My #Guest Michael D. Smith gives an in-depth description of his hero in CommWealth

Please welcome my guest, Michael D. Smith , author ofCommWealth

*** Tell us about your hero, his strengths and weaknesses.

Allan Larson is one of the six major figures in CommWealth.  Though two other characters eventually step forth to function as heroes, Allan is the consummate anti-hero whose absurd and puerile ambitions dominate this book.  I’ve always thought of the characters in CommWealth as an ensemble cast in a movie, where accomplished actors divide the plot between them and no one actor has the lead role.  The ensemble concept is apt for this novel, in which these characters form the core of the Forensic Squad theatrical troupe.  The Cup of Fog coffeehouse in the fictional coastal Texas town of Linstar is their home base and forms the stage upon which the forces of the novel collide.

The insanity of the six-month-old CommWealth system, in which all private property has been outlawed and citizens are required to share everything, finds its apt expression in Allan Larson as he glibly procures free electronics and a Porsche in the first scene.  Allan is a narcissistic playwright and actor who forces Forensic Squad to stage his mediocre play Cabaret.  Supercilious, clueless, and manipulative, he’s claimed a mansion in Linstar Heights and surrounded himself with expensive cars and gadgets.  As a writer he thinks he should express his buried truths, but he’s too fearful to find out what they really are, and when crime tempts him, he sees it as just another avenue to fulfilling his needs.  He considers himself too creative to be bothered making backup copies of his writing, and it’s only by luck that he gets a digital copy of Cabaret back after his laptop is claimed by another citizen along with all his wide screen TVs, sports cars, and motorcycles.  He dominates Forensic Squad not as a leader or someone who can make the troupe function, but as its clever, over-the-top “idea man” playwright with just enough charisma to keep things rolling his way.

If Allan has any redeeming quality, it’s his hesitant realization of a need for friendship or for the comradeship of the theatrical troupe, even as he considers how such friends and fellow actors might further or thwart his ambitions, and when might be the best opportunity to betray them.  His loneliness can be touching.  Though he lives in a dream world and rewrites every event to conform to his worldview, when a machine gun is pressed into his hands and his service is demanded as a soldier of a revolution against CommWealth, he’s at least grounded enough to see the absolute futility of such a battle–although his cowardice also plays a large part here.

Blurb:

The CommWealth system, has created a society in which there is no legal claim to any kind of private property. Any object from your house to the clothes you’re wearing can be demanded by anyone, to be enjoyed for thirty days before someone else can request it. As actors in the Forensic Squad theatrical troupe attempt to adapt to this chaos, their breaking of the Four Rules sustaining the system, as several members navigate betrayals, double agents, and murder to find themselves leading a suicidal revolution.

Excerpt:

CommWealth Rules:

Rule One – You are free to enjoy the chosen object for thirty days. During this period no other person may request it.

Rule Two – The requestor is untouchable for thirty days by the person asked. Attempts at retaliation, such as demanding unusually large quantities from the original requestor after the thirty-day period, carry stiff penalties.

Rule Three – Once you ask somebody for something, you can never ask him or her for anything else again.

Rule Four – You can never ask for the same thing back from the person who got it from you, not even after his or her thirty days of enjoyment.

Allan shivered at the reflection of his black overcoat and his striding legs on the wet sidewalk. Up ahead someone with a DreamPiston Electronics bag opened a shiny red Porsche glistening with thousands of water beads.

“Okay,” Allan said, “I’ll take your car here.”

The mustached little twerp looked up. “Ahhh, crap…”

“C’mon, don’t give me any trouble. Gimme the key.”

“Look, it’s raining. And I just got these MP3 players and the new Fappy tablet—”

“Not my problem. Fork the damn key over.”

“Look, my umbrella’s in the car—can I just get my umbrella so my stuff—”

“Forget it. The umbrella’s part of the car as far as I’m concerned. Anything in the car. Besides, I just lost my umbrella a couple blocks back. I’m soaked.”

“C’mon, I just got this car the other day!”

“Don’t hand me that. The sticker on the plate says you got it a month and a half ago. You’re overdue, buddy. Now hand me the key.”

“Dammit! Dammit!”

“Got trouble there?” A bright blue City of Linstar police car idled in the rain. “Got a Hoarder there?” a huge officer grinned.

“Uh, no… not at all…” said the twerp. “I just—I just can’t find the key—”

“Yeah, right—you just unlocked the damn car with it,” Allan said, turning to the policeman. “He is giving me a lot of crap about it.”

“C’mon, sir, you know better than that.” The officer’s name tag read BARCLAY.

“Dammit!” the twerp snarled. He separated the Porsche key off his key ring, thrust it at Allan, then spun around and fastened on a man coming down the sidewalk.

“Give me that umbrella! Right now!”

“Goddammit…” the man grunted, surrendering his umbrella to the twerp, who grabbed it and hoisted it above his DreamPiston bag.

“We really got the Christmas spirit here, don’t we?” Barclay said.

“Really,” Allan said. “Some people…” He examined the Porsche key in the rain. “Thanks for your help, officer.”

“Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t really necessary. People are basically good, you know. Give ’em time to adjust and all, that’s what I say.”

The twerp leapt into traffic with his new umbrella and his bag, waving his free arm. A little green car skidded to a halt. The twerp ran to the window and pounded on it. “Give me this car! Right now! Damn you!”

“Jesus…” Allan said. “What a bastard!”

Barclay was out of his patrol car in a second, hand on his hand on his holster. “Sir, that’s not the right way to go about it. We need to be respectful. That’s the CommWealth way.”

About the Author:

Michael D. Smith was raised in the Northeast and the Chicago area, before moving to Texas to attend Rice University, where he began developing as a writer and visual artist.  In addition to exhibiting and selling paintings and drawings, he’s completed fifteen novels.

Smith’s writing in both mainstream and science fiction genres uses humor to investigate psychological themes.  On his blog, he explores art and writing processes, and his web site contains further examples of his writing and art. He is currently Technology Librarian for McKinney Public Library in McKinney, Texas.

CommWealth is his first novel published by Class Act Books.

Find out more about Michael at:

Website: , www.sortmind.com,

Blog: www. http://blog.sortmind.com/wordpress/

CommWealth is available at:

Publisher’s website: http://www.classactbooks.com/index.php/component/virtuemart/dystopian/commwealth-6022015-08-14-23-29-50-detail?Itemid=0

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/CommWealth-Michael-D-Smith-ebook/dp/B013YPU5D4/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1478983628&sr=8-1&keywords=CommWealth

Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/commwealth-michael-d-smith/1122537291?ean=2940152097313

Now that you’ve read about my guest, please follow, friend or like me. I love to hear from my readers.

Website http://barbaraedwards.net

Facebook  https://www.facebook.com/BarbaraEdwards.Author

Twitter  https://www.twitter.com/Barb_ed

Amazon Author’s Page http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B003F6ZK1A

GoodReads http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/496095.Barbara_Edwards

My Guest# Tena Stetler reveals her inspiration for A Demon’s Witch

Tena Stetler
Tena Stetler

Today my guest is Tena Stetler, author of A Demon’s Witch

Paranormal Romance

Rating PG-13

Best selling author, Tena Stetler, uses her over-active imagination to spin tales of paranormal romance/suspense and cozy mysteries. Her spicy romances spin the adventures of magical kick-ass women and mystical alpha males that dare to love them. From demons to faeries and witches to vampires her intriguing characters take roads less traveled to draw you into exciting tales that  engage the imagination and warm the heart.
What was your inspiration for A Demon’s Witch?
A Demon’s Witch was my debut novel and has remained close to my heart. A Demon’s Witch hit the market and garnered best seller status. It earned The Romantic Reviews Readers Choice 2016 Nominee in the paranormal romance category.   I love talking about this story.
The ideas begin to percolate as I sat in a beauty salon listening to the chatter from other customers. One woman swore she’d been approached by a vampire want-to-be.
This got me to thinking, which is scary in and of itself. What if the hairdresser was an alpha male, Demon Overlord of the Western Hemisphere that owned a multi-species salon in Washington DC? Enter a powerful witch, whose beauty caught the eye of the demon on a rainy day when she rushed into his salon. Now, unbeknownst to him, she is not any ordinary witch, but the little sister of the demon’s enforcer. Now you have a romance with unbelievable complications. 
The story became a series, but the other planned books in the series took a strange turn when the majority of readers and reviewers clamored for the enforcer, Tristian’s story to be next in line. I’d never considered writing a book on the witch’s brother, the demon’s enforcer. But after mulling it over for several months and publishing three unrelated books, 
I am excited to announce A Warlock’s Secrets (Tristian’s story) is awaiting cover art and will be published spring 2017. So please watch for it!
Tena’s contact links:
 
Newsletter: Sign up on web page www.tenastetler.com
 
For a chance to win an amazon $5.00 GC or a e-book of A Witch’s Journey please sign up for my newsletter at  http://www.tenastetler.com and Like my facebook page at http://www.facebook.com/tenastetler.author.
 
51oxj6gawvl-_uy250_I hope you enjoy my blurb and peek into A Demon’s Witch.
 
Keeping a lid on all the paranormal beings inhabiting Washington D.C., is a daunting job. Bruce, a six hundred year old demon and the Territory Overlord of the Western Hemisphere, keeps his finger on the pulse of DC’s power players through the activities at his highly successful Wycked Hair Salon. His movie star good looks and body builder physique keeps his dance card full and the rumor mills running.  Within these walls, his anonymity is safe, mostly.
Bruce’s world spins out of control when Angelique, a pint size, gorgeous witch, with an attitude breezes through the doors of his salon. She is the younger sister of Tristian, Bruce’s long time trusted enforcer, whose professional skills are second to none. Tristian is furious at the relationship between Bruce and Angelique, a dangerous situation, but something darker threatens them all. Will undeniable attraction between demon and witch tear their worlds apart?
Excerpt:
At two in the morning he awoke feeling her restlessness, listening he heard her soft sobs. He pulled on his black silk lounge pants and grabbed the robe from the foot of his bed. Padding silently in his bare feet down the hall, he paused at her bedroom door just as her anguished scream filled the room. He was at the side of her bed a second later. Gathering her onto his lap, he held her unyielding body to his until her flailing limbs quieted and her troubled violet eyes opened. Cognizant of where she was now and with whom, she flung her arms around his neck and clung tight as shivers racked her slight frame.
Megan came running from the other wing of the house where the staff lived during the week. “Is everything all right?” She peeked inside Angie’s bedroom door.
“Just a nightmare, nothing to worry about. She’s awake now.
“Oh no my Lord,” Megan said in a low frantic whisper.
“Don’t call me that,” he growled, his amber eyes tinged with orange glowed in the dark room.
“Sorry. There’s something dark and dangerous chasing that one.” She nodded in Angie’s direction. “It’s not of this world.”
He lowered his voice and spoke kindly. “Go back to bed, I’ve got this handled.” He paused for a beat exhaling slowly. “For now.”
 
Buy Link: AMAZON  http://amzn.com/1509203087

From Barbara Edwards – Please follow, friend or like me. I love to hear from my readers.

Blog https://barbaraedwardscomments.wordpress.com/

Website http://barbaraedwards.net

Facebook  https://www.facebook.com/BarbaraEdwards.Author

Twitter  https://www.twitter.com/Barb_ed

Amazon Author’s Page http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B003F6ZK1A

GoodReads http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/496095.Barbara_Edwards

My Guest Tony-Paul de Vissage turns a Villain’s Son into a Hero

1959403_763700340320774_7851013420971761107_nTony-Paul, tell me about your hero, his strengths and weaknesses.

A few years ago, on a dare, I wrote a novel titled Absinthe. It did pretty good, earning an award for the Best M/M Historical Horror novel of 2014 by the Paranormal Romance Guild’s Reviewers Choice.

My “hero,” or rather protagonist—for there were many who questioned any heroic attributes Absinthe possessed—was an opportunist, cold, manipulative, and with absolutely NO moral compass to guide him. He’d been deliberately raised that way, as an instrument of revenge. He was at the same time, the hero and the villain of this particular story….yet some people found him fascinating because of his ethical dichotomy.

After the novel’s publication, I went on to other things, thinking that particular story was done, but eventually Absinthe again reared his handsome, if debauched, head. The same friend who conned me into writing that novel, was at it again.

absinthe-front_180x270“So…when are you going to write a sequel to Absinthe?” she asked, out of the blue one afternoon.

“Probably never,” I replied, and continued with what I was doing, which was writing a chapter of my new novel.

“You mean you didn’t write that epilogue with a sequel in mind?  Come on.”  

“Nope…” I kept my eyes on the computer screen.

“But…what about all the questions left unanswered?” she demanded.

“What questions?” I tried to pretend I didn’t know what she meant.

It didn’t work.

“What questions…?  Don’t play stupid.” She caught my arm and shook it, jerking my hand from the keyboard which sent it nearly toppling from the typing shelf. I managed to catch it before it crashed to the floor. “Come on, don’t leave us hanging…there’s more to the story and you know it!”

I did know it…and as much as I tried to ignore it and work on something else, the idea had been buzzing around in my brain for a bit. After that little episode, the buzz was as loud as a chorus of cicadas. Sighing and saving what I’d been working on, I bowed to the inevitable and took up the threads where they’d been left hanging…and Essence of Absinthe was the result.

This novel takes up the story of Absinthe’s son, David…a young man the exact opposite of his father in every way. David isn’t the typical 18th century young nobleman spending his time drinking carousing, gambling, with a mistress in every brothel in town…look to his best friend Rouge for that. Rather, the young man is shy around women, obedient to a fault, and, in his twentieth year, still chaste. He’s even perhaps a bit of a prude, especially from Rouge’s point of view. David is a very moral young person, highly religious, as evidenced by his numerous visits to the family chapel to pray for his family and for his friend. He’d probably be shocked out of his highborn mind if he knew his father had been a very highly-paid man-whore named Absinthe.

Point of fact, David doesn’t know he’s Absinthe’s son. He believes himself the son of Étienne, the Marquis Delafée, who is in reality his grandfather. This fact, hidden from David all his life, will cause problems later on, for when his “father,” fearing the upcoming rumbles of revolution in France, decides to take his family to the safety of colonial Louisiana, he delivers his “son” to the very place where the spirits of the dead have been waiting, for two decades…

Nouvelle-Orléans is very different from France, and in this city of voodou and obeah, mountain men and aristocrats, where passion and desire for revenge exist side-by-side, this very gentle, very good youngster is about to have a very rude awakening to the darker side of life.

Young David will face some heart-shattering facts strong enough to make even the strong walls of his moral fiber crumble.  He will face some decisions designed to threaten his very existence as well as his own beliefs. In the end, it won’t change his love for his parents, or his friendship with Rouge, but it will serve to make him more of an adult and less of a dreamer, more cynical and less of a believer in the good of his fellow men..

Essence of Absinthe may be considered mild in comparison to its predecessor but that’s because the subject matter has changed. Absinthe was a tale of obessesion; Essence of Absinthe is a story of possession, and how the desire for revenge can survive and fester and wreak itself upon the innocent, especially those who are completely unaware of its existence.

I hope those reading the story will applaud the way I handled that, as well as David’s responses.

BlURB:

The noble family of Vaurien has secrets, and one Étienne Vaurien and his wife have suppressed for twenty years is about to be discovered. Taking his family from France to escape the murmur of revolution places his son David in mortal danger.

A city may change but some things remain the same. Hatred and the desire for revenge are at the top of the list. David’s resemblance to Étienne’s deceased eldest son, Absinthe, is remarked upon by many but to one person it means more than a mere likeness of features.

Genevieve, Etienne’s abandoned mistress and Absinthe’s amour, has pined twenty years for her young lover. Now, she has a chance to get him back…and she isn’t going to let death stop her.

In a short time, David’s living body will house the spirit of a dead man who wants once again to live…and love.

essence-copyEXCERPT:

David decided to ask something always bothering him. “I know you’re not a particularly religious man, sir, but why don’t you like the chapel? They say you haven’t been inside since the fire.”

Immediately he wondered if he should’ve mentioned that, since it brought up a reference to the near-forbidden subject of Étienne’s lost son.

They?” Étienne’s eyes held a surprising twinkle at his son’s remark. “What else do those mysterious “they” say?” He gave David a direct, near-confrontational stare. “Who are “they,” exactly?”

“I don’t know…servants…townspeople…visitors…” David waved his hands.

“Ah…that hazy and indistinct group which forms our opinions for us.” His father nodded, a finger going to his lips. “I see.” He appeared amused by his son’s vagueness. “You still haven’t told me what else they’ve said.”

“Nothing,” David admitted. “Apparently no one wishes to speak of it.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.” Étienne’s reply was abrupt. Softer, he went on, “You know I don’t like to be reminded of what I lost that day.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” David truly was.

He acknowledged his father kept a tight rein on his emotions. When in public, even if a mere visit to the village, he was, while not cold, at least aloof…polite and friendly, but reserved and a little distant. Very rarely did the Marquis Delafée let outsiders see his gentler side.

“Not that I haven’t regained it through you, mon fils,” Étienne added hastily, as if realizing how his statement sounded. “It’s simply…” He stopped, shaking his head.

“I apologize for mentioning it at all.” David hesitated, then said, in a softer tone, “It’s only…you never speak of him if you can help it, and that makes me curious, of course…of what happened that day.”

There was silence, broken only when Étienne muttered, “I really don’t want…” He studied his son briefly. “I didn’t intend this to be a day of revelations.”

He stopped again, then replaced the quill he held in its holder with a deliberate movement.

“Perhaps, you should know more.” Étienne sighed, as if in surrender. “Sit, son.” He indicated a chair placed to the side of the desk. “No need to stand like a servant.”

David dropped gratefully into the chair as Étienne continued, grudgingly, “It was his wedding day. He died in that fire before the ceremony could be completed.”

“As did Rouge’s father.” David remembered the inscription on his brother’s vault…that a second body lay in the tomb with him. The engraving chiseled into the granite stated for all to see that his best friend’s father was also buried there.

“Rouge Meurtrier, pèreoui.” Briefly, the marquis avoided his son’s gaze.

“My uncle died, also.”

“Uncle?” Étienne looked up. “Whom do you mean?”

 “Didn’t Mamère’s brother die that day, too? Jean-Paul? Why don’t they speak of him, either?”
“How do you know about Jean-Paul?” Étienne half-rose from his chair, leaning  across the desk toward his son. “Who’ve you been talking to?”

“No one, I swear. It’s merely another of the questions I’ve long wished to ask.” Startled, David found himself bending backward as if to escape his father’s grasp though the marquis hadn’t raised either hand.  He struggled to keep any condemnation out of his voice. “Once when I went to visit Gran’père Georges, I wandered into the garden. At the end of it, I found the family burial plot. The mausoleum was open and I went in. Morbid curiosity I suppose…to see the names of Mamère’s ancestors,” he added. “You know my hobby.”

His father nodded and relaxed.  David was surprised. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized Étienne was tense. Why should he be?

“I found his vault…Jean-Paul la Carrière, Vicomte la Proie.”. Just that and his death date…the same as my brother’s…and Rouge Meurtrier’s.”

Oui. Jean-Paul died that day also. He was Absinthe’s…compagnon de mariage…”

“Absinthe. Why did they call him that?” David persisted, fearing his father might soon regret reawakening the tragedy and refused to say more.

“Because of his eyes…they were the color of that infernal liqueur.” Étienne took a deep breath, looking away as if to hide the fact his own eyes were also that color, but in his case, he’d been called Peridot.

Using that surnom to differentiate the deceased child from his living namesake had become habit but it still cause an ache. To his son, it sounded as if he were controlling great fury.

“I don’t wish to speak of this any longer, David.”

Absinthe is available from Class Act Books. Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords.

Essence of Absinthe will be available in April 15, 2017, and will be listed with the above vendors.

About the Author:

A writer of French Huguenot extraction, one of Tony-Paul de Vissage’s first movie memories is of being six years old, viewing the old Universal horror flick, Dracula’s Daughter on television, and being scared sleepless—and he’s now paying back his very permissive parents by writing about the Undead.

Find out more about Tony-Paul at:

Twitter:  @tpvissage

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/tonypaul.devissage?fref=ts

Publisher’s website: http://www.classactbooks.com/index.php/our-authors/manufacturers/tony-paul-de-vissage

Amazon author’s page: https://authorcentral.amazon.com/gp/profile

Why My Guest Rick McQuiston wrote “Eat the World”

Hi Rick McQuiston, author of Eat the World, and my guest today.

Let’s jump right in.

Why did you write ‘Eat the World’?

eattheworld-copyI wrote Eat the World because of my love for Mackinac City, Michigan, and Mackinac Island. I felt it was a great setting for a horror story.  The island offered a naturally claustrophobic setting, and the mainland enough development to provide plenty of potential victims and carnage.

I love using different locales in Michigan for a story. This is my third novel set in Michigan. Fear the Sky was set in Frankenmuth and Where Things Might Walk in Lexington, although fictionalized as Port Bay.

I’m currently scouting some new areas for my next few novels.

Eat the World also challenged me in many other respects.

It was a fairly difficult book to write, one where, despite my history with the area still required plenty of research. I had to adapt the many interesting geographical aspects of the city, island, and neighboring coastline to fit with what the characters would do.

About the Author:

rick2Rick McQuiston is 49-year-old father of two who loves anything horror-related. He’s had nearly 400 publications so far, and written five novels, ten anthologies, one book of novellas, and edited an anthology of Michigan authors.

Rick is also a guest author each year at Memphis Junior High School.

He’s currently working on his sixth novel.

More about Rick at:

Publisher’s website: www.classactbooks.com

Author’s website: www.many-midnights.com

Blurb:

In picturesque Mackinac a growing army of rats are beginning to seep into the community of tourists. They seemingly appear out of nowhere, and it is up to ordinary people to gather their courage and battle the hordes.

But there is something more frightening beneath the surface, something that was born from the accumulated depths of Earth’s creatures, something that can threaten the entire world.

Excerpt from Eat the World:

The rodent scurried through the narrow channel. It barely managed to squeeze its lengthy bulk into the tight aperture, but by inhaling a deep breath of warm, salty air, it was able to reduce its girth enough to allow it somewhat comfortable passage. A cursory glance to either side after it cleared the opening revealed nothing predatory or dangerous.

The rodent then scrambled into the brush.

In its wake was a vicious, gray-green substance that loosely resembled hydraulic motor oil left in the sun too long. It was thick in consistency, yet still transparent enough to allow the dozens of tiny organisms swirling within it to be seen. It bristled with unnatural life.

The small grass snake slithered through the brush. Its brown, speckled hide gave it perfect camouflage in the wild. It melted into its surroundings, becoming for all intents and purposes, invisible to both predator and prey. It was its natural defense mechanism as well as aiding it with tracking down prey.

The snake’s belly convulsed with hunger. It hadn’t eaten in days and was in danger of starving. It scanned the woods for any sign of movement, anything at all that it could inflict a bite on and swallow whole.

There was no movement whatsoever. Not even a stray beetle or ant scuttled by. The snake was completely alone in the vast wilderness of the island. It laid perfectly still, both to conserve energy and to avoid detection. It sensed that something was watching it from a darkened crevice nearby. Something bigger than it was and undoubtedly just as hungry.

The snake didn’t move a muscle. It hoped that whatever was hidden in the crevice wouldn’t notice it. The strange substance on the ground bristled beneath its body, but it had more pressing matters to be concerned about. Flicking its tongue, the snake tasted the air. Far below, the cold waters of Lake Huron washed up against I-67. Being the only state highway in the US without motorized vehicles, the pristine ribbon of asphalt circled the entire island.

The movement caught the snake’s attention. It swung its conical head in the direction of the sound: the dark crevice. Whatever was watching it had moved. Several quick tongue darts picked up a scent, causing the snake to recoil back into itself. It could defend itself if need be, but if its adversary was larger it would quickly opt for retreat. Self-preservation was perhaps the only instinct that overrode all others, including hunger and the need to mate. When faced with a threat, survival was paramount.

The snake hissed in a feeble effort to ward off its potential adversary. It reared up then to display its size. It did not know if it was larger, or smaller than the other creature, but it was one of the few weapons it possessed.

The rodent poked its pink snout out of the crevice. It sniffed a few times, and satisfied that suitable prey was within striking distance, settled back on its haunches as it prepared to attack.

With a blinding ferocity beyond any member of its species, the huge, bloated rat launched itself out of the crevice and sucked down the too-slow grass snake in one violent swallow.

The reptile never had a chance.

With its hunger temporarily sated, the rat lumbered away into the brush. It left copious amounts of the strange substance behind, leaving a sickly trail leading into the woods.

The substance squirmed with miniscule life.

Buy Links:

Publisher’s website:  www.classactbooks.com

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Eat-World-Rick-McQuiston-ebook/dp/B01MY8PU2A/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1485900821&sr=8-1&keywords=eat+the+world+by+Rick+McQuiston

Visit with Clare Dargin author of “Merry ‘Chris’ Mas”- “The Love Play Matchmaking Service 1”

I’m pleased to present “Merry ‘Chris’ Mas”- “The Love Play Matchmaking Service 1” a Ménage Amour: Erotic Ménage a Trois Romance, M/F/M, HEA by Clare Dargin on my blog today. Since I usually stick to PG ratings, readers might find this spicy.

“Merry ‘Chris’ Mas”- “The Love Play Matchmaking Service 1” a Ménage Amour: Erotic Ménage a Trois Romance

cd-lpms-merrychrismas-fullJilly Reimers wants love but can’t find it. Chris Spinell is a veteran of the war in Afghanistan who suffers from PTSD and a haunting feeling that something is missing in his life. Chris Poole is also an Afghanistan war veteran is ready to break out of his shell but is unsure how.

With Christmas just around the corner, they decide not to spend it alone. Believing The Love Play Matchmaking Service to be just what they need for a night of fun and passion, they sign up. But when the guys show up and see that they’ve been set up on a menage, the only one happy about it is Jilly.

Their consultant, called an Eros, assures Jilly that the service has a perfect track record but she’s certain they’ll be the first ones to get their money back. Will they have a very merry Christmas? Or will the three spend yet another one alone?

A Siren Erotic Romance

Excerpt

Jilly idly twirled a lock of her hair as she gazed at the fire. The meal was good, a bit awkward, but all right. Now with Chris S. in the shower, she and Chris P., who’d freshened up after her, sat beside her. She hoped she’d get a chance to know him a little better, now that they were alone.

Unlike Chris S., Chris P. was quiet, more reserved. His warm smile could melt ice. They’d spoken a bit about his life in Australia and how he met the other Chris when they were on Diego Garcia, a tiny atoll in the Pacific. It was there he garnered a better perspective on life, friendships and love. She reasoned that war tended to do that to a person.

She looked at him again, admiring what she saw. He was gorgeous. If only she were a femme fatale like her friends. She pictured grabbing him by the scruff of his collar and planting a long seductive kiss on his pouty lips. Anything to ease the tension between her legs and the moisture dripping from her swollen pussy.

Golden and sun-kissed like a surfer, he had a look impossible to have around this time of year in Michigan, unless he spent countless hours in a tanning booth. But at the same time he didn’t look like the type who’d go to one. He seemed too rugged. She glanced at his short, flaxen hair, which he wore pulled back in a stubby tail. It accentuated his keen facial features. His physique, like that of a gladiator, made her want to whimper. Built like a brick wall without being too thick, he was three words—supple, etched, steel. And his Australian accent added to his raw sexiness.

Whereas Chris S. was the perfect picture type of the all-American, boy-next-door type, with light brown hair and sandy-colored tips and eyes so blue they looked like the color of tropical water. He reminded her of the high school captain of the football team who’d gone into the military and become a man, except he had a sensitive edge that permeated his being. While Chris P., who looked like he could take on a few guys at once, was more lighthearted and outgoing.

Either way, she knew she hit the jackpot because both guys were like something out of a magazine called Hot Guys “R” Us. They were a perfect ten. It was best Christmas gift anyone could have ever given her. She hoped a Chris Sandwich was definitely on the menu for the night. But how to get past the talking stage, she had no clue. She wondered if all of her Love Play’s match ups started like this.

Wearing some leggings and a cami, and he a T-shirt and shorts, she suddenly felt overdressed. The art of seduction was not something they taught in any of the schools she’d attended, and she sure as hell never picked up any pointers from her so-called “friends.” And her exes never gave her any encouragement in that department either.

This date should have come with instructions. I think I’m in trouble.

She let out a long sigh.

“Did you say something?” Chris P. asked, stirring from his long silence.

“I was just thinking how beautiful this place is,” she lied. What? How lame is that?

“It is. I’ve never been to a place quite like this.”

“Love Play has quite a reputation.”

“You’ve used it before?” He perked up, facing her.

Heat burned her cheeks. “No. It’s what I heard from some of their clients.”

“So have you been married?” he asked.

“No.”

“Neither have I. Never found anyone to get serious with,” he said, shrugging. “I don’t know. Maybe cupid’s arrow doesn’t work on me.”

“For me they’re defective. Or maybe his aim is bad,” she said, trying to suppress the memory of her ex-boyfriend.

“What do you mean?”

“My relationships, they never work out.” She shrugged her shoulders. “For whatever reason, they seem to choose my friends over me. Or it ends up that way once we get together.”

He shook his head. “Nah. They were bad blokes from the start. Believe me. I know. I’ve been around those types my entire life. The randier they are, the worse they will be. If a man wants you, he’ll stay.” His tone was soft, almost vulnerable.

“Maybe.”

“So tell me,” he said, turning to face her, “you ordered this hook up?”

Again, her face flushed. She imagined it turning its characteristic red when the blood rushed to her cheeks.

“Yes. But according to the guidelines, you would have either had to be open to it or requested it too. Right?”

He chuckled. “I see he also got the smart I asked for. Yes, I am open to a ménage.” His expression became serious. “Do you think me odd?”

“No. I’m glad we share that desire.”

Buy Links-

 

Author Bio

Clare Dargin is an author of Science Fiction and Romance and has been writing stories all of her life before being published in 2007. She’s a great fan of the two genres and loves promoting them.

An educator by profession, she possesses a Bachelor’s Degree in English from a major mid-western university. She presently resides in the Midwest and she hopes to expand her writings to include non-fiction, historical romance, and contemporary novels.

“Science Fiction with A Romantic Twist.”
-Clare Dargin

Author of ‘Kybernatia’ and ‘Fugue’ and ‘Speculative Sky’ and ‘Zenward’s Magic’
For the Scifi Lover in You!