Summary:
Winter Magic #2
What happens when a player gets played?
Actor Dylan Frasier is known as one of the biggest playboys in Hollywood, infamous for seducing men and women alike. He’s also half in love with his two best friends. Unfortunately, Jason and Ben are madly in love with each other, leaving Dylan the odd man out. When Ben suggests an extended Christmas vacation at a resort modeled after his favorite 80s TV show, Dylan reluctantly agrees. Sure, his heart breaks a bit every time he sees them together, but it’s a vacation in the Bahamas. How bad can it be?
At first, the resort seems like any other. Dylan plans to work on his tan, get laid, and hunt for Hollywood’s most in-demand director – not necessarily in that order. Then he meets Connor, a tennis instructor still hurting from a bad breakup. Connor knows Dylan’s reputation and refuses to be seduced. Dylan sees Connor as just another conquest, but this tropical island isn’t as mundane as it appears. It has its own kind of magic, and it’s about to make things interesting.
Original Review July 2023:
I wanted to read Winter Dreams last Christmas but time had other plans so what better time than Xmas in July to sink my teeth in?😉
Is Dreams as good as the first one, Winter Oranges? No but let's be honest, how many sequels/follow-ups in any form of entertainment is as good? Very few. So I was okay with Dreams not grabbing me quite as tightly as Oranges because it is still a brilliant read. We got to catch up with Jason and Ben and Dylan gets to discover a little winter magic of his own.
Fantasy Island. Awesome scenario for this magical holiday series. I always loved the show when I was a kid, don't recall watching it when it was on primetime but in reruns in the afternoons. So fun. Watching Dylan navigate his not-quite-believing despite what he witnessed with Ben and the snowglobe two years earlier makes for some interesting moments as well as provides me with the urge to smack him one or two times(okay maybe it's in the low double digit area but you get the idea😉). Connor may speak to my more Mama Bear hugs side but he's not without his moments of getting a light smack or two as well.
As equal parts heartbreaking and heartwarming, Dylan and Connor's journey is entertaining, memorable, and worthy of Marie Sexton's Winter Magic moniker. I think it was the friendships that spoke to me the most. Yes, I was rooting for the pair from the minute they met but watching the friendship form first was a nice twist. I say "twist" because we all know that Dylan is not a commitment type of guy so seeing the flirting grow into more was quite lovely.
But it isn't just the budding friendship between our two MCs but also between Dylan, Jason, and Ben. Is Jason a bit too hard or snarky with Dylan at times in reference to his non-commitment history and habits? Sure, but I think if he wasn't Dylan would think something was wrong and that it's just their way because let's face it, Dylan isn't exactly snarky-less toward Jason either.
As for Dylan and Ben, well through Dylan's inner monologues we know he believes himself to be in love with Ben and wonders what would have been had he met the young man first but we also know he understands the boundaries which to me is the first sign that maybe Dylan is finally ready for a change, even if he doesn't see himself. Ben is a very unique gentlemen and it's because of his importance to Dylan that I highly recommend reading Winter Oranges first.
I feel like I've been a bit vague in places but I don't want to spoil anything about Dylan and Connor's story nor do I want to risk spoiling Jason and Ben's story for those who haven't read Winter Oranges. Just know that Winter Dreams, Winter Magic(currently a duology as I have no idea whether the author has plans to expand) really is just that: magical. it is what the holidays are all about: friends, happiness, love, and plenty of heart all wrapped up with a magical infused bow.
Summary:
Law and Supernatural Order #1
I’m the only undead detective in the city. Most people hate my kind, including Jason, the hot new crime lab tech. Despite his prejudice, I want to sink my fangs—and more—into him every time he crosses my path.
When I refuse to drop a forbidden case, I take a gamble and trust Jason. The young deer shifter shows defiance, not fear, but ultimately, he bends to my will.
The dangerous case pushes us together until the tension between us explodes. Soon I realize I like more about Jason than his beautiful body and warm, rich blood. Is there a chance, he’ll stay with me even though I’m a risk to his life, not just his heart?
2nd Edition. This book was previously released in 2015 as Silvia Violet under a different title. It has been re-edited.
Summary:
Seven Corners Shifters #2
I’m having a baby with my best friend to save the family business. He’s NOT in love with me. Is he?
Channarong Saithong, omega tiger shifter, only has time for running his family's restaurant, and pining after his best friend, hot and playful alpha wolf Tristan Bolder. The problem? Tristan wants them to be bros for life. When Channarong’s uncle resurrects an ancient law to steal the business for himself, the only way to stop him is to...have a baby? Channarong wants this baby. With Tristan. In saving his family's business, will Channarong sacrifice his heart?
Tristan Bolder, carefree, fun-loving alpha wolf, wants to goof off with his best friend Channarong forever. Who needs a mate, right? But when Channarong comes to him desperate for help, Tristan can’t say no. Now he's got a baby on the way, an evil uncle to ward off, and no way to tell his best friend about the new-found feelings for him. What's an alpha to do?
Can Channarong save the family business? Can Tristan step up to protect what he loves? Can making a family bring out the truth of their love, and bring them together once and for all?
This is the second book in the Seven Corner Shifters series. Reading book one isn't necessary to enjoy this story, but it is strongly recommended. This book has a HEA and contains occasional strong language, MPREG, and hot, spicy grownup stuff. The omegas are heating up and the alphas are very knotty boys. Get a FREE short story when you join the newsletter family!
Summary:
Haunted Love #3
Peter Thorne has a secret—he can bring the dead back to life.
When Peter’s mother died, she passed him the touch of life and made him promise to use his abilities wisely. Unable to bring her back and afraid of being caught or causing too much imbalance in the world, Peter vowed to use his gift only on plants. After all, with people, sometimes dead is better.
Or that is what Peter thinks until he takes a gardening job at Benes Manor. The mystery of a missing girl, an old gothic home, and the whispers and tempting caresses of a ghost in his room lead him to delve deeper into his powers than ever before. Perhaps he can find the missing girl and the origins of his ghostly visitor, if only he knew who to trust—and who and what to touch.
Gardening with a Ghost is part of the MM paranormal romance collaboration Haunted Love.
You're a beautiful monster, and fate has bound us together for life.
After the murder of his parents, the rules of high society dictate that omega werewolf Shay find an alpha mate—and fast. While struggling with his overwhelming grief and being forced into a marriage he's never wanted, his courting celebration yields yet another nightmare when fate makes an unfortunate appearance.
Alfie is a gossip reporter and alpha werewolf who latches onto the same theory as everyone else; that Shay is responsible for the deaths of his parents. When Alfie sneaks into a courting party to get a look at the guilty young man for his column, he expects to see a murderer, but finds his fated mate instead.
Despite mutual disdain, Shay and Alfie are now inescapably entangled—all while a double homicide remains unsolved.
As their affections grow, so does the danger to their lives. Shay and Alfie might be fated, but can love conquer suspicion, grief, and the threat of death?
Winter Dreams by Marie Sexton
Chapter 1
They say insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. It must be true. God knows it could only be insanity that made me agree to this vacation. Why else would I spend the next thirty-one days with Jason and Ben knowing it’ll result in nothing but heartache? I love them both so much it hurts. Watching them together is like feeling my heart slowly shatter over and over again, and yet I can’t stand to stay away from them either.
So here I am, on an airplane with them two days after Thanksgiving, bound for a tropical resort, Christmas be damned. We’d debated flying first class, but we were already spending a fair amount on this month-long vacation, so we settled for business class instead. Still not enough leg room for my six-foot-one body, but the drinks are free, so I’m not complaining.
“I’m so excited,” Ben says. “Can you believe we’re actually going to Fantasy Island?” He’s sitting between Jason and I on the airplane, having volunteered for the middle seat. Even now, almost two years after his miraculous appearance in Jason’s life, Ben comes across all innocence and bright-eyed enthusiasm. He’d sent off for a paper brochure from the resort because he said reading it on his phone was “dumb.” Watching him flip through it, I wonder if he’ll ever become as jaded as the rest of us.
I hope not.
“They have nine restaurants,” Ben tells us as he studies the brochure. “Two golf courses, plus miniature golf. Oh my gosh, I love miniature golf! A bunch of tennis courts. That’s boring. Four pools, one with a swim-up bar. Dylan will like that. A lazy river. I love lazy rivers! A zipline course, and parasailing. I’m working up my nerve for those. Birdwatching and dolphin-watching cruises. We have to do both of those. Scuba diving. Nope, that’s way too scary. Snorkeling. That’s less scary. Kayaks and canoes, plus stand-up paddle surfing.” He frowns. “I don’t even know what that is. A full gym. Yuck. I’m not going there. And a full-service salon and spa.”
“Definitely going there,” I say. Although unlike Ben, I’ll have to spend a fair amount of time at the gym as well. My current role is a recurring part on the HBO series Lords of Dragon Beach, often described as Baywatch meets Sons of Anarchy. I’m thirty-one years old. My metabolism still keeps me thin, thank God, and given my tall, lanky frame, I’ll never have huge, bulging muscles like the rest of the Dragon Beach cast, no matter how many weights I lift. I aim for strong, wiry, and toned. My character, dubiously named Houston McCormick, is scripted for five of each season’s ten episodes, and somehow, the writers always find an excuse for me to be shirtless.
I’ve never been so aware of my abs.
Ben laughs and holds the brochure up for me to read. “Look, this line is right out of the TV show. ‘A place where all your fantasies come true.’”
“I still can’t believe they can call it Fantasy Island, if it was a TV show first,” I answer. “Isn’t that a copyright violation or something?”
Jason shrugs. He took the window seat, and he sits with his forehead against the pane. He hasn’t cut his hair in a while, and the sun shines through his dark blond waves and highlights the faint freckles across his nose. “Fantasy Island Vacation Resort. I assume it’s owned by the same company that made the show. MGM or whoever.”
“Columbia Pictures,” Ben says. When I turn to him in surprise, he shrugs. “What? It says it during the opening credits.”
Jason and I smile at each other over his head, like parents amused by their child.
Ben turns to me. “So, what’s your fantasy, Dylan?”
Doesn’t he know better than to ask me loaded questions?
“Being sandwiched between you and Scarlett Johansson—all of us naked, of course—in a giant bowl of lime Jell-o.”
Ben blushes, just like I knew he would. Jason calls him Snow White sometimes, and it’s an apt description. Ben has blue eyes, and hair even thicker and darker than mine, so black it reflects shades of purple. He’s not as pale as he used to be, but it’s still easy to see the heat rise up his cheeks.
I lean close enough to kiss him. I can’t help but think how sweet it would be to do just that. “You’re wondering if you’re in front of me or behind me in this fantasy, aren’t you?”
Ben grins and ducks his head. Jason turns away from the window long enough to glare at me. “Dylan’s fantasy is to fuck every single person on this island before the month is out.”
I laugh. “That’s not a fantasy, honey. That’s a prophecy waiting to be fulfilled.”
Jason rolls his eyes at me at and goes back to staring out the window. Annoyed, because I never change? Hurt, because of our shared past? Or simply bemused, because he and Ben have something I’ll never be privy to, and he knows it’s far better than what I have?
I wish I knew.
“I don’t understand the premise of this TV show anyway,” I say. “People could go to this island to live out their fantasies, and yet it wasn’t all porn?”
Ben’s stunned. “You haven’t seen it?”
“It went off the air years before I was born.”
“There’s a reboot,” Jason offers. “And Blumhouse made a movie.”
“Still haven’t seen it.”
“It’s all about being careful what you wish for,” Ben tells me. “Like one couple thought they wanted to go to a time and place with old-fashioned, traditional values, so Mr. Roarke sends them to this colonial village. They love it at first, but then they realize they’re in Salem, and the rules are super strict. They can’t even dance or play music. And then this little boy gets a fever, and the woman gives him an aspirin out of her purse, and she gets accused of witchcraft, so she has to run from the mob so they don’t burn her alive at the stake.”
“Jesus,” I say, shocked. “That’s not a fantasy. That’s a nightmare.”
“Mr. Roarke liked scaring the shit out of people,” Jason says. “It’s melodramatic, but it gets pretty dark at times, too.”
“That’s what I’m in for?” I ask. “Dark melodrama?”
Jason laughs. “Something like that.”
“You still haven’t given me a serious answer,” Ben says to me. “If this were really Fantasy Island, like on the TV show, what would your fantasy be?”
It’s a good question. Sometimes, I wish I’d realized how much I needed Jason before he’d stopped needing me, but to claim Jason for myself would have meant leaving Ben trapped in his magical prison forever. As much as I wish things had gone differently, I can’t look in Ben’s sweet, guileless face and wish him gone.
In all actuality, my fantasy would be to stop being myself and become either one of them, for the rest of my life. I’ve spent untold hours wondering which would be better—to be Ben, and have Jason’s undying devotion? Or to be Jason, and have Ben’s sweet, pure heart? Being either one of them would be a thousand times better than being me.
Jason speaks up before I can formulate another smartass answer in lieu of the truth.
“If this were really a place where somebody’s greatest dreams could come true,” Jason says, “Dylan’s would have nothing to do with sex and everything to do with his career.” He stares at me in that way he’s always had, with an expression that tells me he knows me front to back. I’m an old, ratty script he’s read a hundred times. He knows every line of dialog.
And every gaping plot hole, one of which he’s just remembered.
He narrows his eyes at me. “Four weeks at Fantasy Island, missing casting calls? Only if there’s something else to be gained.”
“The next season of Lords of Dragon Beach starts filming in January. I’m tired of being the palest guy on the set.”
“There’s no way you agreed to a whole month on this island just so you can work on your tan,” Jason says. “You could have done that in California.”
See? He could always see right through me.
Except when it had mattered the most.
“You’re right,” I admit. “I have an ulterior motive.” I pull out my phone and show them a picture. “This is who I’m looking for. I hear he likes to winter here. So if you see him, do me a favor and let me know.”
Ben eyes the picture, shock and disdain warring on his face. “Oh my gosh, Dylan. He’s twice your age. And…” He frowns and pats the air around his stomach, too sweet to say the word “fat.”
“Dylan’s not out to seduce him,” Jason explains. “Although I’m sure he’d be willing, if he thought it would help.”
“I don’t understand,” Ben says.
“That’s JP Frederick,” Jason tells him. “He’s one of the most in-demand directors in Hollywood right now.”
“Exactly,” I say, putting away my phone. “Rumor has it, he’s been asked to direct two Marvel films over the next six years.”
And Jason’s right. There’s nothing I won’t do to land a role in that universe. I’ll beg. I’ll bargain. I’ll suck his cock. I’ll let him fuck me every conceivable way, if that’s what it takes, although admittedly, I hope it doesn’t go that far. I never have learned to bottom with any kind of grace. With any luck, a few drinks and a round of golf will suffice.
“What about you?” I ask Ben. “If this is really Fantasy Island, then what’s your fantasy?”
“Oh, I don’t have one. I already got my biggest wish ever. I know better than to tempt fate.”
Jason elbows Ben and nods toward me. “Maybe you should wish for Scarecrow over there to grow a heart.”
Ben frowns at him. “You’re thinking of the Tin Man. Scarecrow needed a brain.”
Jason grins at me. “Dylan needs both.”
“Boy, you crack yourself up, don’t you?” I ask.
But to my surprise, Ben doesn’t laugh. “Dylan already has a heart and a brain,” he says to Jason. “What he needs is—”
“A clue?” Jason says.
“A drink,” I tell him, looking around for the flight attendant.
Ben scowls at us both. “Fine. Don’t listen to me.” He elbows me, harder than he needs to. “Let me out. I need to use the bathroom.”
I do as he says, letting him slip past me before reclaiming my seat. Jason’s gone back to staring out the window. “Hey, JayWalk.”
He smiles. I haven’t called him that in a while. “What?”
“Ben knows this isn’t really a magical island, right? I mean, it isn’t even all-inclusive.”
“Of course he knows it isn’t magical. You know Ben. He’s just…” He waves his hand, trying to find a word.
“Fanciful?” I offer. “Romantic?”
He smiles, his love for Ben written all over his face. “Adorable.”
And there it goes again, my heart shattering into a thousand little pieces.
The Commonwealth of the Bahamas is comprised of more than seven hundred islands, cays, and islets. One of these, roughly nine square miles in size, is our destination.
After a brief layover in Miami, we board a smaller plane and take to the skies again. I’m on my third drink by then and feeling damned good. Ben’s frowning at me. Jason doesn’t bother being annoyed.
We have to clear customs before leaving the airport. All three of us hold our breath when it’s Ben’s turn. His ID and passport are fake, but they’re the best money can buy—I should know, I’m the one who paid for them—and the customs agent barely bats an eye as she waves Ben through.
From the airport, we’re shuttled to a seaside dock. On the bright side, we get to surrender our luggage, with assurances it’ll be delivered to our rooms after we check in. I’m happy I don’t have to lug mine the rest of the way. Jason and Ben can tease me about having an extra-large suitcase, plus a garment bag, but I don’t expect them to understand. After all, Jason lives in jeans, T-shirts, and hoodies, but when it comes to fashion, I have higher standards. I prefer a more tailored, upscale look, and like it or not, that means luggage, and lots of it. I thought I did well packing only one garment bag instead of two, even though it means I’ll have to iron most of my shirts before I wear them.
We’re herded onto a small, enclosed water taxi that smells like sweat with an underlying taint of vomit. We find three empty seats and sit shoulder-to-shoulder with two dozen other travelers, all bound for Fantasy Island Vacation Resort. The sea’s bumpy, the boat cramped and stuffy. I’d much rather be on the deck, but it seems to be reserved for the crew and the few people who are already seasick.
“I hate to complain,” Ben says quietly, “but this isn’t feeling very magical right now.”
For Ben, who’s always cheerful no matter what, this simple statement borders on mutiny. “Hey,” Jason says, “even on the show, guests had to fly on that tiny little pontoon plane to get there, right?”
“True. But somehow, it seemed a lot more romantic.”
I want to touch his cheek. Maybe kiss him and promise him he’ll have plenty of romance this month. Mostly, I just want to see him smile again, but of course it’s not my place, and Jason’s already on it, whispering in Ben’s ear. Whatever he says makes Ben grin and shift in his seat, trying to hide an erection.
One more little crack in my heart.
We eventually dock and emerge from the water taxi. As soon as the sun hits his face, Ben’s lack of faith disappears and his smile returns.
“Oh my gosh. Jason, look!” He bounces on his toes in excitement, pointing. “It really does look like Fantasy Island.”
I’ve never seen the show, but based on Ben’s gushing, the resort has gone to great lengths to replicate the set of the old TV show. We disembark onto a dock, then through a thatched hut, although Ben assures me this one’s twice as big as Mr. Roarke’s. Ahead of us, the gates to Fantasy Island Vacation Resort loom. Women in red and white flowered dresses line the sidewalk along the way, offering trays of fruity drinks.
“What is it?” Ben asks as we each take one.
“A mango daiquiri,” the woman tells him.
“Oh, that sounds yummy.” He takes a sip, and his eyes go wide. “Oh my gosh, this is so good, isn’t it? I think this is my new favorite thing.”
Despite his enthusiasm, he won’t finish it. Sometimes I think his time in the globe messed with his metabolism. He eats like a horse, but never gains weight. He only sleeps about five hours a night, and he’s a serious lightweight when it comes to alcohol. Half a daiquiri will make him loopy. A full one will put him right to sleep.
Not to worry though. A double-shot, double-pump caramel latte will have him awake and ready to go again in no time.
We’re in no hurry to get inside. The weather’s a perfect seventy-six degrees, the sun warm on our faces. In addition to the hotel, there’s an elaborate garden and a sprawling white house, just like Mr. Roarke’s, according to Ben. The building’s utilitarian in nature, housing an urgent care and pharmacy in one half, and island security in the other, but that doesn’t diminish Ben’s excitement. He oohs and aahs, and I hold his drink while he takes a billion pictures with his phone. Thirty minutes later, we make it through the front door of the towering hotel, where it soon becomes clear the drinks are only to distract us from the enormous line for check-in. We opt to lounge in the boxy pink lobby chairs instead, biding our time until the line subsides.
Jason—known to most of the world as Jadon Walker Buttermore, or JayWalk to his fangirls—is in the middle of a career reboot. After our last movie together, which did well at the box office, for a horror “requel,” he landed a supporting role in a romantic comedy starring Jennifer Lopez. That led to a spot on Dancing with the Stars, where he was eliminated early, much to his relief. More recently and most importantly, he played the quirky sidekick in a Netflix treasure-hunting action movie that, last time I looked, had almost three hundred million views. He’s already signed for a sequel which begins shooting in February. I’ve never seen him so happy, but I know that has more to do with Ben than with his career.
I’m no JayWalk, but Dylan Thomas Frasier has his fangirls too. Or at least, Houston McCormick does. Between the two of us, we soon have a small line of people asking for autographs and taking pictures. Jason’s better at this than he used to be. In the past, he hated this kind of attention. Now, he takes it in stride, although he’s careful to keep Ben out of the limelight and is clearly relieved when the autograph session ends. I, on the other hand, soak it up. I sign anything anybody puts in front of me, including one woman’s cleavage. I take selfies with a dozen different people. I ask anybody who’s halfway attractive and appears single how long they’re staying. By the time the fans are gone, I’ve finished my drink. Ben nudges me and hands me the second half of his, squinting at me as if he can’t quite focus. As predicted, half a daiquiri, and I know it’s a good thing he’s sitting down, or he’d be swaying on his feet.
“You okay?” I ask him.
He blinks at me. “Jus’ a lil sleepy.”
Jason’s right. Ben’s adorable.
I leave them and hunt down the hotel’s coffee station, where I fill a medium-sized cup and add cream and five packets of sugar. The smile Ben gives me when I hand it over is worth the few minutes it cost me.
“No caramel latte, but it’s still caffeine with plenty of sugar.”
“Thanks, Dylan.”
“Anything for you, honey.”
Jason ignores the entire exchange. He never bats an eye when I flirt with Ben. Then again, why would he? Ben’s one hundred percent, head-over-heels in love with Jason. Besides, Jason’s my oldest, dearest friend. I’d never do anything to hurt him, even if Ben was willing.
Which he isn’t.
I never flirt much with Jason anymore either, because I know it makes Ben uneasy. The last thing I want to do is cause trouble between the two of them, or between them and me. Sometimes I wish somebody had told me, on that first night in Jason’s new house back in Idaho, that it would be the last night I ever had with him.
Would I have done things differently?
Would I have pulled my ignorant head out of my selfish ass sooner?
I’ll never know. And now, I’ll never share his bed again. If they were any other gay couple, I might have a chance of being invited for a threesome. I’ve thought about it more times than I can count, but I also know it’s the type of thing that’s best left to the imagination. Ben would be too shy. Jason would be too possessive. And at the end of the day, I’d still be a third wheel, deeply in love with both of them, but never part of the love they have for each other.
I do what anybody in my position would do.
I finish the daiquiri and go in search of another.
Love with a Bite by Silvia Onyx
I’m Jason Fleetfoot. I’ve made a lot of stupid mistakes in my life. The stupidest of all was taking a job with some assholes intent on manufacturing illegal chemical weapons.
My sister, Natalie, lost her job when her company folded, and I lost mine because my fucking boss was a bastard. I’ve got authority issues. And control issues. All right, I’m seriously fucked up, but I wasn’t going to let my sister starve because I couldn’t keep it together.
So I made a deal with the devil and damn near got myself and Natalie killed. She saved me. She and her cop boyfriend, Wolf. The name’s not a joke. He’s a werewolf. Did I mention we’re shifters, Natalie and I? Deer shifters. If you think my human form is impressive, you should see me as a ten-point buck. So yeah, a werewolf and a deer shifter. Somehow they’re making it work.
When I was a kid, we were all in hiding—wolves, deer, rabbits, foxes, and all the other shifters, vampires and demons too. Then the Big Collapse happened. Worst econ crash since the Great Depression. The world was in chaos, the US Government near collapse, the unemployed filling the streets. A bunch of supernaturals said, fuck it, the humans can barely keep themselves together, it’s time we had our day. I thought there’d be a war, but none of us were organized enough to attack and the humans had their own problems so now we all live together.
Peacefully? Fuck no. Most humans tolerate us, just. Some love us only for the thrill we can give them. And others would like to kill us on sight, but at least we don’t have to pretend anymore. I love what my body can do and I’m never going to apologize for it.
But that’s enough history. Let’s get back to the now and my life on the straight-and-narrow, working hard to earn an honest dollar. I fucking hate being beholden to Wolf, but I wouldn’t be where I am now if it wasn’t for him. Once the Atlanta PD cleared me, Wolf helped me get a job in the crime lab where I can use my knowledge of chemistry and computers for the good guys.
As the newest hire, I work nights, babysitting the equipment and working on what comes in during the wee hours. For the most part, I like it. It’s quiet and I get a chance to play around with new techniques and do a bit of programming. There’s only one problem: Detective Drew Danvers.
He works nights too. Not because he’s new, but because he’s a goddamned vampire. They say he was Changed against his will. But what the hell was he doing picking up a vampire at a bar? I certainly have no intention of fucking a vampire. No matter how damn fuckable Drew is. Yeah, I like men, what of it? And Drew is a fine specimen of a man, like some Viking warrior. He’s at least six three with sculpted arms and pecs that make him look like he could lift a truck one-handed. Considering he’s a vamp, he probably can.
Getting involved with Drew would be stupid on too many levels to count. And I’m finished with making stupid decisions. So why does my body want so desperately to be impaled on him—his cock, his fangs, anything he’d like to stick in me. Natalie’s right, my dick really doesn’t communicate with my brain. I don’t just want to fuck him, I want to be taken by him, and I never want that. Like I said, I have control issues. But with Drew… No, there’s never going to be anything with Drew.
A Chance with His Alpha by Ava Beringer
Channarong marched into my room, shutting the door with a wham behind him. “I need a favor.”
“Anything, Moo, you know that.” He never asked me for anything, and I knew how desperate the situation was with Auntie Kamlai. “I’m happy to help in any way possible. Literally. No matter what.” I waved a hand in front of me before turning back to the residential territory complaint I was reading on my Mac. “Say the word and you got it.”
“Awesome. That’s just what I needed to hear.”
From the corner of my eye was a glint of metal. Was he fiddling with his belt buckle? I looked up just in time to see him peeling off his tight gray jeans, my favorites, because they fit him like a second skin. I mean, he looked great in them, in my very friendly opinion. He let them drop to the floor, the belt buckle making a clank as it hit the hardwood.
My mouth dropped open as he stood there in his tight black briefs, going to work on taking off his shirt. I slammed the laptop closed. Did someone turn up the heat in here?
“Not that you’re obligated to wear clothes around me, but, what’s, uh, what’s the occasion?”
“Need you to put a baby in me.”
I was so busy gawking at the muscle of his thighs, the v-cuts as he pulled off his shirt, and the way his package sat in those briefs, it took me a second to register what he said. I shook my head like a character in a Hanna Barbera cartoon.
My eyes bugged out of my head. “Need me to do what now?”
“I gotta have a baby. Like, immediately.” He held his arms up impatiently as if I was the one who wasn’t making any sense.
“Are you joshing me right now?”
He wagged his head at me as he replied. “Have you ever known me to be a josher?”
I spaced out as my eyes trailed over his body, covered in lean muscle and six-pack abs. “No, I have not,” I mumbled.
“Okay, then.” He tucked his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs, and just as I started to salivate I realized he meant to pull them down. He was gonna get naked.
“Wait! Moo, not your birthday suit.” I leapt forward and grabbed his forearms, making him pull his hands out of his briefs. I breathed a sigh of relief. I had the feeling that if he got all the way naked, I’d get myself in big trouble.
Gardening with a Ghost by Amanda Meuwissen
Chapter 1
Peter breathed in the mixed scent of life and decay wafting in through the open window. He loved that smell, when the rot was just a little stronger than renewal, because it meant this place needed him.
Like the pink hibiscus tucked into a dark corner that he had surreptitiously moved to a sunnier spot.
The exterior of Benes Manor could have been the setting for The Secret Garden, with fountains, statues, hedges, sprawling rose bushes, and every other type of plant that could exist in the generally year-round warmth of the area’s climate.
Peter had been recommended to the family, who had lived in the manor for less than a year, by word of mouth, which was Peter’s preference. He couldn’t risk being too widely known and rarely stayed with a client for longer than a few months, just enough to salvage dying or neglected gardens into something magnificent again. Then it was up to them and whatever everyday gardener they hired for upkeep.
Peter was often called a “miracle worker,” and his reputation preceded him that even an utterly devastated garden could be salvaged by his capable hands. What no one knew was how right they were to call what he did a miracle, for his hands contained the rarest gift of all.
The touch of life.
“Mr. Thorne, a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
An impressively tall and polished dark-skinned man approached, wearing what Peter had long since learned was the rich person equivalent of casual, only to them that meant loafers without socks, a lighter colored blazer, and a button-down with no tie. The man carried himself congenially enough, sporting a smile, and immediately reached to shake Peter’s hand upon joining him in the sitting room that looked out on the gardens.
He was mid to late 40s with a shaved head and equally clean-shaven face, and his casual ensemble probably cost more than Peter’s entire wardrobe—which he had with him in two pieces of luggage left in the foyer. Given Peter’s clientele, he made decent money, but most of his positions were live-in while they lasted since impressive manor homes weren’t usually easily accessible or near places where Peter could afford to rent.
He tried not to feel too self-conscious about his Target-brand shirt and basic slacks.
“Mr. Connelly, my pleasure as well.” Peter met the man’s hand with a firm shake.
“Joseph, please. If I can call you Peter.” Then, as was common for Peter upon meeting someone for the first time, Joseph stared at Peter’s gloved hands. “Ready to get to work already?”
“These aren’t gardening gloves,” Peter explained. They were probably the most expensive item he wore, since they were a daily necessity—a dark brown pair of lambskin driving gloves, touchscreen compatible, so he didn’t have to remove them to use his phone. “Given how much I work with my hands, I find wearing these in my off hours keeps them in better shape. I hope you don’t take offense.”
“Not at all. We all have our quirks where our professions are concerned.”
Good. Sometimes Peter’s employers did take offense, and that just made things complicated.
He could control his abilities for the most part, choose when and to whom his gift of life was passed to, but that required concentration and people could usually feel it regardless, like a shock that made them startle at his touch. That happening too often got suspicious.
If Peter wasn’t careful, he could banish a person’s cold as easily as cure a disease they didn’t know they had. He wished he could simply do that for everyone, but overuse took a toll on him, and he couldn’t risk anyone discovering his gift, or who knew what experiments he might be subjected to or what evils his powers could be forced to commit.
Therefore—gloves.
“I see you’ve already been admiring the grounds.” Joseph gestured through the double doors leading to the gardens.
This was possibly the grandest home Peter had ever been hired on to, worth several million, and beautifully renovated, while retaining original antique moldings, fixtures, and even furniture where possible. The sitting room was two-stories tall, with the landing of a large staircase looking down on it. Accompanying the French doors were ceiling-high windows, a massive fireplace ornamented with two lions carved into either side of it, and the staircase entrance was grand and winding, with stained glass windows leading all the way up.
The gardens would have echoed that beauty, if they hadn’t been allowed to get so overgrown, inviting wildness and rot.
“It’s everything you described,” Peter said, “stunning but definitely in need of a tender touch. You never mentioned what became of your previous gardener. Or was it a team? A local company maybe?”
A shadow passed over Joseph’s friendly disposition. “My wife planned to tend to everything herself. She knew it would be a lot to take on, but she’d dedicated herself to raising our children instead of having a career, so she was looking forward to helping some brand-new life grow since they’d both be going to school.”
There was far too much past tense in that explanation.
“I’m sorry,” Peter said cautiously, “did something happen?”
“Not to Fran, my wife. Well, something happened to all of us, but…” Joseph faced Peter directly. “Our daughter went missing several months ago.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. Before we knew it, the gardens had become a jungle. I’m hoping seeing it tended to and revitalized might help Fran move on. Help all of us move on.”
“If you’d prefer not to speak more on it, I understand, but… may I ask…?”
“We don’t know what happened. One day, she was just gone, our little Delia.”
Joseph turned to face the fireplace, and above the mantle was a family photo. It showed Joseph, even more smartly dressed, beside a beautiful woman, slightly lighter in skin tone but with intensely dark eyes. Their two children stood in front of them, a girl about four or five, and a boy twice her age, both a perfect mix of their parents with medium skin, chestnut hair, and dark eyes like their mother.
Delia had a very sweet if mischievous smile.
“She’d be starting pre-school this year,” Joseph said. “Her brother, Dennis, is nine. He might pester you from time to time, but he’s a good boy. The grounds and house were searched top to bottom, but we never found anything. I think that’s the real reason Fran hasn’t been able to move on. Maybe if we’d found a body, we’d have some closure…
“I’m sorry.” Joseph shook himself after a pause for reverie.
“Please, it’s alright,” Peter assured him.
“The point of bringing you on is to breathe some life back into this place.”
That, quite literally, was what Peter could do, and if he could also help a grieving family, all the better. He knew what it was like to lose someone.
“Come on.” Joseph guided Peter out of the sitting room. “I’ll introduce you to the staff, show you around, and then you can get a look at the gardens up close.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
They entered an expansive hallway. Behind them, through a door beside the entrance into the sitting room, was a small office, but they headed away toward the split in the hall that either turned to the foyer and grand main entrance, or into the dining hall. The dining hall also had a spiral staircase leading to the second floor like a perfect bookend of the other side of the house.
The moment they crossed the threshold, Peter sucked in a breath and stopped. He hadn’t been through this part of the house yet, but the presence he felt was unmistakable, even if it was something he rarely experienced—a spirit passing by or through him, like an echo of life, disconnected from its body.
These poor people. Their daughter was dead, which they likely suspected. There was no way to give them the closure they’d been denied, however, for Peter could never tell them how he knew.
He shook the jarring sensation from his shoulders and continued behind Joseph. In some cases, Peter had tried talking to spirits, seen the haze of a few, but they weren’t something he could touch in the conventional sense. Even so, his presence seemed capable of giving them a little life, which usually amounted in frightening scenarios for his clients. He preferred to avoid places where he could feel this sort of presence. He’d have to be careful, but he didn’t want to call it quits so soon.
“Oh, Joseph! I didn’t hear you coming.”
A young blond stopped in the doorway to the kitchen just inches from having run into Joseph on her way out, laden with an armful of linens Peter assumed were being carted off for laundry. She didn’t wear anything so formal as a maid’s dress, but her navy uniform-like shirt, black pants, and comfortable shoes clearly said housekeeper.
“Just means you’re on a mission, Sheree, like usual.” Joseph stepped to the side to let her pass, and her eyes fell on Peter. She carried herself with the sort of excess energy he envied in others, and despite her hair being in a messy bun, it struck him as a very controlled mess.
“You must be the gardener,” she said with an out-of-breath huff. “I’d shake your hand, but…”
“Don’t worry.” Peter raised his gloved fingers, which prompted a curious head-tilt.
“Peter, Sheree. Sheree, this is Peter Thorne,” Joseph introduced.
“Is that the new blood?” an older woman called from the kitchen.
Joseph and Sheree shared a practiced look of exasperation, and Sheree offered Peter an apologetic nod before hurrying away.
“Nice to meet you, Pete!”
At her departure, they entered the kitchen, which was wall-to-wall beige, even on the cabinets, along with a beige and ivory marble-topped island. The room had lower ceilings with recessed lighting that made everything a little too bright for Peter’s tastes. A few paintings on the walls broke up the monotony with splashes of color.
“We’ll need to be feeding him,” the owner of the previous voice said by way of greeting, perusing Peter’s trim form like a disapproving grandmother.
She very well could have been a grandmother to this family, given her dark complexion and familial attitude. She stood at the stovetop left of the island removing a steaming kettle from a burner. She wore a floral-patterned dress and full apron, with silver hair pinned neatly, and small spectacles on her nose.
Peter was a little too skinny, exaggerated by his six-two height, which made him feel lurching on his best days like a scarecrow come to life, made worse by his straw-colored hair that he rarely kept trimmed. His thin physique wasn’t for lack of trying, but even the healthiest of appetites failed to keep up with the energy he expended using his gift.
The woman’s scrutiny made him sweep back his hair, which was long enough now to resemble a 90s teenage heartthrob.
Also in view was a breakfast nook, where an ancient looking gentleman in a suit and tie was seated—Hugh, Peter recalled, who’d met him at the door and showed him into the sitting room.
“Peter, this is Mrs. Benedict, our cook,” Joseph said, “and Hugh, who you met earlier, is the manor’s caretaker. Anything the ladies of the house can’t handle falls to him.”
Hugh rose with some effort, pale-skinned and gaunt. He was easily in his seventies but moved like someone in his nineties. He managed to stand tall regardless and offered Peter a polite bow like a proper butler. “I assure you, anything the ladies can’t handle is frightfully little.”
Joseph and Peter chuckled in good humor.
Mrs. Benedict kept staring.
“How wonderful to meet you both!” Peter blurted, realizing he hadn’t yet greeted them aloud.
No handsome, single, young men on staff, which was a relief. Not that Peter worried any of these people would care that he was gay, but he wasn’t good at hiding his attractions, and it was better if he didn’t invite romantic attachment.
As much as he might long for companionship—a boyfriend, lover—it wasn’t possible. He’d made that mistake before and always ended up leaving when too many questions arose. The more someone touched him, the more they became curious, and that led nowhere good.
Mrs. Benedict nodded in mild approval. “Dinner is at six-thirty—for everyone. Being late or trying to be a hermit in your room will not do in this household. Understood?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Peter said promptly. “It is very kind of you to include me.”
She seemed pleased by this response and offered a nod toward a nearby tea set with a platter of assorted cookies and snacks. “Coming up to meet Dennis and join us for tea?”
Peter regularly felt out of place around his wealthy clients, but although this one appeared to observe teatime like some posh English family, the inclusion of the staff was a pleasant surprise, like everyone was a member of the family.
“I wish we could,” Joseph spoke up, “but I need to finish a tour of the house and introduce Peter to Fran first.”
“I will absolutely take you up on that another day though,” Peter said in appeasement, which she also seemed to appreciate—very much like a grandmother. “I promise.”
Peter had no memories of his own grandmother. He’d grown up solely with his mother until he was nine, and then… no one. At least no one related to him. Foster care hadn’t been easy, but also not the horror story he had often heard from others. He was never adopted, just part of a revolving system that saw him in several different households until he was eighteen. Since he was an orphan, no one expected him to be especially physical, which he always thought sad, but at least it had been convenient.
By the time he could go out on his own, if anyone suspected there was something strange about him, he was already gone.
He and Joseph continued from the kitchen into a small wet bar that connected to a smoking room, which was really another sitting room, just smaller than the main one.
“Normally, I’ll be in the city during weekdays,” Joseph explained along the way, “but any questions you might have, don’t hesitate to ask the staff. They can usually answer things better than I could.”
Joseph was a commodities broker, which Peter didn’t really understand outside fictional knowledge of Richard Gere’s character in Pretty Woman. The family wasn’t well-off purely because of Joseph’s job, however. His wife, Francine Connelly—formally Benes—came from money. Benes Manor had been in her family for decades, originally belonging to some distant cousin and having sat empty for years.
“I’m amazed you’ve only lived here a few months,” Peter said. “This place is in wonderful shape for having been empty for… forty years, was it?”
“At least, but empty only of a Benes. Hugh was caretaker during that time too. Kept the place in pristine condition until the next Benes wanted the place, which ended up being my Fran. Speaking of…” He swept his arm forward as they entered the final area of downstairs.
There were two bathrooms on this level, one half-bath near the dining room for guests, and one full connected to the master bedroom—and what a master it was, almost as large as the sitting room, with the same two-story ceiling-high windows and French doors leading to the gardens.
The difference was that these doors didn’t have glass, and the windows were covered by thick curtains.
“May we interrupt?” Joseph knocked on the partially open door before entering.
Peter didn’t see anyone at first, only the impressive view of a carved antique chest at the end of a California king-sized bed, with a matching dresser, and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
Joseph turned to his left, and as Peter followed, he saw the rest of the room, which included a vanity, where the woman from the family portrait sat, scribbling on a piece of paper that she tucked under a stack of others as soon as she noticed them.
“Joseph! Is this the new gardener?” Francine rose, a little tired looking maybe, but every bit as rich-casual and prim as Joseph, despite the way her mourning had been described. Her chestnut hair was tied back into a full mane of curls, and she wore a chic marigold jumpsuit, with bangles on her wrists and a locket necklace.
When she shook Peter’s hand, she didn’t seem to notice his gloves. She was all in her head, though clearly trying to put on a braver face than what she felt.
“You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Connelly. A little TLC is all that’s needed for those gardens, and they’ll be brand-new.”
“That would be… incredible,” she said with more wistfulness than Peter had intended to conjure.
Brand-new, the chance to start over, wouldn’t mean anything to this woman without her daughter, and the plain truth of that made Peter wonder what she’d been scribbling when they came in.
Even if he hadn’t been wearing gloves, he couldn’t heal a broken heart.
“It was nice to meet you, Mr. Thorne, but there are a few things I need to finish up before dinner.” As Francine said this, she shifted as though to hide the vanity and its stack of papers behind her. “I look forward to seeing what you can do for us.”
“I won’t let you down,” Peter promised.
“Be sure to get out and enjoy some sunshine, won’t you, dear?” Joseph moved in closer and pressed a kiss to her cheek. She didn’t shy from it. In fact, she leaned into Joseph and a faint smile touched her lips that was realer than her previous expression. There was still an ache between them, unspoken tension, and shared sorrow, but all too often Peter saw this sort of loss wedge a rift between couples. It was nice to see one trying to overcome that.
Even so, whatever Francine had been working on, Joseph wasn’t fooled into ignoring it. He didn’t comment as he led Peter out but allowed a brief troubled frown.
There was a third staircase, this one hidden and not as grand as the others, which they used to ascend to the second floor, coming up in the center of a long hallway stretching either direction.
“There’s a full bathroom at either end, though you’ll likely use the one to the right.” Joseph brought Peter left despite saying that, and along the way, they passed two closed doors, each bearing signs that said Pink Room and White Room, respectively. “Hugh has the White Room. Sheree the Pink.”
Next to the bathroom on this end was a laundry room, where Sheree was folding a recently finished load, while having started another, presumably the linens she’d been carrying earlier.
As she looked up to wave, an orange blur shot up from out of a basket of folded clothes, disrupting articles every direction. Sheree shrieked as it raced past her out of the room. Peter and Joseph parted to give the cat clearance, and Peter just barely made out its long ginger-striped fur and heard the tinkle of a bell before it was gone.
“Damn cat!” Sheree cried, stomping her feet.
Joseph cringed and passed her a penitent wave. “Sorry! I didn’t forget to check if you were allergic, did I?” he asked Peter.
“I’m fine. I love cats.” Although Peter would have to do something about that pink hibiscus in the sitting room. It shouldn’t be one of the types that was toxic to pets, but best to be safe.
“Well, watch out because that little monster doesn’t love anyone. Anymore,” Joseph added, which immediately told Peter who the cat had belonged to. “Back this way.” He gestured Peter the other direction. “You’re in the Blue Room, and Mrs. Benedict has the President’s Room.”
“President’s?” Peter questioned when they passed it.
“The aesthetics and dark blue carpet evoke a certain Oval Office charm,” Joseph said with a smirk, “and residing in something called the President’s Room suits our cook just fine.”
Peter chuckled. That grandmother air certainly made Mrs. Benedict seem like the runner of the house, even if Hugh was caretaker.
The door to the Blue Room was open, and while the President’s Room might have dark blue carpeting, Peter’s room was so named for royal blue walls. It bore similarly carved furnishings to the master bedroom, and the rounded arches above the windows held more stained glass, with a view looking down on the gardens.
Peter’s bags had already been brought up and were stacked beside the bed.
“Oh! I didn’t realize Hugh would be carrying everything up for me,” Peter said with a twinge of guilt.
“That man is sturdier than he looks—and as stubborn as everyone else in this house. He would have insisted.”
“I forgot to ask—no basement?”
“There is, through the kitchen, but just for storage and our wine cellar.” Joseph led Peter into the hall again. “All the work supplies you need should be in the garden shed, which I can show you once we’re outside. That just leaves—” He cut off and reached into his jacket to pull out a vibrating phone.
The only place left to tour was up a central staircase beside the one they’d used from the first floor, which Peter assumed led to the children’s rooms.
“I need to call my assistant,” Joseph said. “I apologize. Are you good to get settled?”
“Absolutely. Honestly, I’ll be happy to get to work.”
“About that fatigue you mentioned…”
“A mild case of chronic fatigue, yes.” Peter was upfront about that with his clients, since he usually required periodic rests and early evenings after using his abilities all day. “I promise it won’t affect my work, simply means my breaks might include a power nap and I retire early most nights.”
“Whatever you need to do, your schedule is yours to dictate. But don’t work too hard your first day,” Joseph teased.
“I’ll just get my hands in the dirt and start a game plan. This is what I do, Mr. Connelly, and I love every part of it.”
“Joseph,” Joseph corrected. “And alright. Help yourself to the kitchen any time—though Mrs. Benedict is likely to force-feed you more than you might want. Nowhere is off limits here other than private rooms. Unless you prove to be a sloppy houseguest,” he added with a wink. “See you at dinner.”
Heading left again toward the staircase that wound down into the sitting room, Joseph had his assistant on the line before he had even begun his descent, leaving Peter to the sounds of his fading voice and the hum from the not-too-distant washer and dryer.
Peter glanced up the third-floor staircase. If he craned his ears, he could hear the faint clink of the tea set and Mrs. Benedict’s voice mingling with a younger one. As tempted as he was to go up, he was more eager to see the gardens.
When he returned to his room, he felt a stir he hadn’t while Joseph was with him.
The spirit was back, and it was stronger here than in the dining hall.
Wary as he was, Peter moved to the windows in front of the bed and turned around, taking in the whole of the room to try pinpointing where the spirit was most concentrated. Though he couldn’t see it, he felt it in the far corner, watching him like it had been waiting for him to be alone. There was no malice in the intent, merely curiosity, maybe because Peter’s presence made it feel a rush of life.
“Hello?” Peter said softly, surprised when he realized he was meeting the spirit’s scrutiny at his own eye level. This was no little girl. Delia was unlikely alive after so many months missing, but this was someone else, an adult who had died, a man, with a bold aura that spoke of a once boisterous personality.
Since this was an old family home, any number of people might have died here, and Peter wondered who he was talking to.
“Am I in your room?” he asked.
A flutter surrounded him like an answering breeze. His encounters with spirits before had always included negative emotions, like confusion, fear, even anger, but this spirit seemed content, at least with having Peter in his presence.
“I’m glad you don’t mind me being here, but it can be dangerous if I interact with you too much.”
Another breeze blew, and Peter sensed the questioning in it.
“I’m… different. You can already feel it. Interacting with me will only complicate things. You’re not really here, not alive. I might make you feel a little like you are again, but you’ll only end up… turning lights on and off, moving things, or frightening these poor people if you suddenly appear in front of them.
“They lost their little girl. The last thing they need is to think she’s haunting their house. It’ll only hurt them more. Do you understand?”
Again, came the breeze-like flutter, sadder now but comprehending.
“Thank you. I won’t be staying long anyway. So please, let this family grieve in peace.”
There was no breeze this time, no flutter or chill whispering across his skin. Like an unspoken promise, the spirit was quiet, and although that was what Peter had asked for, he felt a pang of regret.
The contentment from the spirit initially had been in answer to a welcome reprieve from loneliness, something Peter could understand.
He sighed and started to unpack.
Fate of the Moon by Sara Dobie Bauer
Alfie was distracted by the realization of why Shay’s attire looked familiar and pointed. “That’s my sweater.”
Shay stopped tugging on its sleeves and allowed the fabric to swallow his hands. “Oh. I … well.” He huffed out a huge sigh. “I missed your smell. Don’t make fun of me.”
“Why would I make fun of you?”
Shay rolled his neck side to side. It popped before he raised his hands to give an irritated illustration of quotation marks. “Needy little omega.”
“Shay.” Alfie squeezed the bridge of his nose. “You are more independent and bullheaded than most alphas I know. There is nothing needy or little about you—except your height, I guess. And for the record, I missed your smell, too.” If anyone asked, Alfie wouldn’t have been able to describe the scent except, perhaps, in abstracts: comfort and warmth. The best thing he could come up with was the smell of a spring forest after a rain with a bonfire close by, but he doubted anyone else thought Shay smelled that way. He continued, “I should have taken something of yours with me.”
Shay lifted his foot and pulled off a sock. He held it out between them wearing a tight-lipped smile.
Alfie laughed. “I don’t want one of your disgusting socks.”
“Hey! You don’t know it’s disgusting. Maybe my feet smell like roses.”
Alfie jerked a shoulder forward to take a hit as Shay tried to smack him with the offending garment.
“Is that so?” Alfie wasn’t sure what came over him, but he rushed forward and attacked Shay’s skinny sides with twitching fingers. The omega giggled, and the sound and feel of Shay’s joy—so far buried from Alfie—rang like music through the air.
“Stop!” He batted at Alfie’s hands but didn’t really push him away.
“Nope.”
When Shay tried darting away, Alfie wrapped an arm around his waist and kept tickling. “I’m going to puke. Stop, oh my God!” Shay shoved at Alfie’s hands, so Alfie did stop, but kept hold of Shay, pulling his omega back against his chest as they both caught their breath around giggles. Dropping his head, he shoved his face against Shay’s neck and breathed him in.
Alfie whispered against Shay’s skin. “Whenever I have to go somewhere, I’ll leave you something that smells like me, okay?”
Shay nodded with his head leaned back against Alfie’s shoulder. “You feel good.”
Alfie clenched his jaw to quench the sudden jolt of desire that sent through him. He let go of Shay before he did something inappropriate and cleared his throat, knowing they had to change the subject before they got too swept up in something neither of them was prepared for.
Marie Sexton lives in Colorado. She’s a fan of just about anything that involves muscular young men piling on top of each other. In particular, she loves the Denver Broncos and enjoys going to the games with her husband. Her imaginary friends often tag along. Marie has one daughter, two cats, and one dog, all of whom seem bent on destroying what remains of her sanity. She loves them anyway.
Silvia Onyx writes high heat paranormal romance with shifters of all descriptions. Her character-driven stories bring you right into the shifters' world. When not writing, Silvia loves to read, crochet, play with her oodles of planners and notebooks, and enjoy time with her family and beloved dogs. She also writes contemporary romance as Silvia Violet.
Ava Beringer is a major-league nerd who started off writing fanfiction and fell in love with mpreg and omegaverse. She loves to heat up a slick omega and a knotty alpha. By day she’s a good thirty-something midwestern girl, but she has a dark side. Okay, not really. She’s as bubbly as champagne but she can be pretty darn cheeky when you get her going.
She’s a digital nomad who’s traveled to thirty-five countries and counting. If she’s lucky, a cat will adopt her along the way.
Pick up your FREE SHORT STORIES, hear about her new releases and misadventures here, and tell her about yours! ❤
Amanda is a life-long geek and regularly attends local comic conventions for fun and to meet with fans, where she will often be seen in costume as one of her favorite fictional characters. A published author since 2012, she manages a private author group on Facebook sharing exclusive news, images, and fun, and lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota, with her husband, John, and their cat, Helga.
Bestselling romance author.
Bisexual witch.
Feminist. Pro-choice. Anti-censorship.
Timothee Chalamet freak.
Horror movie aficionado.
Vampire mermaid in a past life.
Sara Dobie Bauer somehow survived her party-hard college years at Ohio University to earn a creative writing degree. She lives with her precious Pit Bull in Northeast Ohio, although she’d really like to live in a Tim Burton film.
Marie Sexton
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Ava Beringer
Amanda Meuwissen
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EMAIL: ak.meuwissen@gmail.com
Winter Dreams by Marie Sexton
Love with a Bite by Silvia Onyx
A Chance with His Alpha by Ava Beringer
Gardening with a Ghost by Amanda Meuwissen
Fate of the Moon by Sara Dobie Bauer
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