BDSM Blog Hop 2nd August - 20 August

Hey BDSM fans. I have a PDF copy of  Lord  &   Master to give away. I write BDSM in a variety of genres, Historical, Contemporary, Science Fiction, and Paranormal. M/M and M/F.

WINNER OF CONTEST FOR LORD & MASTER IS:

vitajex(at)aol(dot)com

My Doms are handsome alpha males but  they all have  a dent in their armor and all are loving dominants.

               

Lord  &  Master  gives an insight to the problems facing gay men in the 18th Century, and the way women were treated as chattels.


I hope you all enjoy participating in this blog tour.

Leave a comment with your contact details to go into the draw to win a copy of Lord & Master.

Don't forget to enter the draw for the gift voucher below.

H.C. Brown

Title: Lord   &  Master
Release Date: 2012
Author:H.C. Brown
Author Website: www.hcbrown-author.com
Publisher: Noble Romance Publishing
Buy Link:https://www.nobleromance.com/Books?book=389
Genre: Historical England 1776- M/M Erotic BDSM Romance
Blurb:
Lord Reynold Wilton, fearing exposure after a public argument with his sex slave, Lord David Litchfield, leaves England for the Americas. On his return, he finds his delicious man in the hands of a brutal sadist. In a time when homosexuality is a hanging offense, Reynold must use every trick in the book to regain the possession and trust of his young lover.





Excerpt:London 1769

A rush of pain radiated from Lord Reynold's clenched teeth and into his temples. The burn from over exertion raged across his shoulders. His sweaty grip slipped on the leather handle of the cane, a narrow strip of birch he had commissioned especially for discipline. With lust, he gazed down at his slave, savoring the crisscrossed, red welts marking the porcelain flesh, the raised prints of his hand on each tender buttock. He bent over the slim figure tied so deliciously on the bench, and licked each crimson cut, using his mouth to soothe and caress. Reynold lapped, enjoying the taste of sweet skin, the rise of gooseflesh under his tongue. The man's scent of soap mingled with the warm aroma of male sex filled his nostrils.

With the man tied this way, stretched out with both arms and legs secured, Reynold had complete control. The power of dominance surged through him. In truth, he could easily draw blood with his cane if he chose to, yet he loved this man and gave his slave what he craved. This session had been different from those long nights of bliss they'd enjoyed so often before. He needed to conquer his slave, to take back his role as master in a relationship teetering on the brink of disaster. With slow, deliberate moves, he stalked around the bench, running the cane over the sub's quivering body. He stopped at the head of the young man. "Why do you question my loyalty? I will not tolerate such behavior." He grasped a lock of the man's long, blond curls. "Speak."

"I am jealous, Master."

Reynold brought the birch down in two swift cuts across the slave's pristine back. The prone man's cry sent blood rushing to his cock. Christ, he loved to hear his submissive moan. He threw down the cane. "Of whom are you jealous this time?"

"Lord John, Master." The slave drew a shuddering breath. "I don't want you to continue your friendship him."

"When you are tied to my bed, I am the master." Reynold met the man's cornflower blue gaze. "I will not tolerate such demands from my slave. If you continue in this manner, I will have no option but to take my leave." He ground his teeth. "I warn you, do not think to use my devotion as a weapon to manipulate me to your will. If needs be, I will take a commission abroad to be rid of you."

"Reynold . . . I beg you—think of my feelings."

"You would have me weak?" Reynold dropped his breeches. "I think not."

"No, Master, not weak—never weak." David's gaze fell on Reynold's shaft. "I do not care to share you with Lord John." He licked his lips. "When you are in his company, I fear I will lose you."

Reynold growled. "I regret now confiding my relationship with Lord John Henley to you before we became involved. The man is a dear friend but you are my lover. If you don't believe this to be true, the trust you claim to have in me does not exist." He sighed. "Perhaps it is you who wants to end our relationship."

"Christ, I would have no other touch me in this way, and you know this to be true." David poked out his tongue, and swiped it across the head of Reynold's cock. He moaned. "I beg your forgiveness."

"You have my forgiveness, but I cannot allow you to dictate which friends I have. You know I have no desire to fuck any of them. Arguing with me in public has already put us both under scrutiny. Christ, David we can't be seen together. The risk is too high. What reason would I have to be in your company?" Reynold stroked David's cheek. "If you cannot trust me, this time we have together—our relationship as master and slave, as lovers, will not survive." Reynold groaned. "I care for you deeply but I won't allow you to risk the hangman's noose because of youthful foolishness. I will not offer you another chance, do you understand?" Reynold tugged David's hair. "Do you?"

"Yes." David smiled. "Master, will you allow me to pleasure you? I crave the taste of your seed."

Palming his shaft, he guided it toward his slave's rosy lips. He sighed as the man's hot, wet mouth surrounded him with absolute bliss. He loved the way David's flushed cheeks pulled tight with every withdrawn thrust. Later, he would take the man's tight arse, and hear his intoxicating screams of delight. He could never have enough of his luscious young submissive. Reynold rolled his hips, his hands cradling David's, sweat soaked cheeks. Lord, this man knew how to take him to heaven. 
Tipping back his head, he plunged deeper, fucking the man's delightful throat.

This session with David had been brutal. Reynold wanted to stamp his authority over the young man. Of late, the possessive nature of his delicious sex-slave had become out of hand. David had grown too demanding. Reynold had no option but to take a stand. The submissive's teeth raked a path up his aching cock, the man's agile tongue flicking over the sensitive tip. Reynold bit back a groan and fell into the darkness of forbidden bliss. His slave's mouth became a whirlpool of ecstasy spinning him into an uncontrollable, shattering conclusion. Christ, David, for once, do as I say. Your jealousy is leading us down a path of damnation.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Guest Author : Kim Fielding Talks About Communication and is holding a Book Contest

Hi! I’m Kim Fielding, and today I’d like to talk about communication. It’s a subject that’s dear to my heart because I communicate professionally, both in my day job (I’m a university professor) and as an author. Of course, the most obvious way we communicate is with words. I do love words, as any of my long-suffering teachers would have attested to. But words aren’t the only way we talk to each other, and sometimes they’re not even the most important way.

I guess I was always vaguely aware of nonverbal communication, but it wasn’t until last year that I truly realized how rich it can be. Last year I spent five months living in Croatia—and I speak only a few words of Croatian (although I’m pretty fluent in Croatian food). Fortunately for me, most young people there speak excellent English, and they’re very patient with those who don’t speak the local language. But older people often learned German as their second language instead. That meant that when I had business to conduct at the post office or supermarket or police station or newsstand, when I wanted to buy train tickets or discuss an issue with my building manager, we had to get creative. I learned very soon that enormous amounts of information can be exchanged without either party understanding a single word the other says.

It’s a marvel, really, how much we can convey by context, by gesture and facial expression. Even when we share a language with someone, what goes unsaid can often be more telling than the words that are uttered.

I’ve explored tricky communication issues in some of my books. In my newest novella, Speechless, one of the main characters was in an accident that left him with aphasia. This means he can understand everything but can’t speak or write—an especially troubling affliction for Drew, who used to be a writer. I had to find ways to help readers and the other main character—a lonely lathe operator named Travis—understand Drew as a person.

In my novel Good Bones, Dylan and Chris both speak perfect English, but they aren’t very good at communicating. Not only that, but Dylan is afraid to tell Chris that he’s a werewolf, while Chris tries to hide his insecurities with a sometimes prickly temperament. In my fantasy trilogy that begins with Stasis, my heroes travel far abroad in their quest for freedom, which sometimes raises language barriers. And in my newest novel, Brute, which will be released this winter, one of the main characters has been cursed with a nearly incomprehensible stutter.

Communication—and the problems associated with it—is a fascination of mine. I hope my readers find it interesting too!

I’m giving away one e-book version of Speechless. All you have to do to enter is comment here and include your email. I’ll randomly choose a winner on August 3. Good luck!

Title: Speechless

Release Date: July 18, 2012

Author: Kim Fielding

Author Website: http://kfieldingwrites.blogspot.com/

Publisher: Dreamspinner Press

Buy Link:

http://www.amazon.com/Speechless-ebook/dp/B008MMXCMQ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1343356141&sr=8-1&keywords=kim+fielding+speechless

Genre : contemporary m/m romance

Blurb: Travis Miller has a machining job, a cat named Elwood, and a pathetic love life. The one bright spot in his existence is the handsome guitar player he sometimes passes on his way home from work. But when he finally gathers the courage to speak to the man, Travis learns that former novelist Drew Clifton suffers from aphasia: Drew can understand everything Travis says, but he is unable to speak or write.

The two lonely men form a friendship that soon blossoms into romance. But communication is only one of their challenges—there’s also Travis’s inexperience with love and his precarious financial situation. If words are the bridge between two people, what will keep them together?

Excerpt:

Drew was there the next day, and Travis again sat beside

him and monologued. Drew did a pretty good job of

communicating with his hands and body, with bits of song,

and with his face. He had the most expressive face Travis

had ever seen. But still Travis talked a lot, more than he’d

talked since he’d arrived in Portland, and that was fine.

Drew didn’t seem to mind, at least. Travis hinted at his

shitty parents and the problems he’d had in school, as well

as his general state of loneliness.

“I’ll bet you’d never guess this, the way I’ve been

running off at the mouth at you, but I’m actually kinda shy.”

Drew raised an eyebrow.

“No, really!” Travis said. “I don’t make friends very

easily. I mean, there’s the guys at work, sure, and we get

along okay, but we don’t seem to have much in common.” He

sighed as a young family—mother, father, preschooler—

passed by on the other side of the street. “I have one really

close friend. Sara. She’s been my BFF since junior high.”

Because Drew seemed interested, Travis told stories

about Sara, who was back in Bakersfield, working in human

resources for a medical practice and slowly plugging away at

an MBA. After Travis mentioned her for the zillionth time,

Drew held a hand up to stop him. Then, eyebrows raised,

Drew held the thumb and index finger of one hand together

in a circle and poked the other index finger in and out of it.

Travis blushed. “Uh, no. Sara likes girls. And, um, I

don’t.” He glanced nervously at Drew, but instead of having

some kind of silent homophobic snit, Drew gave him a slow,

pleased smile.

Travis grinned back.

H.C. It's great to have you here today.

Don't forget to comment to go into the contest guys :-)

In The Hot Seat With H.C. Brown : Author L.J. LaBarthe

Title: "No Surrender, No Retreat."

Release Date: 25^th July 2012.

Author: L. J. LaBarthe.

Author Website: http://misslj_author.livejournal.com

Publisher: Dreamspinner Press.

Buy Link: http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=3110

Genre: Romance, paranormal, Archangels, demons.

Blurb: Sequel to "No Quarter"

Archangel Chronicles: Book Two

Seventy years after it began, the war between angels and demons is over. Archangels Gabriel and Michael reunite at last, but a dangerous new challenge stands in the way of their happiness: someone is kidnapping angels and selling them as trophies on the black market. When Raphael, Archangel of Healing, goes missing, his tearful lover joins with the Brotherhood of Archangels and their lieutenants to rescue him.

Without Raphael’s healing touch, disease spreads quickly through the world’s human populations. The situation only worsens when the angel Agrat is kidnapped: the number of sex crimes begins to rise and her husband, Gabriel’s lieutenant, loses himself to his grief. As they mount a rescue mission, Gabriel and Michael’s relationship will be put to the test. With the threat of the world dying around them and tragedy looming overhead, can Gabriel and Michael keep love and hope alive?

1-Welcome L. J. LaBarthe! What is your Hot New Release?

Hi there, and thank you for having me! My Hot New Release is "No Surrender, No Retreat," which is the sequel to "No Quarter." It continues the story of the ten Archangels of God, focusing on the romance between Archangels Michael and Gabriel, and the relationship of Archangel Raphael and Israfel, the angel of music. There's a lot of relationships in this book, actually, Archangels Uriel and Raziel; Shateiel, angel of soldiers and silence and his wife, Agrat, angel of prostitution and sex; Archangel Remiel and his lover, Ishtahar, an immortal human woman.

This book looks at the possible consequences of kidnapping angels who are guardians and powered by something, for instance, Raphael, Archangel of Healing. When he's kidnapped, because his power is connected to medical science, subsequently, medicine begins to fail and diseases begin to run rampant.

I also brought back the Archdemons who readers met in "No Quarter," not just because they fit into the narrative but also because they're such fun to write!

 HC: I can't wait to read this book.

2- Can you tell us a little about yourself and your books?

I'm very rapidly approaching 40. I live in Australia, in the city of Adelaide, with my cat, a black and white beastie named Castiel. I love reading, writing, films, music, abandoned places, history, and more. I love medieval and Byzantine history, and I'm working (slowly) on a novel called "City of Jade," set on the Silk Road in the twelfth century that is a sequel to my short story, "City of Gold." I also have a short story called "Capsicum Head" coming out later in the year with Less Than Three Press, in the serial Rockstar anthology.

I love a good thriller, but I'm pretty picky about what I read or watch in that genre – I love James Bond movies, for instance, especially Daniel Craig or Sean Connery as Bond. I also really enjoy "Wallander" starring Kenneth Branagh in the titular role. Another novel I'm working on is "Deliverance," which is a thriller, involving international kidnapping and rescue.

I'm working on a murder mystery set in 1920 in my home city of Adelaide, which is lots of fun to write and I've learnt SO much about my city's history that I never previously knew! Besides that, I love fantasy, paranormal, science fiction – that's reflected in not just what I write, but what I read and what I watch. I love the TV shows "Game of Thrones" and the books as well, and I really love the "Spartacus" TV show and "Supernatural."

I studied Early Church History as part of my degree, and part of that was Bible archaeology which is fascinating and the stories and legends that come from those parts of the world, the Middle East, the African continent, Turkey, all fascinating parts of the world, the history, culture and food are awesome. I also love Bollywood and Indian food, and I have a deep and abiding love for Chinese history and Chinese cinema and South Korean cinema.

Music is life, for me. I can't imagine a world without music in it. I think a world without music would be hell, so music is always part of my writing process. I have playlists for the books I write, songs that remind me of certain characters or scenes.

Finally, I love food and cooking – cilantro/coriander (it's coriander here in Australia), mint, garlic, chili, pasta, noodles, raspberries, dark chocolate, mandarins and chicken are some of the best foods ever put on the planet. Also barramundi, which is an Australian fish that is like a seafood version of a steak. It's SO good, and I could go on about food for *quite* a while!

HC. Aussie, Aussie, Aussie....like me :-)

3- Have you ever used events or stories contemporary or historical  in your work?

As backdrops, yes, definitely. "City of Gold" and "City of Jade" are set during a lull in war along the Silk Road – I picked a year which, much to my amazement, had no major conflicts going on. 1141 seems to be a relatively quiet year. No Crusades, no uprisings, just a lot of trade, so I've looked at the Byzantine Empire and the cities along the overland route of the Silk Road to be a background setting for the story of Gallienus, the Byzantine soldier turned merchant caravan guard and his Korean lover, Misahuen.

In "The Body on the Beach," I've used situations and places that did exist in Adelaide in 1920 – many of these don't exist anymore, but a lot of them still do, and it's been fun looking at photos from 1920 and putting them into perspective with how the city looks today.

History is really important to me, and I love research, so I put as much reality as I can into the backdrops for my stories.

HC. Me too, I read more historical novels than anything else. 

4. Is there anything you find particularly challenging/ rewarding about writing?

Titles are my nemesis. I find them the hardest thing of all. Also beginnings, I'm really bad at opening paragraphs! Every part of the writing process is rewarding, even the frustrations that come with not being able to come up with a title. There's nothing like getting the first edits back and working through them, I find that part of the process hugely rewarding. And getting the cover art is always wonderful. I really am in awe of artists, because I can't draw to save my life, unless I call myself the Rembrandt of stick figures!

5. As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up? How has that childhood dream affected your current career?

I wanted to be a racehorse jockey! Then when I grew taller, I wanted to be a vet. Then I wanted to run a record company. I don't really think any of those childhood dreams have affected me, apart from self-amusement at how much my desires and hopes changed between childhood and adulthood.

Q: Do you have a writing schedule?

Not really – I try and write every day, unless I'm sick. Having the flu really does put a dampener on everything, though, not just writing.

Q: What kinds of books do you like to read?

Mostly fantasy novels or science fiction. I like historical novels and some murder mysteries, thrillers. I enjoy the historical novels of Lindsey Davis, whose protagonist is Roman and works for the Emperor Vespasian. I like George R. R. Martin's "Game of Thrones" books, and one of my favourite m/m romances is an Arthurian novel with Mordred and Lancelot as the protagonists, called "Mordred: Bastard Son" by Douglas Clegg. I'll read just about anything, really; there's very few books I've read that I haven't liked. There's one fantasy series in particular, not to name names, that I *loathe*. I also really enjoyed the historical vampire series by Jasper Kent, set in Russia between 1812 and 1917, the Danilov quintet.  I really enjoyed the Leo Demidov trilogy written by Tom Rob Smith, set during the Stalin and Kruschev eras of the USSR, those are fantastic thrillers, in my opinion.

Q: What can readers expect from you in the near future?

More books in the Archangel Chronicles, definitely. Book three should be out by the end of the year, also with Dreamspinner Press, and I've got notes to write three more novels in that universe. More paranormal stories, and a couple of science fiction ones too. And, of course, that short story coming out with Less Than Three Press.

H.C. Yay!

Would you like to share an excerpt?

“Dismissed.”

Gabriel watched as his troops bowed, turned, and walked toward the various buildings of the shantytown that had sprung up on Oregon’s eastern border. The town was named Hope and was relatively young, only fifty years old. The buildings all had a temporary look to them, made as they were out of rusting corrugated iron and rough-hewn wood, some with flat roofs, others with sloped ones. Some of the windows had glass, others did not. There was a slapdash, “good enough” atmosphere to the place, as if whoever had built it had done so in a hurry and then not cared to make any improvements.

Gabriel's thoughts were a jumble of sadness and anger, weighted with regret. So much death and destruction caused by one man -- Bob Taytton -- whose narcissicism had led to him making a deal with a Fallen One and opening portals to Hell. So many demons had come through to Earth and wrought havoc, and it had taken years to not only close all the portals, but to eradicate the demons. In all his immortal life, Gabriel could not remember any war causing so much pain and violence. He sighed to himself and shook his head. It was over now; that, at least he was certain of. The years of the war and Bob Taytton's plans were behind them, and everyone—human, angelkind, monster, and yes, even demon—could move on.

Gabriel sighed once more and turned toward the admin building, an unattractive structure.  The concrete bricks were rough and pitted with chips and holes and had seen better days. The doors were painted green, which clashed with the rusted metal and gray brick.

Rain fell, a persistent drizzle that formed muddy puddles and slowly soaked through clothing. Not far away, beneath a broad plastic awning, a group of children were playing jump rope, and the sight gave Gabriel pause.

“They can still be happy, even after all they have endured.”

“Shateiel.” Gabriel smiled at the mental voice of his second-in-command. “I said you were dismissed.”

“I’m going, sir. I just thought I’d say that it’s good to have the conflict over with.”

“Amen.” Gabriel turned and faced his lieutenant. “Go to Agrat. Take a few weeks off, yeah? You deserve it.”

Shateiel bowed. “Thank you, sir. And what will you do now?”

Gabriel sighed. “See Michael. My kids are gone. A lot of Venatores are too.” The two human children he had adopted so many years ago had died not long into the war, killed while harvesting food, and Michael’s special unit comprised of humans and monsters had had their numbers thinned during the fighting.

“It has been seventy years, General. Human life spans are short.”

Gabriel nodded in agreement and clapped Shateiel’s shoulder with his left hand. “I know. Go home, Lieutenant. You’ve earned a period of R and R.”

Shateiel bowed again and vanished.

Gabriel turned away from the spot where Shateiel had been standing, and walked toward the admin building. He could feel Michael within it, hear the constant hum of his power’s aura and identify it easily within the morass of white noise that was the Heavenly Host. The sound and sensation were audible to angelkind only; it was their connection to the Source, to God, to Heaven, and to each other.

Taking long, measured strides, his chain mail clinking as he walked, Gabriel nodded to those humans who greeted him as he entered the building. His mud-spattered blue wool cloak billowed and swirled around his legs as he marched down the corridor, the broad silver-and-gray fur trim at the neck ruffling as he walked.

It had been six months since Gabriel had seen Michael, and he missed him terribly. The only thing that prevented him from running down the corridor was decorum—the Archangel of War should not be dashing hither and yon like a lovestruck teenager. Even if that was what he was—well, minus the teenager part.

Humans were well aware of angels now—what they did, who they were, that they existed and lived on Earth—thanks to the media’s reports of the war, which alternated between gushing and respectful, and horrified and somber. The war had taken seventy years to end, and now, finally, in the year 2082, it was over. Gabriel was tired, weary of decades of constant fighting and very much looking forward to taking a break and spending time with Michael. Preferably, that time would be spent in bed, and preferably, they would be naked.

His thoughts were brought to an abrupt halt as Michael emerged from a room to Gabriel’s left. Michael wore a loose sleeveless dark-red robe over his trousers and leather-and-steel jerkin, his sword and dagger belted at his waist. His hair was longer now, sweeping down his back, and braids at his temples kept it out of his face. His boots were scuffed and worn, and there was the air about him of one who had seen too much despair and pain in too short a time.

Michael turned, and he fixed his dark eyes on Gabriel’s own. The two of them stared at each other, and Gabriel could see the emotions rapidly chasing each other across Michael’s face. He could only imagine his own face was much the same. Six months apart had felt like six centuries, and Gabriel ached for his lover so much that it was almost physically painful.

“Gabriel?” Michael’s voice was soft, full of desperate hope.

Gabriel nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Then he was moving, closing the distance between them and grabbing Michael in a rough embrace, kissing him with hunger and need. Michael kissed him back, small noises of want coming from him as he threaded his hands through Gabriel’s hair and pushed Gabriel back against the wall.

“Gabriel,” Michael murmured between frenzied kisses. “Gabriel. You are not hurt?”

“No, ’m not hurt.” Gabriel nipped Michael’s lower lip. “I missed you. Fuck, so much.”

“Language,” Michael scolded, gasping as Gabriel nuzzled his neck and nibbled. “Gabriel….”

“Let’s go home,” Gabriel murmured roughly into Michael’s ear.

HC. Thanks so much for dropping by and sharing with us today. Come back again soon. :-)

In The Hot Seat With H.C Brown Today- Ellen Holiday

Welcome Ellen Holiday to the Hot Seat Today :-)

Can you tell us a bit about yourself?

I’m 34 years old, working in Washington D.C. and living just outside the city in Northern Virginia with my husband. I’ve been writing since I was 5, writing romances since I was 8, and writing m/m romance since I discovered it existed. A healthy dose of Japan love and the discovery of boys’ love and yaoi comics helped jump-start me in that direction – I lived in Japan for a year teaching English at a private language school. Besides my husband and Japan, my loves are politics, singing, and the wonderful world of fandom.

What made you write ‘Inside the Beltway’ ?

I fell in love with politics almost immediately upon moving to the D.C. area. The closer I got to it the more it fascinated me – not just campaigns but the way Congress works, the way a scandal breaks down, how the media works and how public and private lives can intersect. I wanted to explore that, and I wanted to tell a story with the beautiful backdrop of Washington. And when Senator Davis Hudson appeared in my mind, I knew exactly the kind of story I wanted to tell for him. It may seem weird, but I’m awfully proud of him and the growth he experiences through this book. It really is like watching your child grow up.

Describe a typical day’s writing for us

I do my best writing anywhere but inside my apartment. Sometimes I go up into our loft with my iPod and lean back in the chair, but most of the time I’m on my porch looking out at the pond or, if the weather’s nice, by the pool. Lately I find that when if I hit a block, a few laps clears my mind again. I like to have music, have life moving around me. I also have a long commute to work, so I’m able to do a lot of writing on the Metro. I touch-type and write with my eyes closed, so I’ve occasionally gotten some strange looks!

What inspires you to write?

I get a lot of inspiration from images, or slices of life that I see go by. I just got an iPad, and I’ve downloaded an app that lets me keep index cards of characters, so I have a bunch of pretty faces sitting on my iPad waiting for names and stories to be attached to them. Music helps the words flow, but it has to be instrumental music, as I get caught up too much in lyrics. I have a lot of anime soundtracks from the ‘90s that speak to me emotionally and help me take my characters to vulnerable places.

What could not do without when you’re writing?

The universe. I don’t write in solitude, though sometimes my husband will take one look at me and know I’m “in the zone” and not to be disturbed! But I prefer life to be happening around me, even if it’s just the birds flying or the wind moving. I have to feel connected to the world in order to write about it.

What words of wisdom do you have for the aspiring authors out there?

I’m still at the stage where I need the words of wisdom! But what I’ve learned so far is: just do it. Write it, edit it, and send it out. You’ll probably get rejection letters. Don’t let them stop you. Just keep putting your vision out there, make it the best you possibly can, and then let your baby leave the nest. You’ll be surprised by how well she flies.

Do you have a favorite quote?

I have many, but whenever I’m asked, I blank. I’m fond of Emerson, who has a number of quotes that speak to me personally and as a writer. Most notably, this one:

Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could; some blunders and absurdities have crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; you shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.

Do you ever suffer from writer’s block?

Oh, all the time. There are times I think I know exactly what to do and then get to my computer and nothing happens. There are times the only words that come out are horribly boring. It’s so frustrating. I try to switch out my environments, put on music, take off music, look at pictures, anything to get it all flowing again. If worse comes to worst, I just take a break.

H.C. Trust me, reading through your manuscript works wonders :-)

What other books can your readers look forward to?

I’m working on another vaguely politically themed book, this one about a talk radio host. This time he’s a libertarian, which is far from my political viewpoint, so it’s a bit harder to write him, but it’s also super-interesting to try and write someone with a fundamentally different worldview. I also have about twenty tons of story ideas in various stages of development, and I’m also working on a joint project with Nessa Warin (author of Sauntering Vaguely Downward) that’s moving slowly but will surely be done someday.

Can you share an excerpt with us?

Here’s an excerpt from Inside the Beltway that hasn’t been shared anywhere else yet. A bit steamy!

H.C. My readers like it  to melt their computer screens. LOL :-)

“And that’s why I feel so strongly about these trade pacts. They’re good for America, they’re good for the global economy, and they’re going to create thousands of jobs if we can have the fortitude to push forward and make sure they get approved.”

Davis paused and took a sip of water. A wrinkled old man was staring at him from the front row as though Davis was a three-headed talking monkey. The woman next to him looked like she’d like to wring his neck. This was the reception he’d expected from the Cato Institute, which was generally known for its libertarian ideology. For every business supporter who agreed with him in the audience, there were four isolationists who thought he was selling them all out to the Chinese.

But Alex was giving him a thumbs-up from the back of the auditorium, and the C-SPAN cameras were rolling. And he was sure he’d seen at least a dozen press passes on his way in. He was getting covered, and that was a damn good thing no matter which way he intended to go with his ambitions. It was worth the chilly stares.

The moderator opened the floor for questions, and a man in a suit strolled to the microphone. “Senator Hudson,” he said, and cleared his throat. “What’s your position on the import tariffs? There’s been a push from your party’s left flank to hike them up.”

“I respectfully disagree with my colleagues in the Democratic Caucus on that point,” Davis said. Alex wrinkled her nose at him, and Davis hastily added, “Which is to say, I think it’s a lousy idea.”

A smattering of laughter lifted from the audience. Davis glanced at Alex, who gave him the thumbs-up.

“Not that we don’t need to address the debt, and we do,” he went on, “but when we’re talking about importing Chinese goods, we should keep in mind that they’re holding our debt, and there’s only so much of their money we can ask them to spend before they change their mind about us spending their money too. That is a politically tricky path, and as much as we have to hold our noses to recognize it, we have to hold our noses and recognize it until we work our way out of debt in this country.”

“Some would say, though, that what you’re really doing is protecting our own corporations from paying their fair share.”

Davis looked up with a start. That had been a very familiar voice.

Kurt made his way up to the microphone. “After all, if Pratco has a factory in China, but their headquarters are here and their goods are sold here, how much of that is Chinese money?” he said casually. “How much of it is a corporate tax break that you’re just not willing to let go because of the influence of the business lobby?”

Davis took a sip of his water, tried to calm the racing of his heart. A smile slipped onto his face. “Well, aren’t you left-wing,” he said. “How did they ever let you in here?”

Kurt’s eyes met Davis’s. “I told them I was related to you,” he quipped. The audience laughed. Davis felt his whole heart drop right into his pants. When Kurt’s eyebrows quirked upward and he gave a soft wink in Davis’s direction, Davis was sure he’d never be able to walk out from behind the podium without immediate embarrassment. He turned and offered a wan smile to Mr. and Mrs. Pruneface just to calm down.

“Related to me, huh?” he hissed into Kurt’s ear. “Let me guess. Long-lost cousin?”

“I thought brother would be awkward,” came the chuckle and reply, but a moan broke from the end of it, and Davis smiled around the lobe of Kurt’s ear as he nipped it. Kurt’s hands were pressed into his shoulder blades, holding fast there, and in the dimness and silence of the office, his shallow breaths echoed around them.

“Kurt,” Davis moaned, the sound so much more desperate than he knew he could make, “I told them I’d be back in five minutes—”

“What, do they have a stopwatch?” Kurt’s hands were at work at Davis’s belt, loosening and unbuckling it to the rhythm of their fevered breaths. “Six minutes? Seven?”

“Not—” Davis broke off, a huffing sigh coming from his mouth as Kurt reached inside his pants to stroke him. “—not twenty.”

“Point taken, then. Not twenty.” And Kurt slid down his body, dropping to his knees far easier than Davis ever expected he would, certainly far easier than in any of their more leisurely trysts. Davis groaned and leaned back against the wall, fists cinching hard around Kurt’s shoulders.

“Not nineteen, either—ah!” His eyes jammed shut as Kurt’s mouth encompassed him, as suction and liquid took over every nerve in his body.

“Mm-hm” was the only noise Kurt could make through his tight mouth, and it rolled, vibrating, into Davis’s core, weakening his knees, making him tremble and shudder against the wall where he was uncomfortably bracing himself. There was a chuckle too, in the back of Kurt’s throat at the end of those words, and Davis felt every single tremor and vibration of his vocal cords, thought he would pass out from that much sensation radiating up and through him. He gritted his teeth and held on for dear life.

Kurt was far too good at this—he was far too good every time he touched Davis—and Davis was lost in a heart-pounding pure-white wave of pleasure, pleasure magnified with excitement and fear of discovery and the knowledge that he was cutting it as close as a man possibly could, far closer than a man in his position ever should. But it had been a few weeks now since they started this madness, and Davis was completely addicted. He couldn’t break things off now if he wanted, and God help him, he didn’t want. He only wanted this wonderful feeling to go on forever.

He looked down with tenderness at the man below him, his eyes soft, and drew gentle fingers against the lines of Kurt’s cheeks even as he thrust forward and groaned and lost his mind.

Buy link

I have a blog at ellenholiday.wordpress.com and you can follow me on Twitter at @ellen_holiday. It’s wonderful to be part of this community, and I thank you for giving me such a warm welcome!

H.C. Thanks for joining me today. I hope you come back and tell us more about your new releases :-)

In the Hot Seat With H.C. Brown- Andrea Speed.

Today please welcome the talented  Andrea Speed to the Hot Seat.

Can you tell us a bit about yourself?

I am either an author who leads an exciting double life as a secret spy for gay Venusians, or a collective figment of our imaginations. I like to let people make up their own minds about such things.

 H.C. LOL

 The Josh of the Damned series has been very successful. What made you write Infected: Shift?

 Well, the entire Infected series was spurred by my love of science and science fiction, as well as my love of the noir detective archetype. The Josh of the Damned series is simply inspired by my love of horror comedy, and the natural conflict between the extremely bizarre and the terribly mundane.

As for my latest book, Infected: Shift, part of the motivation for the story was introducing new allies for Roan. He has a lot of forces aligned against him, so why not get a few more friends on his side? They also add humor to the story, which is welcome since this story gets so dark.

 HC: Sounds wonderful. This series is going on my TBR list :-)

Describe a typical day’s writing for us.

To be fair, there's not too many typical days, but there will probably be a lot of procrastinating and interruptions.

What inspires you to write?

I wish I knew. I could make it perform like a trained monkey if I knew.

HC. I blame fairy dust. 

What could not do without when you’re writing?

Music to listen to! I need it to help put me in a writing zone. I can write without it, but it helps immensely. Specific music can help me get into a certain scene or a certain character as well.

What words of wisdom do you have for the aspiring authors out there?

Always write, and always read. Reading is an important part of the writing process. I'm not sure how or why, it just is. Also, persistence is important. You need to keep at it. Luck is also a part of this process.

Do you have a favorite quote?

Many. Really you could just read A Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy or Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas, and just pick a page. They're both insanely quotable and well written enough to make a grown editor cry. But I suppose most, if not all of my writing could be traced back to Jean-Paul Satre's famous assertion “Hell is other people”. (It's also true, too.)

 

Do you ever suffer from writer’s block?

To a certain degree, I think everyone does. You just have to write your way out of that corner.

What other books can your readers look forward to?

Well, I'm still working on that fantasy novel for Riptide, although they may be ready to throw me overboard because I'm so behind on it. Infected: Lesser Evils is coming out in October, and I'm working on new Josh of the Damned stories, and a Paris prequel in the Infected universe.

Can you share an excerpt of Infected: Shift with us?

(Warning – Bad language follows)

As Roan walked the lot, he saw a bald guy (a white guy who shaved his

head) in a denim jacket giving him the stink eye, like he recognized him as

the guy who ran over his dog several times with a combine harvester.

Roan gave him a sarcastic little wave, and the guy muttered something

into a cell phone. Roan mimed a kiss, and the guy turned away. Yep,

blowing a kiss at them usually did it.

There was a guy in a nylon jacket standing at the rear entrance of the

rink, arms folded in the traditional security guard posture. But he was

more lumpy than muscular, like the Falcons sweatshirt and the slacks he

was wearing were full of mashed potatoes instead of prime beef. Not only

was Roan sure he could take him, but that anyone over the age of thirteen

had a fair shot at taking him. He was bald, but unlike the guy giving him

the stink eye, it wasn’t by choice. “Help you?” he muttered, making it one

word: hepyu.

“I’m Roan McKichan. I’m here to see Grey Williams.” Roan tried

not to stare, but the guard’s head was almost perfectly egg shaped. He

wanted to ask him if he’d ever had a hen sit on him by mistake.

“Uh huh.”

“Ask him. He knows who I am.”

With great reluctance, the man lifted a walkie-talkie to his mouth

and said, “Ryan, there’s a guy named McKeen out here, says Grey knows

him.”

“McKichan,” Roan corrected, but figured Grey would know who

was meant. If he was lucky.

There was a burst of static over the walkie-talkie, Ryan saying

something, but it was impossible to make out what he said. Even the

Eggman scowled at his unit, like if he frowned hard enough he could have

made sense of it.

After almost a minute, the door behind the Eggman cracked open,

and he stepped aside as Grey stuck his head out. “Oh, hey, man. Thought

that might be you.” He came out dressed in dark sweatpants and a

sweatshirt, none of which had a Falcons logo. His hair was damp, and his

skin was slightly flushed.

“I didn’t pull you off the ice, did I?”

“Oh, hell no. There was some kinda scheduling snafu, so we had to

do our skate early. We’re packin’ up. In fact, I thought I was gonna hafta

call you and reschedule.”

“They got something else going in here? It explains why the parking

lot is so full.”

Grey looked around, as if noticing it for the first time, and shook his

head. “Yeah, it’s some ice skating thing. There’s a buncha MILFs in the

lobby.”

Ah, straight people. As he was wondering what he should say to

that, the door opened again, and a tall, slender guy came out. “Hey, Grey,

this the detective?”

“Oh, yeah. Roan, this is Scott Murray, our team captain. Scottie,

Roan.”

Scott held out his hand, and his handshake was dry and firm but not

over-the-top bone breaking. “Hi. Really wanted to meet you. You were

really impressive taking on those Nazi fucks.”

“Thanks.” How many people had Grey shown the video to? Well, it

probably wasn’t his fault—it was shown ad nauseum on television for

about twenty-four hours, until a more interesting story hit the news cycle.

And considering this was a nice distraction from the fact that Scott was

fucking cute.

He had a round face that ended in a squared-off jaw that wasn’t

heavy, with sleepy blue eyes that softened his rugged looks and short

black hair that was actually reasonably stylish, not harsh. He could have

been his ex-lover Connor’s half brother, that’s how handsome he was, and

Roan wanted to slap himself but didn’t dare. This wasn’t at all fair. The

stereotype was hockey players had the best bodies—lean, hard—but the

homeliest faces. Hadn’t Scott been given the memo? He was even better

looking than Argent.

“Vancouver, right?” he asked.

Scott nodded. “Burnaby originally, but close enough. Accent gives it

away, huh?”

“I’m very familiar with it.” How old was he? He looked barely

twenty, but he had a bit of stubble suggesting that at least he was shaving

age.

Now it seemed to be a “meet the team” party, as several other

players dribbled out. In order: a tall, blond Russian called Sandy (who

could have been a body double for Dolph Lundgren in that Rocky film),

“Tank” Beauvais (who seemed oddly placid and yet gave off the vibe that

he was a grenade waiting for his pin to be pulled), a guy named Richie

whose nose had been broken so often it was now permanently crooked,

and a guy with an astonishingly stereotypical New York accent named

Jeff. (He’d learned from the Falcons own web page that there were only

three American-born players on the team: Grey, Jeff, and somebody

named Rozanski. Nearly all the rest of the team was from Canada, save for

Sandy and a Finn named Henrik.) Roan felt like a trained monkey—were

they expecting him to dance?

Another guy came out, but he was talking to the Eggman, and he

was too old to be a player, deep in his mid-thirties. Also, he wasn’t

wearing anything approximating workout gear, and Roan caught a glimpse

of a silver watch that was reasonably expensive.

Not sure there was a subtle way to do this that Grey would catch, he

told him bluntly, “I’m here to talk to you about the case. Should we go

somewhere private?”

He shrugged. “No need. The guys know.”

“Okay.” Did they know he was looking into the murder of Grey’s

best friend’s transsexual sister/brother? Maybe they honestly didn’t care.

Most of the younger generation wasn’t as hung up on sexual roles as the

older generation. “I need to know if you ever met Jamie’s roommate,

Brandon Fallows.”

“No.”

“Know anything about him at all?”

He considered that, grimacing slightly. “Not really. Jamie hardly

mentioned him in his letters.”

Roan stared at him blankly. “Letters? Jamie wrote you letters?”

“Yeah. For a while there I didn’t have an Internet connection, so that

was easier.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before? Can I see the letters?” He was

trying very hard not to get mad at Grey, not in front of so many big

teammates (only Tank was about his size—short, his ass!) but it was

difficult. Did he really want to sabotage his own case? It was hard to

believe anyone could be this dumb.

“I didn’t save ’em.” He scratched his head, then added, “There might

be one or two, though. I packed up a whole buncha stuff. I’m not sure

about everything I packed.”

“If you could check, I’d really appreciate it.”

Roan had no idea why, but his personal alarm bells started going off

as soon as he heard the rumble of a truck engine. Or maybe it was just he

was being stared at, and usually he knew when eyes were on him. He

looked over his shoulder to see a flatbed white Ford pulling to a stop in a

parking lane almost twenty feet away (well, there weren’t a lot of places

left to park), and the engine was left running as eight men of various sizes

and ages—mostly older teens, most burly—hopped out onto the pavement,

some carrying pipes or bats. Roan instantly recognized the skinhead who’d

been giving him the stink eye earlier.

 ***

I hope, if you pick up my books, you enjoy them. That's ultimately what I'm aiming for.

Andrea Speed

 http://andreaspeed.com/

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100001496290042

Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/aspeed

Google+: https://plus.google.com/109420358312270961913/posts

  HC: Thanks for  dropping by today:-)