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Riverdance Anthology Prerelease Blitz

3/15/2016

Title: Riverdance
Authors: L. J. Hamlin, Asta Idonea, Dale Cameron Lowry, Morwen Navarre, Lynn Townsend.
Editor: Deelylah Mullin
Cover Artist: Kris Norris
Publisher: Torquere Press
Release Date: March 15, 2016
Heat Level: 5
Pairing: M/M
Length: 32,900 words
Book/Buy Links: Torquere
Categories: BDSM, Contemporary, Erotica, Fantasy, Humor, M/M Romance, Paranormal

Synopsis

Riverdance is a compilation of all things Irish. From fae flitting hither and thither trying to trick their quarry, to a modern-day Highland games, complete with caber tossing and traditional dance, our romantic compilation of Celtic tales and lore are sure to remind readers that love is the pot-o-gold at the end of the rainbow. Morwen Navarre brings us The Sidhe’s Apprentice—a tale of a young man desperately wanting to be a wizard, like his grandfather, who never banked on falling in love with his mentor. In Finding Balance, Lynn Townsend sets readers in the middle of the Highland games—as well as between two former lovers who need to forgive and forget. L. J. Hamline’s tale, Luck of the Irish, tells of some lucky days that turn into lucky nights. Born of Fire, Dale Cameron Lowry’s offering, brings readers the abduction of a human by fairies—and the greatest lesson of all: love is more than superficial. Finally, Asta Idonea’s The First Swallow of Spring chronicles an annual pilgrimage to the land of the fae, and how the wiley lord tries to keep a human for his own.

Excerpt
From Morwen Navarre’s The Sidhe’s Apprentice:
There was nothing for it but to follow the path which Master Lorcán had indicated. Master Lorcán's parting words had not been comforting, and Alistair had a feeling this Master Cianán would be no warmer.

Alistair took the opportunity to look around as he walked, wondering how much magic was required to maintain this place. The transition was completely seamless, as though the door to the embassy had been a gate to another realm. None of the whispers had even hinted at the existence of such a portal, though, and Alistair was not too sure he would want to ask. The illusion was flawless, the sky a pearly glow above the tall treetops. The light was softer than sunlight, but far brighter than moonlight, and he wondered if it was designed to duplicate the sun of the Sidhe realm. He could hear faint birdsong, and there was a gentle breeze that brought the scent of honeysuckle with it. If this was Sidhe magic, he wanted to learn all he could.

The stream was not very wide, where Alistair approached it. A single stride would take him over it, but he had been told to wait, and not to cross it. Obedience was mandatory for a student of the Sidhe. That much was common knowledge. There was no place to sit, so Alistair stood and waited. He let his thoughts drift, trying to imagine what it would be like to live in this tranquil place for a year and a day.

"Are you contemplating running away? I wouldn't recommend it." The speaker was Sidhe, and there was a definite lilt to his English. Alistair felt his cheeks grow warm, and he bowed hastily as he straightened up. He swallowed as he got a good look at the speaker on the other side of the stream.

Author Bio
Publisher of GLBT fiction books http://www.torquerepress.com to offer the finest in erotic LGBT romance available.
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Omerati by DC Juris Blitz

3/14/2016

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Author: DC Juris

Title: Omarati

Series Title and Number: Soulmates #1

Publisher: Torquere

Cover Artist: Kris Norris

Release Date: March 2, 2016

Heat Level: 5

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 22,086

Categories: Alternative Universe, Erotica, Fantasy, Gay Fiction, M/M Romance,

Book/Buy Links

Goodreads | Torquere

Book Blurb

Everything changed for werewolf Calliph after the Shifter War. Now nothing more than a slave and plaything to human Prince Obyn, Calliph finds himself on the Golden Magus, sailing across the sea with his owner. But fate has something more in mind for Calliph in the form of Ship's First Mate Mateo—who just happens to be Calliph's Omarati—his soul mate... and a werecat.

Heartbroken, Calliph knows he can't stay with Mateo—he is forced to follow wherever Obyn leads. Years later, when an attack at sea lands Mateo in the hands of vicious pirates, the cat discovers that, though time has changed some things, his bond with Calliph is eternal. Previously published by Noble Romance.

Excerpt
"I see no wheel," Obyn observed.
Calliph followed Obyn and Captain Ba'Tal up the walkway to the deck of the Golden Magus. His nostrils twitched, catching a hint of something. Crisp and clean, he could have mistaken the smell for simply the sea itself. There were undertones, though—subtle hints of sweat, musk, and the sharp tang of manhood. The scent mingled with his own, blended harmoniously, nearly drawing a growl from his throat. The smell of a mate, another shifter, but not one of his own kind. No. A cat. And no little tabby, either. The pheromone belonged to a panther.
"No," Ba'Tal said. "These damned elf ships are all controlled by magic nowadays."
"Yes, well, you still need someone to keep her on course."
Calliph looked toward the owner of the voice...the owner of that heavenly scent. The most beautiful man he'd ever laid eyes on. He was short—Calliph had a least a foot on him—with a slender, lithe body, and long dark hair. Strong, firm muscles rippled beneath sun-tanned skin.
"That there'd be my First Mate, Mateo," Ba'Tal said. "This is Obyn and his wolf, Caliph."
"Calliph is not my wolf."
Ba'Tal inclined his head in apology. "Begging your pardon, my Prince. I thought the Queen said he was a shifter."
"He is a shifter." Obyn looked Calliph up and down, upper lip curled into a sneer. "However, wolf is a term reserved for the free of his kind, and he is not free. He is merely a dog."
Calliph swallowed down the words he knew he'd regret.
Mateo turned. A dizzying, hot wind swirled around Calliph as his eyes locked with the man's amber gaze. Time seemed to halt, as the deck seemed to spin in a lazy circle, Calliph in the middle. His head felt heavy and wobbly; his neck and shoulders lacked the strength to support it.
Calliph struggled to make sense of what was happening as a jolt of recognition raced up his spine, even though he'd never met Mateo. His feet seemed to move of their own volition, carrying him forward—answering a call he heard in his heart and felt deep in his bones. Made no sense, yet Calliph kept walking.
"Where do you think you're going?" Obyn demanded, tugging sharply on Calliph's leash.
Calliph's head snapped back and his steps faltered. Obyn. Somehow, he'd actually forgotten about his Master. "To see how it works." He recovered quickly. "With your permission, I'd like to learn the steering mechanism in the event danger should befall our voyage."
Obyn's eyes narrowed and he glanced at Mateo. "Fine. I expect you below deck in an hour."
Ba'Tal lead Obyn away, and Calliph closed the distance to Mateo. "May I?" He nodded toward the steering column.
"Be my guest." Mateo guided Calliph's hand. "Magic controls the orb. Feel that?"
Calliph felt something, but nothing to do with the ship. Mateo's hand on his burned. He fought against the desire to pull Mateo close and smother him with kisses. "What is it?" he asked, not referring to the mechanism.
"You're connected. The magic regulates the pitch of the ship. Left and right—back and forth. Keeps the deck level. Simple, really. You just have to get the feel of it." Mateo pressed his hand down on Calliph's and moved them both slowly from side to side. "There. See? Just a slow, soft touch."
Calliph wasn't interested in the orb—wasn't even looking at it. Mateo tilted his head toward him, bringing their lips inches apart. Calliph's mind reeled. Mateo moved closer; his grip tightened, his breathing quickened. He felt it too. Calliph's gaze dipped to Mateo's lips, parted ever so slightly. Mateo must've licked them a moment ago, because they looked moist. Calliph imagined those lips were soft and warm as well. Oh, so soft and warm. Gods, he wanted to kiss them. Calliph's cock twitched and hardened and he marveled, almost having forgotten what an erection felt like.
Something nudged Calliph's leg and he looked down. A tail. Mateo moved his head; his hair shifted, revealing the sharp upward curve of his ears. Cat though he might have been, Mateo's tail should've been nonexistent, and his ears should've been human ears. Calliph noticed other things then: the fine dusting of dark fur on the back of Mateo's hands, the not quite feline but not quite human shape of his nose and his eyes.
"They're permanent," Mateo interrupted his perusal, obviously used to being questioned.
"How?" Calliph swallowed hard. He knew of only one explanation.
"Alchemists." Mateo hung his head.
Calliph snarled, his suspicions confirmed. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. Can you shift?"
"I can but not for long. The transformation is painful and leaves me exhausted."
That Mateo shared such a fact with him thrilled Calliph. He gestured between the two of them. "You feel it too?"
Mateo's face flushed red; he was panting, trembling. "I do. We're Omarati."
Omarati. An ancient term. No common translation existed; the best Calliph knew was soul mate. Far beyond that, Omarati were shifters who were created—literally—for each other, drawn together by a bond unbreakable, unending. Animal, age, gender—none of that mattered, for Omarati were compatible by design, made to accept and overlook any flaws in favor of their bond. Their hearts and their souls knew each other already, even if their minds had a bit of catching up to do. A connection like this, as far as Calliph knew, existed between no other beings. Mateo's small hand slid into his.
"What are we going to do?" Mateo asked.
Calliph ran a finger under his collar. What indeed.
Author Bio

Romance author, sci-fi fan club Captain, cosplayer, reigning Queen of Monkeyland, and random menace. Yep, we're talking about DC Juris. She’s a cupcake-making, football-watching, rubber-duck-collecting, drag-show loving, full-of-fabulous-with-a-capital-F kinda gal. She's also an ordained minister and an amateur photographer. She lives in Upstate New York with her husband, three dogs, and three cats. When she's not writing, you can find her in her favorite chair watching Star Trek and Supernatural repeats on Netflix, or surfing the web for porn. Er…research. Surfing the web for research. She may speak softly but she lives and loves loudly. Just ask the neighbors. ::wink::
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University of Southern Georgia: Dan & Billy by Heath Greenfield Blitz

3/14/2016

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Author: Heath Greenfield
Title: University of Southern Georgia: Dan and Billy
Series Title and Number: University of Southern Georgia/USG #2
Publisher: Torquere Press
Cover Artist: Kris Norris
Release Date: 3/2/16
Pairing: M/M
Length: 37,100 pages
Categories: Contemporary, Gay Romance, Humor, New Adult

Book/Buy Links

Goodreads | Torquere

Synopsis

Some people know exactly who they are. As a matter of fact, some people can’t help being who they are even if it doesn’t fit into a conventional world. Other people struggle to figure out what that even means. Dan is the first. Billy is the second. Together, they are exactly what each one needs.
When a horrible roommate forces Dan—a theatre major and the apple of his family’s collective eye—to desperate measures, he turns to Billy to save him. What he doesn’t know is that Billy needs him just as much. Billy, the staunch, upright, gay Republican who has secrets of his own, is bowled over by the bright, forthright Dan, and finds himself inconveniently in love. Dan adores a man of conviction, and he’ll force himself to settle for friendship if he must…but as fate has it, things are about to change…

Excerpt

“Billy! Billy, boy!” It was that crazy freshman from one floor down. “Darlin’ Billy! I need your help.”
The guy threw himself at Billy, and if Billy hadn’t reached out and grabbed him, the kid would have hit the floor hard.
“Uh…what’s going on?”
The thought that the kid was cute, but a little overdone, flashed through Billy’s mind. Wait, Billy corrected, not my type.
“Yes, uh, Danny?”
“Dan. My name is Dan…not Danny.”
“Right, Dan. Uh, how can I help you?”
“I knew if I came to you and threw myself on your tender mercies you could not deny my plight.”
“What plight?”
Dan straightened up and plopped himself on the bed across from Billy’s.
“Billy, I need you to provide me safe shelter in these troubled times.”
“Safe shelter? You want to, uh, stay here? With me?” he was confused. “Why?”
“Because, dear Billy, I have found myself with the most dreadful creature on our good God’s green earth.”
“What’s that?”
“A hater.”
Author Bio

Heath Greenfield lives in Port Orange, Florida with family, assorted dogs, cats, and other animals. Having recently taken up gardening to meet with a food obsession and daydreams of urban farming, Heath binge watches documentaries on organic growing and hatches wild schemes to build garden boxes in his down time.
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The Baker, The Butcher, The Candlestick Maker by Rob Rosen Blitz

3/13/2016

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Author: Rob Rosen
Title: The Butcher, the Baker, the Candlestick Maker
Publisher: Torquere Press
Cover Artist: Kris Norris
Release Date: 3/9/16
Pairing: M/M
Length: 10K
Categories: Contemporary, Erotica, Gay Fiction, M/M Romance, Humor

Book/Buy Links

Torquere

Book Blurb

A photography student gets more than he bargains for when he photographs a blond Polish butcher, who he has sex with in the back of the butcher shop; a ginger-haired Irish baker, who he has sex with in the back of the bakery; and a brunette British candlestick maker, who he has sex with in the back of the candle shop. All of the men photographed are in period costume and all have tricks up their sleeves—and, of course, down their pants. In the end, a budding romance evolves between the student and the butcher.

Excerpt
I’d always enjoyed photography. Even as a kid, I’d borrow my dad’s Polaroid and take off to shoot the neighborhood. Now in art school, nothing had changed much. If anything, the passion burned brighter. And so it wasn’t by chance that I enrolled in the photography class that semester, but perhaps fate did play a role in what eventually transpired.
My homework assignment that particular day was called, very simply, “trios.” We could use our fertile imaginations to interpret this any way we wanted to. Me, I wanted to go all out—balls to the wall, as it were. In other words, I wanted an A. And so over the weekend, I biked around town, looking for anything that stood out, anything iconic but unusual just the same.
A pizza parlor, perhaps? Mushroom, pepperoni, and anchovy? Too easy, I figured. Street lights, maybe? Red lights, green lights, yellow lights? Too, uh, pedestrian. How about kids, parents, and grandparents, I thought? Well, they said never to work with children or animals. I couldn’t have agreed more. In other words, nix on that idea, as well. Besides, approaching children and asking to take their picture was never a wise idea.
No, I had to dig deeper, find something unexpected but fun to photograph, something no one else in my class was going to come up with. And so I ended up at Old Times, a local mall dedicated to days gone by. Which, to be quite frank, was generally just another way for the stores to charge extra for crap no one needed. Still, I reasoned, my inevitable photographs would be out of the ordinary.
I looked around, my high-end digital camera at the ready. Luckily, I spotted my prey right off the bat, their storefronts side by side by side. The butcher was on the left, the candlestick maker on the right, the baker in the middle.
Iconic—check. Trio—check. It seemed like I was good to go.
“Whoa,” I whispered as I entered the butcher shop, mainly because the butcher was one mighty fine slab of meat. Grade A prime, in fact—and with one hell of a rump roast to boot. He was dressed in 1930s garb, the uniform tight and white, hugging him in all the right places¬. Then again, by the looks of him, he had no wrong ones to begin with. He had on a fancy straw hat, a white bow tie, a white apron, and heavy black shoes. The sleeves of his white button-down were rolled up to reveal meaty forearms covered in a thick blond down.
In truth, we couldn’t have looked more different. He had three inches and a good thirty pounds on me. He was blond to my brunette, blue eyes to my brown. Plus, he was easily seven or eight years older. Still, in my randy imagination, we made a picture-perfect couple. And since I took perfect pictures, I knew of what I spoke. Cart before horse? Fine, so sue me.
Anyway, he smiled when I approached, his teeth as white as his clothes, gleaming and perfect, eyes a dazzling blue. And when he spoke, “Welcome,” it was with a beautiful, trilling Eastern European accent of some kind. Polish, maybe? Slovakian? Fuck if I cared; it was sexy either way. “Can I help you?” he asked, the smile so bright I very nearly put my sunglasses on.
Hell yeah, I thought, but told him instead the reason for my visit: that I wished to film him for my class. He smiled when I was done and said I could take some pictures when the shop closed at six. Then we wouldn’t be interrupted. I gulped when he said it, mainly because those stunning orbs of blue were locked in on me like a meat hook to a side of beef. I thanked him and told him I’d be back at six.
All the above I repeated at shop number two—the same spiel, the inner monologue only slightly different.
The baker was thin and dreamy, with a white chef’s hat and a white button-down shirt, which was opened at the collar to reveal just the slightest hint of ginger chest hair. Over this, he wore a pristine white apron. His eyes sparkled like green emeralds as he nodded my way, his crisp white uniform showing off his physique as he dexterously stocked the shelves with a beautiful array of fresh pastries and cookies. When he spoke, it was with a lilting Irish brogue that made my cock throb in my jeans. In the end, he invited me back first thing in the morning, before he started baking.
All the above I then repeated at shop number three. By then I had my story down pat.
The candlestick maker’s outfit was the most unusual of the three. He wore not a stitch of white. His shirt was a blousy blue, his vest a clover green, his slacks a muddy brown, and his shoes, heels and all, were a midnight black. His smock, which was covered in wax, was also black, to perfectly match his beret. He wasn’t stocky like the butcher nor thin like the baker, but dreamily average in both height and weight. He had brown hair and brown eyes, and spoke—be still my heart, and hard-on—in a posh British accent. I was thankful that he immediately locked up shop, agreeing to pose for me once he finished his work in the back, leaving me in the front to ponder my good fortune.
Author Bio

Rob Rosen (www.therobrosen.com), award-winning author of the novels Sparkle: The Queerest Book You'll Ever Love, Divas Las Vegas, Hot Lava, Southern Fried, Queerwolf, Vamp, Queens of the Apocalypse, Creature Comfort and Fate, and editor of the anthologies Lust in Time, Men of the Manor, Best Gay Erotica 2015 and Best Gay Erotica of the Year, Volume 1, has had short stories featured in more than 200 anthologies.

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A Taste of Honey by Ari McKay Release Blitz

3/12/2016

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Synopsis

Boone Phillips asks his cross-dressing best friend, Rob "Honey" Coombs, to pretend to be his girlfriend at a family reunion, where he begins to wonder if he's really as straight as he's always believed. When an earth-shattering kiss sends Rob running to protect his heart, Boone has to convince Rob to give him another chance, or his first taste of Honey might also be his last.

Excerpt
He escorted Honey into the club, which was only about half full. That would change as the night wore on and the dancing got started, but for now they were led to a booth near the stage at the edge of one of the dance floors. Boone seated Honey, then slid in beside her as the hostess handed them menus.

Unlike Rob, Honey didn’t maintain a friendly distance. Instead, she scooted close, aligning her thigh against his, and looked at his menu instead of her own. “How hungry are you?” she asked, gazing at him with an all too innocent look in her wide blue eyes. Up close, Boone could see the artfully applied cat eyeliner enhanced by mascara on her natural lashes rather than the large fake lashes she wore when she performed. “We could start with nachos or maybe the stuffed jalapeno peppers and margaritas, of course.”

“I could definitely use a margarita,” Boone said. He couldn’t drink too much, since he was driving, but he felt the need for a little liquid fortification to get through this date with his sanity intact. He kept having to drag his gaze away from Honey, because he was far too fascinated with examining every detail. “The stuffed jalapenos are good, if you want to start with those.”

“Sure, we can share them. I like a little hot spice, don’t you?” she asked, all innocence, but Boone wasn’t fooled.

Boone stared at Honey, weighing his options. He could go through the evening feeling like he was out of his depth, or he could get himself under control and dish out some payback. He knew why Rob was doing this, after all; he wanted to prove that Boone’s plan wouldn’t work because Boone wouldn’t be able to act naturally with Honey. Even though Boone had already decided that he wasn’t going to go through with the plan anyway, his natural competitive streak had been roused, and he wanted to show Honey—and Rob—that he could give as well as he got. It was a game, after all, and Boone wrote games for a living, so he had to try to see if he could win.

“Definitely. Why do you think I asked you out, Ms. Honey?” he drawled with all the southern charm he had.

“Well, I’d like to think it’s because you have exquisite taste and finally noticed the perfection that’s been under your nose all along.” Honey leaned back and gave him a pointed look. “But we both know this level of hotness is too much for you.”

“This is a level of hotness I never even knew existed.” Boone tilted his head to one side, giving her a wink. “But I think I could get to like it.”

“That’s pretty big talk for a straight boy.” Honey nestled closer and leaned her head on his broad shoulder, and he caught a whiff of sandalwood. “I’m not sure you can walk the walk,” she added, stroking his chest with one perfectly manicured hand.

It’s just a game Honey--Rob--is playing with me, Boone told himself firmly. There was no reason to think of it as being anything more. Rob wasn’t really coming on to him, after all, and it wasn’t as if he had never touched his best friend.

“Oh, you might be surprised,” Boone replied. He slid his arm around Honey’s shoulders and leaned closer, breathing deeply. “I like your perfume. Sandalwood is one of my favorite scents. I think the only thing that’s better is cinnamon.”

He felt rather than heard her draw in a startled breath, but then she relaxed against him. “Does that mean if I wore a cinnamon scented perfume, you’d want to eat me up?”

Boone smiled to himself. One point for me. “Now that is an intriguing idea,” he replied. He’d never been big into flirtation before, but he was starting to think he could learn a thing or two from Honey. “Cinnamon scented Honey. Sounds like you could bottle that and make a fortune.”

Author Bio
Ari McKay is the professional pseudonym for Arionrhod and McKay, who collaborate on original m/m fiction. They began writing together in 2004 and finished their first original full length novel in 2011. Recently, they've begun collaborating on designing and creating costumes to wear and compete in at Sci Fi conventions, and they share a love of yarn and cake.
Arionrhod is an avid costumer, knitter, and all-around craft fiend, as well as a professional systems engineer. Mother of two human children and two dachshunds who think they are human, she is a voracious reader with wildly eclectic tastes, devouring romance novels, military science fiction, horror stories and Shakespeare with equal glee. She is currently preparing for the zombie apocalypse.
McKay is an English teacher who has been writing for one reason or another most of her life. She also enjoys knitting, reading, cooking, and playing video games. She has been known to knit in public. Given she has the survival skills of a gnat, she's relying on Arionrhod to help her survive the zombie apocalypse.
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