Big Backlist Weekend with Amy Lane and Tara Lain #2giveaways #Contemporary #Romance

Hi Everyone!!!!

Welcome to Big Backlist Weekend! This is a special event I post every month or so where I ask a wonderful author to come and join me in giving away a copy of an ebook from their backlist.

My guest today is my dear friend, Amy Lane! Keeping Promise Rock is the first book in the Promises Series and a romance classic. I’m giving away an ebook copy of Knight of Ocean Avenue, the first book in the Love in Laguna Series, and one of my most popular romances.

Here’s your chance to win one or the other of our books. Just enter on the Rafflecopter below and watch for Big Backlist Weekend with special guests every month.


Keeping Promise Rock
(Promises #1)
by Amy Lane


Carrick Francis has spent most of his life jumping into trouble with both feet. The only thing saving him from prison or worse is his absolute devotion to Deacon Winters. Deacon was Crick’s sanity and salvation during a miserable, abusive childhood, and Crick would do anything to stay with him forever. So when Deacon’s father dies, Crick puts his college plans on hold to help Deacon as Deacon has helped him.

Deacon’s greatest wish is to see Crick escape his memories and the town they grew up in so Crick can enjoy a shining future. But after two years of growing feelings and temptation, the painfully shy Deacon finally succumbs to Crick’s determined advances and admits he sees himself as part of Crick’s life.

It nearly destroys Deacon when he discovers Crick has been waiting for him to push him away, just like Crick’s family did in the past. When Crick’s knack for volatile decisions lands him far away from home, Deacon is left, shell-shocked and alone, struggling to reforge his heart in a world where love with Crick is a promise, but by no means a certainty.

Available for purchase at
Kindle | Amazon Paperback | Audible | Dreamspinner


 WHEN Carrick was seven years old, his mother dated a Bible-thumping bigot who had taken one look at Carrick’s straight, dark hair, liquid black eyes, and pale skin and subsequently declared that “the little Mex kid could pass for white, so he didn’t reckon it would be too much of a problem raising him right.”

“The little Mex kid” had promptly kicked the fucker in the shins and run out of the house. His mother married Bob Coats anyway, but thank the good Lord, he’d never forced Crick to take his name.

Francis was his mother’s last name—and he liked it. Wasn’t so thrilled with her—especially after she married Bob—but the name sounded good. Sounded a hell of a lot better than “the little Mex kid,” anyway.

They moved to Levee Oaks, which could loosely be termed a “suburb” of Sacramento but wasn’t. Levee Oaks was an odd sort of town—sweet little suburban neighborhoods sat cheek-by-jowl next to horse property. The high school was part of a larger Sacramento district that covered some of the less savory parts of the city, but the grammar schools were all part of an elementary district, and so they behaved like the high school and junior high were on Mars and not worth their consideration. The result was a whole lot of confused junior high students and a high school environment that was known for sending substitute teachers screaming for tequila and a gun permit.

A lot of the residents in Levee Oaks had jobs in the considerably larger city of Sacramento. A lot of the residents didn’t have jobs, period. A whole lot of the residents attended one of the churches that seemed to sit large on every corner. After Carrick lived through his first flood at the age of eight and a half, he’d figured that the churches were there to keep the water back.

After living through another levee break only one year later, Crick figured the churches were not doing their job and were therefore pretty goddamned useless. This was why he started ditching out of Sunday school, which was how he met Deacon.

Ditching out of Sunday school was not as much fun as it sounded. There were no arcades, no movie theaters—hell, there was barely a 7/11 to haunt, and besides, he didn’t have any money, anyway. Mostly what Carrick did, dressed in his threadbare khakis and striped polo shirt, was wander. He’d wander up one narrow road, down one tiny road, and along East Levee Road, and finally, he’d find his way to the levee.

One day, he found his way to the levee and followed it to Deacon’s father’s horse ranch and fell in love.

At first, he thought he was in love with the place, because it was everything his own home was not. The ranch house was big enough (whereas his mother’s house always seemed too small) and painted a whimsical blue, with a nice little patch of lawn and a U-shaped driveway that circled around to the back, where the spread opened up a bit. There was a barn four times the size of the house and two work-out rings, as well as enough sun-browned pasture-land for twenty horses to graze comfortably outside, and enough sun-scorched riding land beyond that so that not all the workouts had to be in the workout rings.

But the house, as nice as it looked, was just a house, so the next thing Crick figured he loved was the horse, because she was—as Deacon said for years—one of the prettiest little fillies he ever did raise. Her movements were liquid-silver, her gait smooth as lube, and her color was a fine, dark chestnut. As Crick grew to love horses he had to agree with Deacon’s assessment—even when he thought that ‘lube’ meant engine grease.

So Crick fell in love with the horse next, but then he found his final love, and that was the boy in the ring, the one guiding that pretty little mare through her paces. His brow knotted in concentration, his face lit with some sort of holy joy—well, he really made the poetry of muscle, sinew, hide, and motion come alive.

Crick looked around and saw that there were a number of folks hanging off the fence of the workout ring, so he wiggled between two kids his own age and stood up on the lowest rail of the fence, the better to look over the top rail and get a better view.

“Isn’t she pretty?” the boy next to him whispered, and Crick looked at the horse and thought of wind.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Deacon says that if they can breed Lucy Star here and produce a stud, The Pulpit will start rolling in money.”

“Deacon?” It sounded grownup but pretty too. In the years that followed, Crick never got tired of hearing Deacon’s name.

The kid—a plain-looking boy with straight brown hair and a rather aggressive brow—nodded to the boy in the ring, and Crick found out what real love was all about.

Deacon Winters had been beautiful his entire life. Crick would never see him acknowledge it, even once, which was fine. Crick could do all the appreciating of Deacon’s beauty all by himself.

The boy in the ring took off his blue ball cap and revealed brown hair streaked blond by the sun, slicked back against his head with sweat and falling across his brow from what had once been a buzz cut on the top of his head. His face was a very square-ish oval—he had a square chin and high cheekbones and a wide forehead, and wide-set green-hazel eyes that were remarkably pretty, even in the glaring sun.

His face and hands were tanned, but his upper arms under his T-shirt were pale, and even at thirteen or fourteen, he was showing long swathes of knotty muscle in his biceps, chest, shoulders, and across his back. His wrist-bones were wide, because he had a bit of growing to do, and his collarbones peeked sharply through his sweat-soaked blue T-shirt.

Deacon had always thought of food last and horses first—one thing among many that had made Carrick love him even more over the years. Even so, the seeds of that love started at that very moment, as Carrick watched those wide, capable hands carry that horse through her paces like a cloud carried water from the sea to the valley.

Carrick couldn’t hardly contain himself, and when he couldn’t hardly contain himself, he never could contain his damned mouth.

“Geez, that’s a pretty horse. Did you breed her yourself? How old is she? Do you get to ride her? Damn, I want to ride her—do you think I could ride her? Are you Deacon? This boy says your name is Deacon and mine’s Carrick. Deacon’s not anything like Carrick, but maybe your name is Irish, like mine. My name is Irish because my mom is Irish, even though my real dad was Mex. But we don’t talk about him, so if I am Irish, and you are too, we could be brothers, right? I wouldn’t mind a brother, because my mom’s pregnant again and it’s another girl…,” and so on. Anything—anything—to get that boy to look up at him, to get him to respond, to get someone that beautiful to notice that Carrick existed.

But Deacon ignored him for the next fifteen minutes. He was working the mare, and that was where his concentration went, and that was all she wrote. The two boys next to Crick shifted on the fence and gave him pitying looks before hopping down and going elsewhere. (Crick found out later that they were clients, waiting for their riding lesson, and they would eventually form the background haze of his miserable adolescence.) Carrick was left there—him, his mouth, and the boy of his dreams.

Finally the workout was done, and Deacon led the mare off for water and a good brushing. He looked up at the little nuisance on the fence and jerked his chin, indicating that Crick should follow him.

“You want to ride?” he asked as Carrick trotted up beside him, and Carrick nodded furiously, for once blessedly silent.

“You want to ride, I’ll teach you after lesson hours. But you gotta help muck out the stables, right?”

Crick thought that sounded fair. Besides, even horseshit sounded better than Sunday school.

“And another thing,” Deacon said, looking down at Crick from what seemed an impressive height. (Crick would grow a good four inches taller, but he didn’t know that.) “Please don’t talk so much. You’ll spook the horses.”

Please don’t. It was as harsh as Deacon ever got. He didn’t talk much—never did. Teachers thought he was stupid until he aced their tests. Riding clients talked at him continuously, trying to get him to break into conversation, but Deacon would blush and turn away. It took Crick years to get him to open his heart and spill it out, and even then didn’t realize how rare it was that Deacon would talk to anyone at all. But all that impressive silence had its perks.

If Crick wanted to know if he’d ever crossed a line, all he had to listen for were those words, please don’t… and he’d subside.

Deacon had that effect on a person.

In fact, Carrick would later reflect that Deacon’s effect on him was about the only thing that kept Crick alive and out of prison during the next eleven years.

That evening, Parish Winters drove Carrick home, Deacon on the other side of him in the big, steel blue Chevy truck. Crick liked Deacon’s dad—he had gray hair, a weathered face, and a sort of sweetness around his smile. Deacon might have had the same sweetness, but he tended to pinch his mouth closed, concentrating all the time.

It didn’t matter—Parish saw the heart of his son, and, in that first night, Crick could tell that he saw the heart of a lonely, angry boy as well.

“I reckon we’ll take the boy on Saturdays and Sundays,” Parish said after Crick’s stepdad had opened the door.

Bob Coats had made noises. “Sunday’s the Lord’s day! Boy belongs—”

“Wandering the levee, looking for trouble? I reckon the Lord would rather we kept him busy, you think?” Parish snorted, and Bob had opened his mouth to argue again, but one up-close-and-personal glare from Deacon’s father had shut him down.

“Now you listen here. This ain’t the first time I’ve seen your kid wandering the roads. You wanted to keep him in church on Sunday, you needed to spend some more time with him every other day.”

“He’s not my kid,” Coats denied hotly. “Little Mex bastard is Mel’s mistake. But we need him to take care of his sister….”

“Well, you’ll have to need him some other days, then,” Parish said, his implacable face a testament to his disgust.

“Why this kid, Winters?” Coats asked snidely. “He’s pretty enough—is that your thing?”

Carrick had looked up as though shot. It was like Bob Coats had seen directly into his heart and made note of the lovely glow that had surrounded it since he’d seen Deacon. But Coats was purely invested in pissing off Deacon’s father, and it worked. Parish grabbed Crick’s stepdad by the front of the sweat-stained T-shirt and shoved him against the door.

“You listen here, you ignorant bastard,” he growled. “My son is a good kid—he gets good grades, he works his ass off—and he don’t ask for nothing but the right to sit a horse. Birthdays, Christmases—that boy’s been neck deep in sweaters, because he doesn’t want a damned thing. Until today. Today he asked me for Carrick to work at The Pulpit two days a week. And since you don’t give a damn about that boy, I’m going to give Deacon what he wants and Crick here what he needs.” Parish punctuated this speech—one of the longest Crick would ever hear him make—with a shove at Bob’s shirt against the door.

“If you want him that bad you can have him!” Coats spat to the side then, and Crick barely missed getting snot in his hair. “But he damned better be here after school to watch the little one for his mom.”

“I will!” Carrick swore fervently. He actually didn’t mind sitting the baby—Bernice, Benny for short, was a sweetheart with a wicked smile. Until he’d talked to Deacon Winters, his two-year-old sister had been about his best friend.

And so it had started. Carrick’s lifelong love affair with horses—and with Deacon Winters—was well on its way.

The next weekend, when Crick was ass-deep in horseshit and still happier than he’d be watching television at home, he asked why. Why’d Deacon put him and his daddy out to rescue Crick from domestic misery?

Deacon had shrugged and grinned at him. His grin was a tight-muscled, sunshine-powerful thing that made Carrick’s stomach fly. “You’re as honest as a horse, Crick. Loud, but honest. That don’t come easy.”

So Crick had a quality—a virtue of sorts. He clung to it. There were some difficult years—some damned rough years, in fact—but Deacon had seen honesty in him, and Crick determined that Deacon would never see anything less.

Which was why, that very same weekend, when Deacon put him on the back of a horse and walked that placid, bombproof gelding around the circle with a gait as soft as a cotton ball on a cloud, Crick had grinned fiercely at his hero and laughed. “Dammit, Deacon, it’s awesome… but I want to go faster!”

Deacon tilted his head back and laughed. “All right, Speedy. Let’s try a canter.”

And Crick held on for dear life. He never realized that from that moment forward, so did Deacon—but Deacon did manage to drop him some hints.

The time Crick got busted for smoking weed under the high school bleachers in the sixth grade, Deacon had dropped a big one.

At Crick’s (panicked, tearful, shameless) begging, the school authorities had called Parish to take him in hand instead of his mom and stepdad, and Deacon had come with him.

If Crick had room for one more request, it would have been that Deacon would never have known about his complete idiocy. The kid who asked him had Deacon’s brown hair and eyes, only a little darker, and grooves in the sides of his cheeks, and he had… had smiled at Crick. Had let him in on the joke. Had copied off his math homework and given him some cookies from his lunch in return. It was as close as Crick would ever get to actual popularity—smoking weed hadn’t seemed like that big a price to pay.

Then he saw the fearsome look on Deacon’s face as Parish’s big blue pick-up drove up, and it had seemed like entirely too high a cost.

Parish had needed to deal with the school authorities—and from what Crick figured out, a whole lot of lying had gone on about how Bob and Melanie Coats would be the first ones to know and how a month’s worth of detention would be impossible for him to serve, since he was helping at The Pulpit to feed his family.

And while Parish was doing that, Deacon was making a month’s worth of detention sound like a dream come true.

“What. In. The. Hell.” It was all he could say. Crick stared at his hero as Deacon struggled with words, with breathing, and with the tremble of temper in his hands as he apparently debated whether to strangle Crick or turn him over his knee.

“I’m sorry, Deacon.” He tried to be stoic. Oh, he really did, but the tears were slipping out, and his nose was starting to run. Screw Brian Carter and his Oreo cookies—he’d trade them all just to have Deacon’s good opinion back.

“Do you know what happens if you smoke weed, get drunk, do stupid shit like this? Do you have any idea?” Crick’s back was to the school wall, and Deacon was looming over him, his fist pulled back and cocked like he was going to hit something. Crick didn’t quail. Bob tanned his hide at least twice a week—Crick could handle pain, and this time he deserved it.

“I’m sorry…. Please don’t say I can’t come over any more. Please let me keep working at The Pulpit….”

Deacon let his fist fly—straight at the wall above Crick’s head. He grunted at the impact, and Crick heard bones crunch, but Deacon just looked down at him, holding his blood-dripping hand and shaking his head.

“That shit can kill you on a horse. Horses don’t know drunk from mean, you don’t know a buzz in your brain from a tree in your head—you do that shit, you can’t come around no more. That shit’ll get you killed!”

Crick looked at the blood on Deacon’s hand and cried harder. Without hardly knowing what he was doing, he rubbed the abused knuckles with his thumb. “I won’t, Deacon. Please. Just… just please don’t be mad at me. Don’t….”

“Why’d you do it?” Deacon asked, shaking off the attention as he always did.

Crick hiccupped and yielded to the one virtue he’d ever been accused of having. “He was nice to me, and I was lonely.”

Deacon dropped his head with a sigh and carefully repositioned his baseball hat with his good hand. “You gotta hold out for the weekends, Crick. Just remember, you got friends and family from Saturday morning to Sunday night. Please don’t make me say you can’t come over. Please.”

Oh, Jesus. Deacon had said “please.”

Parish came out and got them then, and he took his son to the ER at Kaiser in the city without much more than a “Jesus Christ, Deacon—you couldn’t lose your temper on a pillow or something?”

When the hand and wrist had been stitched and set in a cast, he’d taken the boys out for ice cream. There had been no mention of school, detention, or the many reasons drug abuse was bad and horses were good. There was just the three of them, eating ice cream and asking Deacon how he was going to hold the reins with the awkward cast on his hand. Deacon shrugged. “That little gelding’s so sweet, I just gotta think in the right direction. We’ll be all right.”

And they were. Crick’s troubles were by no means over, but following Parish’s and Deacon’s examples, that was his last flirtation with substance abuse. Of course, three days later, after Deacon’s cast had been replaced with the waterproof fiberglass variety, Deacon took Crick on a trail ride along with Deacon’s best friend, wide receiver Jon Levins, and Deacon gave him another reason to never risk losing the best thing in his life.

The Sacramento River could be downright foul in some places, but in Levee Oaks, there were a few tributaries, mostly used for irrigation, that were both deep and clean. One of these ran through the far end of The Pulpit, complete with a big granite rock underneath a couple of oak trees. Deacon called it Promise Rock, and so did Jon, and Crick caught their excitement as they packed up the saddlebags with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, apples, water, and towels.

The ride itself wasn’t long, but it was hot. You didn’t wear your swimming trunks on the back of a horse, and it was already in the nineties, even though it was only May. They didn’t care. Parish and Patrick, The Pulpit’s one permanent employee, were off showing Lucy Star, trying to get up points so Lucy Star’s babies could be sold with a pedigree. Deacon had been slated to show her until he broke his hand, so there were no riding lessons and no football practice and pretty much nothing but mucking out stalls and working the other animals until the damned cast got taken off.

Deacon had asked nicely, and he and Parish figured that taking three horses to the end of the property and back counted as working them. The result amounted to a holiday better than going to the zoo or the movies or anything else that Crick hadn’t been able to do because step-Bob hadn’t wanted to spring for it.

For one thing, Crick got to ride a horse just as far and as fast as he wanted. Ever since his first ride around the little circle, Crick had lived and died for that chance to be free, and the only thing different about this was that there were two other horses in front of him, going mach one with their tails on fire.

It was awesome.

Eventually, they had to slow to a canter, which was probably good, because the muscles in his legs were going to give out—it was hard work holding on to a horse in a gallop, even harder if you were going to ride him, help him with the lifting of your body and the guiding of your legs and hands and stomach. About the time Crick thought he was going to humiliate himself by asking for a sedate walk, the oak trees they were heading for became clearly visible over the scorched fields that Parish mowed once a year for hay.

A little more cantering and they were swinging off the horses and leading them to the sloped bank of the swimming hole for water, and Crick got a good look at the only place in his life he’d ever held sacred.

Promise Rock was nothing really—a stand of rocks above a wide, deep spot in something less than a river and more than a stream. The rocks were surrounded by oak trees, so the place was shady, and they were sentinel oaks, so there were no scorched grasses in their shade. But the air there, in the shade and by the water, was about fifteen degrees cooler than it had been crossing the field, and they were far enough away from the levee and the roads that the only sounds there were the jangle of tack and the boys’ rough, happy breathing now that the ride was done. It was pretty, peaceful, and secret, and for the first time in his life, Crick felt like he was in the center of things. Only this little group of people—and Parish, of course—knew about this swimming hole. There was no trash, no used condoms or soda cups, and no reminders about step-Bob or his little sisters or the classes he hated or the fact that the whole rest of his life seemed to be wrapped up and tied into this crappy little town.

Crick thought that if The Pulpit was his world and Parish was his holy father, then Promise Rock was the church where he’d come to worship.

Deacon had the saddlebags, and he rustled inside them quickly and then threw trunks at Jon and Crick and began to strip off his own clothes to put his on without ceremony.

Crick tried hard not to swallow his tongue.

He’d always known he was in love with Deacon Winters, but he’d figured that was a “normal” kind of emotion that every boy felt for a hero. The boys around him had been talking about girls, and as sixth grade progressed, Crick had assumed he eventually would want to look at them and talk about them too. He had been afraid of that time—because it would mean less of his soul was centered on Deacon—but he assumed it was an age thing and it would pass.

Deacon’s skin was pale—especially next to Jon, who was tanned and blond from days in his parents’ swimming pool—and he had scars from riding and playing ball and one across his stomach from an appendix surgery, so he was not perfect. But oh God and boy howdy, was that boy beautiful. The tight, knotty swathes of muscle he’d seen the first time he’d seen Deacon had massed out a little in the last two years, but he still didn’t eat quite enough. His collarbones stood out vulnerable and delicate from his defined chest, and the hollow between his neck and the slope of his shoulders seemed to be especially tender. He had a flat beauty mark next to his right nipple, and another one low on his collarbone, and Crick tried hard—very hard—not to stare at the same time he was memorizing their positions so he could claim them at some later date. He had to take off his own clothes anyway, or he’d look like a dork, so for a minute that broke his concentration.

He had just skinned off his underwear when Jon said something inconsequential and witty, making Deacon throw back his head and laugh, and Crick looked up instinctively.

Oh God. Deacon was naked, his trunks held out in front of him as he prepared to step in, and Crick got a clear view of him, laughing and nude and beautiful enough to make his heart break.

And his little pecker stood at attention with a rush of blood Crick swore came directly from his brain. He flushed—probably so badly it looked worse than sunburn—and threw on his trunks haphazardly. Without looking at either of the other boys, he gathered his clothes into a knot and dropped them in a little wad up on the rock, then looked up with the most innocence he could muster.

“Can we just jump right on in then?” he asked, and Deacon nodded with a slight smile.

Thank God the water was cold, or Crick might have tried to drown himself in it, just for form.

As Jon and Deacon ran up the rock and leapt in from the height to a shrieking splash in the swimming hole, Crick had time to come to a couple of realizations.

He was never going to start looking at girls.

And he would probably love Deacon Winters truly and deeply for the rest of his entire life, in the way that most men loved their wives.

And someday, because Deacon thought he was honest, he would have to take his balls in one hand and his heart in the other and tell Deacon himself.

But not on this day. On this day, he would laugh and splash with Deacon and Jon. On this day, he would laugh at Jon (who was as extroverted and witty as Deacon was not) and watch Deacon on the sly to see his eyes crinkle and his mouth open wide as he laughed.

On this day, he would listen to the older boys shyly talk about their girlfriends and try very hard not to break his heart over it. They were not flirting with each other—and a phantom girl that Crick could not see did not feel like much of a threat.

On this day, Crick would be happy, and he would be good, and he would strengthen his resolve to behave at school so that Deacon would never again have to see the worst of him, the way his mom and step-Bob did.

He managed to make that resolution stick for three years.

About The Author

Amy Lane has two kids in college, two gradeschoolers in soccer, two cats, and two Chi-who-whats at large. She lives in a crumbling crapmansion with most of the children and a bemused spouse. She also has too damned much yarn, a penchant for action adventure movies, and a need to know that somewhere in all the pain is a story of Wuv, Twu Wuv, which she continues to believe in to this day! She writes fantasy, urban fantasy, and gay romance–and if you accidentally make eye contact, she’ll bore you to tears with why those three genres go together. She’ll also tell you that sacrifices, large and small, are worth the urge to write.

You can find Amy at
Website | Twitter | Amy Lane Anonymous–Facebook Group

Knight Of Ocean Avenue
By Tara Lain


How can you be twenty-five and not know you’re gay? Billy Ballew runs from that question. A high school dropout, barely able to read until he taught himself, Billy’s life is driven by his need to help support his parents as a construction worker, put his sisters through college, coach his Little League team, and not think about being a three-time loser in the engagement department. Being terrified of taking tests keeps Billy from getting the contractor’s license he so desires, and fear of his mother’s judgement blinds Billy to what could make him truly happy.

Then, in preparation for his sister’s big wedding, Billy meets Shaz—Chase Phillips—a rising star, celebrity stylist who defines the word gay. To Shaz, Billy embodies everything he’s ever wanted—stalwart, honest, brave—but even if Billy turns out to be gay, he could never endure the censure he’d get for being with a queen like Shaz. How can two men with so little in common find a way to be together? Can the Stylist of the Year end up with the Knight of Ocean Avenue?

Available for purchase at

Kindle | Amazon Paperback | Audiobook


Glory” played in his ear. Damn. Quit.
He reached out and pawed at the edge
of the coffee table until he finally felt the phone. His fingers found the mute
button and he clicked it. Peace. He tried to roll over. Heavy.



Claws dug into his
chest as the weight lifted, then disappeared. “Go back to sleep.” He rolled
over until his face and body were pressed against the back of the couch. Ouch.
His dick hurt. Sleep. Ouch.

Well, damn. Slowly
he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. He glanced to the side.
Clancy and Yerby gazed at him like they could command him with will force alone
to open the tuna. “Hang in there, guys.”

Oh man. Not hung
over. He’d had half a beer. But here he lay fully clothed on his couch, aching
in his bones and feeling like someone had kicked him in the nuts. That would be
him. He’d done it to himself.

He swung his legs
over the side, sat up on the edge of the couch, and dropped his head. Four eyes
stared up at him. “Go open it yourself.”

Three times. He’d
wanked himself into oblivion three times while rewinding that frigging porno.
Was there one line he didn’t engrave in his brain? Every “unh, unh, unh. Fuck
me harder” was emblazoned in his memory. Jesus, Ballew. Yeah, Jesus was the
operative word. But if he was going to hell for jerking off, he’d be taking
every male in the world with him.

Of course, he didn’t
just masturbate; he wanked to gay porn. What the hell is that about? Truth?
He’d been kicked in the teeth so many times by so many women, the idea of
fucking a nice uncomplicated man kind of did it for him. Well, not seriously,
but the theory was attractive. And no, he would not be sharing this revelation
with the guys on the job site.

The bang on his door
about sent him into outer space. Who the hell? Nobody came here. He didn’t
share his address much. No poker with the boys or make-out sessions with the
girls. His place. His. Who was it?

The knocking came


He jumped up.
“Yeah?” The cats looked up at his loud voice.

“Billy, it’s Jim.”
The voice came through the door.

Jim. Billy looked
around, grabbed the laptop, closed it tight, and slid it onto the end table.
Lube. Shit. He shoved the open tube into the drawer, then staggered over to the
front door. How much did he smell like sex? Damn, his sweats were halfway to
his knees. He dragged them back up, then opened the door.

 “Hi. Sorry,
overslept.” He ran a hand through his hair.

Jim Carney was a
little older than him and a good guy, if a bit of a hound dog. He grinned.
“Sorry. My truck broke down. I was kind of close to here and remembered your
address. Thought I’d see if I could get a ride.”

“Uh, sure.” He
glanced over his shoulder. It felt strange having somebody here. “Come on in. I
need to feed my cats and take a quick shower, if you want to wait.”

“Sure. Too far to
walk and all uphill.” He stepped in. “You have cats?”

 Billy looked at Jim.
The guy had a tough face with a broken nose that some women liked. “Yeah, I got
two. You like cats?”

“No. Just think it’s
kind of funny that you do.” He smacked Billy’s shoulder. “You crazy cat lady,

Well, hell. “Make
yourself at home.” Kind of. He walked into the kitchen, the boys behind him,
and scooped out some cat food into both dishes. “Here ya go, guys.” He raised
his voice. “Don’t let feline haters make you feel bad.”

Jim laughed from the
living room. “This is quite a place you have. Jesus, man, what are you, some
closet decorator?”

Billy frowned and
walked into the living room. “No, I just like having a nice place of my own.”

“But you’re so
damned neat.” He was holding a glass globe Billy had found in a yard sale.

“So?” He took the
globe and put it back on the shelf.

“Nothing. No wonder
women like you so much.”

“I’m taking a quick
shower.” He started for the bedroom, stopped and grabbed the laptop, then went
into his room—small with a big bed.

He glanced at his
watch, still ticking on his wrist. Double shit. If he didn’t hurry, they’d both
be late for work. Saturday shifts were good for making extra cash, but not if
he didn’t get there.

 He stepped under the
water. Too cold. Shaved so fast he nicked himself and finally got some clothes
on and hurried back into the living room. Jim sat on the couch holding a book,
the two cats staring at him from across the room. He stared back. Billy laughed.
“Have they got you cornered?”

“Shit, man, those
two are scary. What are they, ninja attack cats?”

Billy sat and pulled
on his work boots. He nodded at the book. “What you got?”

Jim held out the
book. “This is heavy shit, my man.” The copy of Jane Eyre kind of weighed down
his hand.

Billy tried to keep
his brows from scrunching together. “I just like to read. I didn’t get to go to
school too long, so I read, okay?” He didn’t say he read because it was like a
fucking gift to finally be able to do it.

Jim set down the
book and stood up. “You really are different, you know?”

“Thanks a shitload.”

“I don’t mean it
bad. You’re just—not like most of the guys.”

 Man, was he tired of
hearing that.


Rafflecopter Giveaway

Facebook PARTY for KNAVE OF BROKEN HEARTS by Tara Lain! RSVP Now!

Teaser #2 - Knave Of Broken HeartsHi —

First, if you haven’t entered on the Rafflecopter in my KNAVE OF BROKEN HEARTS Blog Tour, Click HERE. You could win a $25 GC. Next, I’m having a PARTY! It’s a Facebook Party for KNAVE OF BROKEN HEARTS, celebrating it’s wonderful success this week since it released on Monday. The book is #7 on the Gay Fiction Bestseller List at Amazon and just hit the overall bestseller list at ARe. The Party is this coming Friday, August 7th, from 7-11PM EDT at this link — 

I realize that this link doesn’t work for many people — and yet it is the link. I’m hoping you can go to my Facebook page and RSVP from there. Or email me and i’ll send you an invite.  : )

All you have to do is click and say you’re coming, then show up on Friday any time during the party hours. We play lots of silly games and give away prizes at random. I’ve invited a bunch of great authors to give you prizes and come join in if they can. Among my guests are —

Amy Lane, Andrew Grey, Belinda McBride, Shira Anthony, Lynn Lorenz, Eli Easton, Louisa Bacio, Kc Burn, KnaveofBrokenHearts-400x600and ZA Maxfield.

Can you imagine how much fun that group can be? Not all the authors will be there, but their prizes will! So even if you can just stay a few minutes, come join us for some fun and games.  See you then!

All #Dreamspinner Books are 30% OFF–Including Tara’s!

Knight of Ocean Avenue 400x600Hi —

I wanted you to know about this great sale at Dreamspinner Press from now through the 14th of June (so get aCanning 28-02 move on!) It’s their Beach Party Sale and all #Dreamspinner Books in the store are 30% OFF! For example, you can buy my new release, KNIGHT OF OCEAN AVENUE for only $4.89! And WINTER’S WOLF is also $4.89. And CANNING THE CENTER. And OUTING THE QUARTERBACK. You get the idea. Heck, WOLF IN GUCCI LOAFERS is only $4.19! As is THE PACK OR THE PANTHER.

But this isn’t just about my books! You can buy all of Amy Lane’s books for 30% OFF. And Mary Calmes’. And Eli Easton. And Andrew Grey. And all your fave authors. So hop over and take advantage of this great beach weekend. Stock up for some serious reading this summer. I’ll have a new book for you on August 3rd. It’s called KNAVE OF BROKEN HEARTS. Watch for it.  : )


ONE Day ’til FABULOUS Wolf! And Fabulous Prizes!

PackorthePanther[The]&WolfinGucciLoafersLGHi everyone!

Just ONE day. On Wednesday, April 16th, Wolf in Gucci Loafers releases! Then on April 18th beginning at 7PM EDT, we’re having the Facebook Party for the new release! (Sign up for the Facebook Party NOW! Click HERE) I thought you might like to see some of the Fabulous Prizes! You can win both on the Blog Tour Rafflecopter and at the Facebook Party! (You also have another day to pre-order Wolf in Gucci Loafers if you want to. Click HERE)


You can win–

A signed print copy of The Pack or the Panther and Wolf in Gucci Loafers together in a single volume! Enter on the Rafflecopter! (See photo above)


Wolf1bookmarkJewelry bookmarks for Wolf in Gucci Loafers. I’ll be giving two away on the tour and more at the party!




PackorthePanther[The]LGE-copies of The Pack or the Panther. Two on the tour and more at the party!




2 $10 Amazon GCs!



PLUS! Guests at the Facebook Party will be giving away great prizes too —


Lynn Lorenz will give away her paranormal romance, Tor

Kay Berrisford will give away Locking Horns

Louisa Bacio will give away Her Wolf Menage and a $5 Amazon GC

Marie Sexton will give away Roped In (releasing on April 20th)

Amy Lane will give away a copy of Shiny

Lex Valentine is giving away Subs for Lunch and an audiobook of Broken Bonds

Belinda McBride, Z.A. Maxfield,  and Kc Burn will also be giving away prizes!

Be sure to RSVP for the Facebook Party.  The Blog Tour begins Wednesday (or Tuesday night if you’re in the PDT) Just come here to the Website. The Tour stops will be posted on the home page PLUS, the entire tour will be listed on the Contest Page. If you subscribe to my NEWSLETTER, there will be special prizes as well! Be sure to sign up if you haven’t yet. See you at the celebrations!  : )

Big Backlist Weekend! Amy Lane, Tara, & Free Books!



Welcome to Big Backlist Weekend and Happiest Holidays! If this is your first BBW, welcome. If not, Welcome back! I’m happy dancing to welcome my friend Amy Lane to the Blog. Amy and i are both giving away books from our Backlist. All you have to do is leave a comment. One comment enters you in both drawings. There will be two winners! If you win a book you already have, we’ll work something out! Okay? Easy peasy. So here we go with Amy’s giveaway book —

PuppyCarSnow_pr-1Puppy, Car, and Snow by Amy Lane

Ryan’s entire life changed the night Scott surprised him in a bathroom at a party.  Now Ryan’s soulless climb up the corporate ladder has stalled—but his quality life has become a whirlwind of laughter, joy and surprises, thanks to Scotty’s playful, gentle heart.  

 After three years together, they’re going to Ryan’s parents’ cabin to spend Christmas.  Snowed in by the weather and locked under the icy glare of his mother’s disapproval, can Ryan show he has found the most profound happiness in the simplest of things?



First Round

“HEY, Ryan, give me your hand.”

Ryan made sure his aching foot and calf were firmly anchored on the brake and the car was completely stopped before he looked over at his boyfriend, trying not to yawn. Five hours. They’d been trying to get up the hill to Donner Summit for five hours. God—were they the only people who could put chains on before it got critical?

The smell of exhaust was making him queasy; he’d started up and killed the engine about six times to conserve gas while they were at a standstill; and Blitzkrieg, the world’s most massive not-poodle, had needed to be walked on the side of the road three times. She’d also eaten some of Ryan’s luggage. Ryan didn’t want to look. It was a new set, and it was just too painful.

The look he shot Scotty was annoyed at the world at large.

Scott grinned back.

Scotty Davidovich had high Russian cheekbones and longish, if carefully cut, hair. (It was black and yellow this month—dyed specially, Ryan thought, to piss off Ryan’s mother at the holidays. It was a worthy endeavor. Ryan approved.) He also had blue-gray eyes with dark lashes that glinted wickedly when he looked sideways and full, smiling lips that looked like sex in a shot glass when he licked them and parted them just so. He was Ryan’s first male lover, and the love of Ryan’s life.

And right now, in the car, the look he was shooting Ryan was pure, one-hundred-percent, unadulterated, give-it-to-me-baby, fuck-me-without-mercy-in-front-of-the-dog sin.

That look was so incongruous with the little Honda stuck in traffic on the way up to visit Ryan’s parents for Christmas that Ryan had to look twice.

He put the car in park and turned off the ignition just in time for Scott to grab his hand from the keys and put it under the blanket he’d thrown on his lap the last time they’d turned the car off.

Ryan’s eyes got so big the chilled air from the windows dried them out. He blinked rapidly and squeezed, listening to Scotty’s grateful “Ah-ah-ah… ooooooohhh…” with a little bit of shock.

“Scotty, is that your…?” Stupid question. He squeezed Scotty’s cock—stiff and warm and peeking out over Scott’s underwear, yet still under the warm fuzzy blanket. Scott whined a little and bucked his hips and thrust deeper into Ryan’s hand.

Ryan’s heart started roaring in his ears, and he took a rabbity little look around their vehicular neighborhood to make sure no one was watching him give Scotty a hand job in the front of the car.

People in front of him in the big SUV? Little kids apparently enthralled by a new Dreamworks film featuring a fifty-foot woman with a nice rack. Check. Pouty teenage girl with iPod to the left of him, asleep against a pillow on the window? Check. People behind him still blocked by the luggage sharing the back seat with Blitzkrieg? Check. Rowdy frat boys on Scotty’s side surreptitiously passing a joint from person to person in the traffic? Check.

Operation Hand Job was a go!

Ryan loved the feeling of Scotty’s prick in his hand. It was hot, and the skin was soft, and the veins throbbed against Ryan’s palm. He watched Scott’s face as he stroked, loving the way Scotty threw his head against the headrest and started moaning softly in complete abandon. Traffic? Scotty didn’t see no stinking traffic; all he knew was that Ryan was jacking him off, rubbing his pre-come over his cock-head and murmuring hot things into the cold space of the car.

“You like that?”

“Mmmm…. Yeah….”

“Want it harder?”

“Ohhh… please, Ryan!”


“God yes!”

Ryan let his grip slack to nothing, and Scotty’s cry of denial was almost a howl of pain.

“Ry! Please, Ry… please… lemme come… I wanna come… God… please….”

His hands were on the armrests, holding them tightly, and Ryan recognized the game; Scotty wouldn’t touch himself right now, because that was Ryan’s job.

Ryan worked hard to be good at his job. He tip-toed his fingers up Scotty’s slender length, listening to the hitch in Scott’s breath tell him that his teasing was just right. When he got to the tip, he rubbed his fingers in the pre-come that was drooling out of the slit. Scott whimpered, and Ryan used two fingers and two fingers only to slick Scotty up. He knew that the air leaking in under the blanket would serve to titillate Scott even more.

Scott wasn’t gibbering anymore. All of his concentration was on keeping his ass locked in his seat and his hands clenched on the armrests. So when he turned to Ryan with his eyes large and pupils dilated, his hips squirming and his full lips parted in mute appeal, Ryan knew he was about at the end of his rope.

“Please?” he murmured. “Please, Ry? Please finish me off?”

Ryan took one more look around and, after twisting his body in the unforgiving space of the car, dropped his head, grateful when Scotty pulled the blanket back and then covered him up with it. In the warm cocoon of come-scented dark, he fumbled for a minute, then found Scotty’s cock with his mouth and swallowed him down.

Scotty grunted, the sound reverberating against Ryan’s ear, and then Ryan grunted, because after three years together he loved this, loved taking Scotty’s cock into his mouth and sucking hard, and loved the sounds that Scotty made when clenching his hands in Ryan’s hair and bucking up, unashamed, completely lost in Ryan’s mouth on his body, in being tended to and waited on and loved.

Scotty groaned, the sound starting in his toes, vibrating in his thighs as they sat under Ryan’s cheek, and bouncing around his stomach for a while, and then Ryan was too busy swallowing, swallowing, not letting himself gag on the taste even a little, or it would make him spit up and Scotty would need to change his pants.

Scotty stopped coming, and there was quiet then under the fuzzy blanket as Scotty rubbed his hands on Ryan’s head and Ryan let Scotty’s cock fall out of his mouth and pulled back far enough to breathe.

Then Scotty’s whole body stiffened. “Oh shit, Ry! There’s a news camera three cars up. They’re interviewing people. Sit up, quick, before they spot us!”

Ryan sat up so suddenly the blanket came up, and then there was a frantic scrabble as Scotty pulled his loosest pair of jeans up and did the fly and Ryan wiped his face on the edge of the blanket while Scotty was using it to cover his crotch, just in case.

Ryan let go of the blanket, and Scotty pulled him forward for a kiss that suddenly stopped time and panic and all sorts of things, including Ryan’s heart. When Scott pulled back, his smile was gentle, even though his eyes were still dancing wickedly.

“Thanks for helping me get my perv on,” he said, that mobile mouth stretched into a smile.

“God, I love you!” Ryan blurted, because there was one person in the world who could have convinced Ryan to commit vehicular fellatio in a traffic jam.

Scott’s smile faded, and his hand came up to cup Ryan’s cheek and rub his lips with a tender thumb. “The news crew is about to knock on our window, Ry. Don’t make me get all sloppy stupid right now, ’kay?”

Ryan laughed and then almost jumped out of his jeans at the knock on the window. He clicked the keys, pressed the button, and turned around and flinched back from the blast of cold air and the fucking camera that damned near pushed its way into the car.

“Hi, I’m Suze Bachman from FOX News. So, what brings you up the hill in the middle of the crush?” Her hair was blonde and stiff under the fashionably soft red hat, her teeth were brightly veneered, and her voice was sort of scritchy-bright, and Blitzkrieg gave a muffled “ooof?” from the back seat. Ryan smiled and tried to sound like a lawyer and not a sexual deviant.

“Hi, Suze. We’re just going up to visit my parents for the holidays. I got caught up in work, and we left a little late. We were trying to beat the rush.”

“So, you and your roommate are staying in the family cabin for Christmas. That’s sweet.” She didn’t trip over “roommate,” and he didn’t see a reason to correct her—until she put her manicured hand on his shoulder through the window. He flinched back and Blitzkrieg, being the good guard dog she was, sensed the tension, skipped the “ooofing,” and let out a for-real bark.

Scott and Ryan both cringed as the entire car shook until the windows rattled. Suddenly, Blitzy wasn’t just a hidden monster in the luggage. She was a giant, black, curly head with ears long enough to fly, thrusting her narrow muzzle between the car seat and the window and biting like Suze Bachman was a new flavor of Alpo and she was gonna get her some of that.

Suze gave a little yelp and tripped backwards, and Scotty leaned over Ryan’s lap and called out, “Sorry about that. She’s jealous of strangers.” Ryan shot him a droll look that Scotty returned blandly, and then they both smiled at the camera and waved when Suze and her camera man took the “How Miserable Are These People In Traffic” show down to the next car in line.

Ryan rolled up the window, and he and Scott looked at each other and giggled like the stoned frat boys in the next car. (And why weren’t they getting interviewed for the six o’clock news, that’s what Ryan wanted to know!) Blitzkrieg whined, and Scotty pulled her forward, rubbing those fantastically silky ears and crooning, “Good dog! Who’s the bestest good girl in the world, oh yes! Driving off that nasty, mean reporter who wanted your other daddy’s body! Good girl!”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “She was just being annoyingly friendly—no lust needed.” But he joined Scott and petted the dog, because she was warm and she liked to lick their faces, and because she was their baby and had been since Scott had brought her home from the grocery store six months earlier and said, “Isn’t she a sweetheart? She’s supposed to be a toy poodle, and she was free!”

They’d learned a couple of things since that day in the summer. Thing the first: the dog wasn’t a toy poodle. She was maybe a cross between a giant poodle and a Clydesdale horse. Thing the second: They both loved the rapidly growing kibble disposal unit with an almost frightening intensity. Thing the third: There was no such thing as a free dog.

It was a thing Ryan had known when he put her in the backseat with the new luggage and the reason he could forgive her for slobbering all over his best suit right after he’d had it cleaned. It was the reason he’d risked his credit for a little house in the suburbs and the reason for the exclusive “Yes, I make house calls because your idiot canine ate garbage with a chaser of shoes” veterinarian, and generally one of life’s big lessons that didn’t hurt at all when Blitzy was licking your face after a shit day at work.

And now, as Ryan’s hands tangled with Scott’s in the curly tornado of Blitzkrieg’s fur, he realized that the dog might not be free, but that didn’t mean she didn’t pay you back.

“Yes,” Ryan said softly, squeezing Scott’s hand. “The dog saved me from the predatory heterosexual female who was horning in on your turf. Are you going to give her a treat now?”

Scotty flushed. “Sorry, Ry. It’s not the female that got me, really. You know that, right?”

Ryan knew. Scott usually wasn’t jealous at all—mostly because he kept saying that Ryan was the most trustworthy man he’d ever met. But usually they weren’t going to meet Ryan’s family.

“Look,” Ryan said reluctantly. “If you really don’t want to go, we can always take the next overpass and turn around.”

Scott rolled his pretty gray eyes. “For another five hours of traffic? No. We have to visit with them eventually. I mean, they do love you.”

And it was true. They did love Ryan. It was Scott they weren’t so crazy about, and not because he was the reason their son came out of the closet, either.

Ryan sighed, and then flashed a grin at Scott. “Just shows they’re biased—doesn’t mean they’re smart.”

“Yeah? How smart are they going to have to be to figure out that we were fooling around right before that news camera showed up?”

Ryan shrugged. “It wasn’t like it was written on our faces. Besides, that Suze person didn’t even see it, and she had to have read the vanity plates.” SCTSBOI was what the plate actually said. “Scotty’s Boi-Toi” was what the plate frame around the plate said. Scott had bought them for Ryan’s Christmas present the year before, and Ryan loved them.

Scott gave Ryan a purely male shove on the arm. “For all she knew, you were Scott, and the plates were about the car! And as for written on our faces….” Scott finished the sentence by pulling his hand up to Ryan’s lips and rubbing his thumb across the bottom.

Ryan looked in the rearview mirror and groaned. He’d wiped off his mouth, but his lips were both swollen and red. He’d been doing something with his mouth, that was for sure.

“Oh shit,” he mumbled. “God. I do. I look like I’ve been blowing someone with a cock the size of the Chrysler building.”

Scott smirked. “Well, I don’t like to brag….”

Ryan was aware that the cars around them were starting up in preparation to move, and he did the same. But no one was moving quite yet, so he turned around and smiled gently at the man he was pretty sure he couldn’t live without. “It’s not bragging, sweetheart, it’s the truth. Besides, what are the odds that’ll actually show up on the news and my folks will see it? Best way to kill time in traffic ever.”


SnowBalls_ByTaraLain-453x680Snow Balls by Tara Lain

Excerpt Adult:  SNOW BALLS by Tara Lain; MM romance– The Cop and the Creampuff

 Amazon  ARe 

Big, handsome and hunky, JJ LaRousse looks like an alpha male but acts like an interior decorator. And he’s trying to be happy about it — until a robbery at the famous Laguna Winter Fantasy brings JJ face-to-face with tough cop, Ryan Star. JJ hears Ryan likes guys who are manly men, so he drops his voice an octave, colors over his pink hair, and tries to pass as a football fan. Ryan Star may be tough but he hides in the closet at work since he learned in New York that being a gay cop can cost you your life. His attraction to that big, handsome kid threatens his anonymity, but he can’t seem to resist. JJ is just his type. But then JJ goes skiing and comes face to face with his greatest nemesis– and all the secrets come out of the closet. Can Ryan love JJ for who he really is? More important, can JJ?

They were traveling at a good speed when Ryan pulled over to the second to the right lane. Odd for the speed demon. Ryan looked at JJ and then brought his hand across the console, found JJ’s zipper and, in one pull, had the whole thing down. Holy…before JJ could catch his breath, Ryan had dug into his fly, loosed the beast from its underwear cage, and was pumping JJ’s cock like he was giving it CPR. And he was, baby, because that hand could save a man’s life.

“Holy crap!” JJ threw his head back against the seat and tried to breathe. Hard and steady, the pumping action shot juice into his balls and straight up JJ’s spine.

Ryan chuckled and whispered in his growly voice, “You like that, big guy? Sometimes you just have to be creative to get what you want.”

That tricky devil. Choosing the lane where they could go slow and not have to deal with so much traffic. Of course, trucks would get an eyeful, but what the hell? Oh God, it felt so good. But no way was he getting all the goodies. JJ reached over an arm and unzipped Ryan.

The cop looked down with wide eyes. “You figure I have driving control of steel?”

“I trust you.” He stuck a hand inside and, holy moly… “You’re commando!”

“Yeah. I don’t like underwear much.”

“I’m not complaining.” JJ grabbed a nice, thick penis. “You’re packin’ there, detective.”

“Always prepared—holy shit!”

JJ grinned. He had big, strong hands and one was wrapped tight around Ryan’s rod. Stroke and stroke. The guy’s eyes widened, but he kept staring at the road. JJ watched his own hand pumping Ryan’s thick cock, then looked down into his lap where Ryan was starting a bonfire with JJ’s wood. This had to be the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. Probably the dumbest too, but right now he could care less. Driving down the freeway doing a double jerk-off. The smell of sex filled the car and went straight to JJ’s head. His hips danced under Ryan’s hand like they had their own mind.

Ryan made funny little noises. “Hunh, hunh.” But he kept his eyes glued to the freeway like it was his path in life. “Hunh, hunh.” His breath came faster and his hand in JJ’s lap pumped harder.

A big semi whizzed past in the right hand lane and JJ looked up at the driver. But the guy didn’t turn his head. Might have been fun if he had. Ryan’s hips pumped up just as much as his foot on the gas would allow. JJ didn’t have any such restriction and he was bobbing and weaving while lightning bolts of pleasure flashed through his cock with every stroke of Ryan’s hand.

Ryan took his hand off JJ’s cock and grabbed JJ’s pumping hand. “Hold on. Go slow or I’ll come and that could be very bad for my driving record.”

“OK.” JJ barely got the words out because Ryan’s hand was back on his cock.

“Just let me take care of you, big guy. It’s fun for me.”

“I think it’s way more fun for me.”


Don’t forget! One comment enters you to WIN both books. There will be two winners. Good luck and happiest holidays! (The New Years Kisses Party starts here on Tuesday. Don’t miss it!)

Excitement Begins! Free Books, Kisses, Wolves!


There are so many exciting things coming, i have to take a whole blog post just to tell you about them!


Tomorrow! December 28-29th — Big Backlist Weekend with my guest, Amy Lane!!! This means you come here, you leave a comment and you may win Free Books from Amy or a free book from me. It’s that simple!


Dec 31st – Jan 2nd — New Years Kisses! — More than 55 authors are posting their  romantic kisses on my blog and that of Kay Berrisford and Angel Payne. This event is so fun, you won’t want to miss a minute of it!

Jan 4th — My third anniversary as a published author! I’ll have a little goodie or two to share with you!

January 8th — The Release of The Pack or the Panther and the beginning of my Blog Tour with lots of fun prizes.


See, you have every reason to hang out right here on my blog! I look forward to sharing it all with you! : )