thought he’d be embarking on a journey to his own personal fairytale happily ever after with his husband, Efren, the crown prince of Zioneven. But when news arrives indicating his sister’s death wasn’t as accidental as previously thought, that journey becomes fraught with danger.

Enmeshed in political intrigue, death, and a kidnapping that might not be what it seems, will Efren untangle the web of misleading clues in time to save the naïve young man he’s already come to admire, or will Marcelo dig deep to discover a previously untapped inner strength and determination to facilitate his own survival?

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Chapter 3: …Oft Go Awry


Efren blinked rapidly as he came awake with a start. He stared into the darkness and mentally shook the cobwebs from his mind. What had awoken him? Marcelo lay softly breathing in his arms, as relaxed and peaceful as only the innocent can truly be.

Around him, the night was silent. Too silent? He strained to hear the patrols rustling through the grasses, or the faint trills of their signals to each other.

A breeze swirled through the branches of the trees in the distance, rippling the leaves. Crickets chirped, apparently unconcerned about whatever either was or wasn’t going on in the meadow.

And footsteps. Quiet, approaching footsteps. It must be time for the shift change. That’s what had awoken him. Efren relaxed and nestled Marcelo tighter against him. One at a time, the guards would come in and wake their replacements.

Except—Efren tensed, then maneuvered his arm out from under Marcelo’s head and eased himself from under the blankets—the footsteps, furtively stopping and restarting, were approaching from multiple directions.

Efren shivered as goosebumps rose on his naked skin in the chilled night air and soundlessly slipped his broadsword and knife from their leather scabbard. He glanced at Marcelo, still sleeping, although less serenely with the sudden loss of the warm body next to him.

Guilt pinged his core as he shook off a strong desire to waken and forewarn Marcelo, but he pushed it down. Marcelo, completely untrained in warfare, would be safer in here. He seemed a heavy sleeper, likely incorporating outside noises into his dreams, unused to a need to be readily alert. He might even doze through the skirmish.

Or was that just wishful thinking? Because there’d be no hope that Marcelo could escape unseen, if it came to that.

Surely it would be better for such an innocent to be killed in his sleep, or with scarcely a brief moment of shock beforehand than to spend minutes quaking in terror, unable to defend himself.

Efren shook off his doubts and quickly pushed out the weighty flap, sword raised ready, and opened his mouth to yell an alert to awaken any of his warriors who hadn’t already sensed the looming danger, same as he had. But the breath he drew to strengthen his voice instead choked him.

He’d never before smelled these fumes, but the pungent, wet-dog odor had been described to him. The material of their tents was heavily treated to keep the toxin producing that odor from permeating the walls and closed flaps.

Icy apprehension slithered across Efren’s skin before settling in the pit of his gut. This was a completely unexpected development. The alchemists from the kingdom of Proye who’d developed this toxin—and unfailingly guarded the recipe—called it “Knockout.”

As Efren’s sword arm dropped, followed swiftly by his eyes rolling back in his head and his body slumping in a boneless crumple, a corner of his brain recognized how fittingly it was named, and hoped that enough of it had entered the tent through the briefly opened flap that Marcelo would succumb before Proye agents executed whatever they had planned. They’d been married for less than two days, and already he’d failed his innocent, young husband.

Copyright 2019 Addison Albright

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About the Author

Addison Albright is a writer living in the middle of the USA. Her stories are gay romance in contemporary, fantasy, and paranormal genres. She generally adds a subtle touch of humor, a smidgen of drama/angst, and a healthy dose of slice-of-life to her stories. Her education includes a BS in Education with a major in mathematics and a minor in chemistry. Addison loves spending time with her family, reading, popcorn, boating, french fries, “open window weather,” cats, math, and anything chocolate. She loves to read pretty much anything and everything, anytime and anywhere.

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Read how the story began…


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