Sexy Men and The Women Who Capture Their Heart-Heroes of Westhorpe Ridge Holiday Series Boxed Set By Kryssie Fortune #RomanceNovels #BDSM #Series

Kryssie is giving away a $10 Amazon Gift Certificate and 3 ebooks of Submission, Secrets, and the Soldier to lucky winners during the tour. Please use the Rafflecopter below to enter. Remember there is a chance to enter every day, so please follow us along on the tour. You may find the tour locations here.


About the Boxed Set:

Kryssie Fortune's holiday series, Heroes of Westhorpe Ridge, is now available in a convenient e-boxed set!


Marriage, Mobsters, and the Marine:

Abigail Montgomery, a small town schoolteacher with zero self-confidence, dreams of the Dickensian Christmas her family never enjoyed. Each month she attends a masked BDSM club, but her next visit will be her last. If she doesn’t marry within the next year, her brother won’t inherit Montgomery Hall. Desperate, she advertises for a husband.

Jared Armstrong, a former Marine sharpshooter and occasional Dom needs $125,000 to get his family out of a hole. His solution--to marry Abigail Montgomery for her money. His only regret is his wife won’t accept his spanking lifestyle.

Gradually, Abigail comes to dream of making their marriage real, but she promised Jared a divorce two years after their wedding. Can they share some Christmas magic as their relationship faces extortion threats, a kidnapping, and an attempted murder? Or will Jared break her heart when he walks away?

---

Sex, Scandal, and the Sheriff:

--

Desire, Deceit, and the Doctor:

Twelve years ago, Mandy Devlin moved away from her friends and family--under threat. If she returned in the next ten years or told anyone who fathered her baby, her boyfriend’s great-aunt would bankrupt her family. She’s a single mom who dreams of her lost love and a good spanking. When she’s finally free to return to Westhorpe Ridge, the last person she expects to see is Adam--the man she loved and lost so long ago.

Dr. Adam Montgomery doesn’t know he has a son. Thanks to his great-aunt’s will, he has nine months to find a bride or he loses Montgomery Hall and the fifteen million dollars she left him. Although he seduces Mandy on his first night home, he still believes she betrayed him twelve years ago. No way would he marry a woman like her.

As Valentine’s Day looms, someone tries to kill Mandy. Is Adam trying to get rid of her? Or can Mandy trust him to protect them?

Note: All of the books in this set were previously released as single titles.

Buy Links: 

Amazon UK | Amazon US | Loose id | Kobo | B&N  



Excerpt from Marriage, Mobsters, and the Marine: 

FOR ABIGAIL, CHRISTMAS felt like the loneliest time of the year. Once her father died, her mother had drifted through life, uncaring. There’d been no presents or decorations, not even a special dinner. Adam had often stayed at college, saying he needed to keep on top of his studies. Abigail had bottled her sorrow, not even telling her brother how much she ached to sing carols around a family tree or cook a Dickensian Christmas dinner for the people she loved.

Abigail still enthused over the things she had planned for her class. “I’m pushing for a field trip to Red Heart Canyon where the Cherokee nation once gathered to celebrate the winter solstice. Local history needs preserving. You see, some yahoos took exception to their temple ceremony and massacred half the gathered women and children. History records it as another land grab by the European settlers.”

Jared frowned. “That’s rough.”

“The way we treated Native Americans sucked,” Abigail agreed. “Rumor has it Red Heart Canyon is haunted by the women the settlers killed. There’s an old mine shaft cut into the side of the canyon, but no one ever found any gold. On a more cheerful note, Mandy’s going ahead with her costume party for Ben, followed by another one with a sit-down dinner for the adults. My class is real excited about it. It’s the Saturday before Christmas, but you need to plan your costume. I’ve got mine already.”

--

About the Author: 

Kryssie Fortune writes the sort of hot sexy books she loves to read. If she can sneak a dragon into her paranormal books she will. Her paranormal heroes are muscular werewolves, arrogant Fae, or BDSM loving dragons.

Kryssie likes her contemporary heroes ex-military and dominant. Her heroines are kick ass females who can hold their own against whatever life - or Kryssie - throws at them.

Kryssie's pet hates are unhappy endings, and a series that end on a cliff hanger.

Her books are all stand alone even when part of series. Plot always comes before sex, but when her heroines and heroes get together, the sex is explosive and explicit. One review called it downright sensual.

Kryssie's Social Links:

Facebook | Twitter | Blog | Website   

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Double Dare by Jeanne St. James-She Gives Up Men And Gets Two To Love- #MMF #Erotic #BDSM #Romance

What could be better than waking up next to a hot guy? Waking up sandwiched between two of them. 

Blurb:

Quinn Preston, a financial analyst, is not happy when her friends dare her to pick up a handsome stranger at a wedding reception. What better reason to give up men when her previous long-term relationship had not only been lackluster in the bedroom but he had cheated?

Logan Reed, a successful business owner, can’t believe that he’s attracted to the woman in the ugly, Pepto-Bismol pink bridesmaid dress. And to boot, she’s more than tipsy. After turning down her invitation for a one-night stand, he finds her in the parking lot too impaired to drive. He rescues her and takes her home. His home.

The next morning Quinn’s conservative life turns on its ear when Logan introduces her to pleasures she never even considered before. And to make things more complicated, Logan already has a lover.
Tyson White, ex-pro football player, is completely in love with Logan. He has mixed emotions when Logan brings home Quinn. But the dares keep coming...

--

Excerpt:

When Logan glanced up again, he saw a pink vision stalking toward him, and he sat up straighter. Shit, the cause of his earlier hard-on was coming his way.

She looked determined, and she still had a grip around her glass like it was a lifeline.

She stopped directly in front of him and put one hand on her hip.

“Are you Logan Reed?”

Oh shit. “Yes?”

“You don't know for sure?”

“Oh, I'm sure.”

“Are you fucking anybody right now?”

“Right this minute?”

He glanced around to see if anyone else was hearing this surreal conversation. Luckily no one was paying attention.

“No. Do you have anyone who is going to get mad if I ask you to dance?”

“Uh. No.” Well, hell, that was a unique way of asking someone to dance.

She placed her drink on the table, and he asked, “Is that still your second one?”

“No, third.”

“I was afraid of that.”

She grabbed his hand and pulled, but he was too heavy for her to lift, so he unfolded himself from the chair to accommodate her.

“Are you asking me to dance?”

“You have a problem with that?”

“Not at all.”

He interlaced his fingers with hers and led her to a corner of the dance floor. Luckily for him, the DJ had turned the lights down and was playing a series of slow tunes. Ones he could dance to. There was no way he was doing the chicken dance or line dancing. He had his limits.

As the slow, wailing tune blared through the large speakers, Logan slid his palms around her waist, his splayed fingers coming to rest at the small of her back. The fabric of her dress felt terrible, and he didn't know why women wore shit like that and suffered. The dress certainly wasn't flattering.

But it wasn't the outer package that mattered to Logan; it was the prize he found inside when it was unwrapped.

He stepped in a little closer and pulled her hips against his. He swore he heard a little gasp. He smiled into her overstyled, dark blonde hair and nuzzled it. Underneath all the hairspray, he caught a scent of wildflowers. It smelled nice.

“What's your name?” he murmured into her hair.

“What?” She turned her head a bit, and she ended up nuzzling his neck. Her lips, the shape of which reminded him of an archer's bow, were warm and soft, and he could detect the fruity scent of the slammers on her breath.

She was average height for a woman, which made her a bit shorter than him, so he had to lean down a bit to place his lips against her ear.

“What's your name?”

He felt the shiver of her body against him, so he traced the delicate shell of her ear with the tip of his tongue. The touch was light enough, but she unmistakably felt it. In response, she arched her back slightly, pressing her hips harder into his.

“Quinn,” she finally answered him, her voice breathless.

“Quinn,” he repeated while moving one hand up her back to the bare skin rising out of her dress. He drew the pad of his thumb along the smooth expanse of flesh, along her exposed spine, moving up to her neck to cradle it in his palm. His thumb continued to stroke her skin along the vein in her neck.

He pulled away a little and looked down into her face. Her eyes were heavy, and her lips were parted. Her breaths were short and quick.

He struggled to keep from thrusting against her. If she looked this good in that god-awful dress, he wondered what she looked like in normal clothes. Or no clothes at all.

Or just a pair of handcuffs.

His balls tightened, and he released a long breath out of his nose to steady his pulse.

“Quinn, do you like sex?” He placed his cheek against hers, and they swayed to the music, their hips, their thighs brushing against each other.

Her eyelids fluttered a bit before she answered, “Sometimes.”

“Why only sometimes?” he whispered against her ear.

She shrugged slightly, and one of her off-the-shoulder sleeves slid down a bit, exposing more creamy flesh.

Logan brushed his lips along her collarbone. It was delicate and covered with smooth skin. When he got to her shoulder, he worked his way back, and in the hollow of her neck, he placed a kiss.

There was a groan. He didn't know whom it came from. Her? Him? He didn't care. His hand at the small of her back slipped lower, to just where the rise of her ass was. The fabric of the dress kept him from feeling details, but his imagination took over.

One song transitioned into another, and they weren't even aware of the other couples dancing nearby.

His hips kept a steady side-to-side rhythm, while his hand on her back kept her close and in perfect time with him.

He was hard. There was no doubt she could feel it. Even with the yards of fabric around her midsection, her belly brushed against his length, teasing his cock.

“What kind of sex do you like?” His voice sounded low and gruff to his own ears.

“The kind when I get to come.”

Logan chuckled against her temple and slipped the hand he had around her neck to her shoulder. His fingers brushed her skin lightly. He couldn't help but notice goose bumps suddenly appearing everywhere he touched her. Which meant her nipples were probably hard and aching for his fingers and mouth.

Her dress had slipped down a bit, and the neckline rode low on her chest. The fabric rested just on the crest of her breasts; he could see she wasn't wearing a bra. In fact, he thought he could see the crescent edge of one nipple, even in the dim light.

He wanted to dip his tongue between her breasts.

“Quinn?”

“Hmm?”

“Why did you ask me to dance?”

“Because my friends…” Her soft voice faded off.

“Your friends?” He prodded.

“My friends dared me to. They think I am such a loser when it comes to men.”

“Ah.”

“I always pick Mr. Wrong.”

“Am I supposed to be Mr. Right?” He brushed the backs of his knuckles over the rise of her breasts.

“No. Just Mr. Right Now.”

She was direct. He wondered if it was just the alcohol talking. “So you just want to use me.”

“Basically.”

Her boldness wavered, disappointing him a bit.

He raised his eyebrows. “Huh. And you don't think I'd care?” He leaned back a bit and looked down at her, her skin a canvas for the colorful light bouncing off the mirrored disco ball above the dance floor.

She wouldn't meet his gaze. “Do you?”

--

Buy Links:

Loose Id: http://www.loose-id.com/double-dare.html

Amazon: (Kindle) https://www.amazon.com/Double-Dare-Jeanne-St-James-ebook/dp/B003CT387S/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/double-dare/id396187135?mt=11

Kobo: https://store.kobobooks.com/en-us/ebook/double-dare-23

Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/double-dare-jeanne-st-james/1021446250?ean=9781607375029

Google Books: https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Jeanne_St_James_Double_Dare?id=-dkcBAAAQBAJ

aRe: https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-doubledare-418163-146.html

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Please Note: Daring Proposal, book 2 of the series will be released 1/3/17. All can be read as stand-alones

--

Author Bio:

JEANNE ST. JAMES is an erotic romance author who loves an Alpha male (or two). She was only thirteen when she started writing since it gave her an escape from teenage angst! Her first paid published piece was an erotic story in Playgirl magazine. Her first erotic romance novel, Banged Up, was published in 2009. She is happily owned by farting French bulldogs. She writes M/F, M/M, and M/M/F ménages.

She has a few new releases coming up in 2016 and 2017. So keep an eye on her website at www.jeannestjames.com or sign up for her newsletter: https://www.MyAuthorBiz.com/ENewsletter.php?acct=JJ4625816541890

Author Links:

Website: http://www.jeannestjames.com
Blog: http://jeannestjames.blogspot.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/jeannestjames
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/jeannestjames/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/JeanneStJames
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/jeannestjames
Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/author/show/3082300.Jeanne_St_James
Newsletter: https://www.MyAuthorBiz.com/ENewsletter.php?acct=JJ4625816541890

The Ever After by Jeanne St. James- He Is Ready To Admit His Love For Gil But Will Gil Take Him Back? #MM #Erotic #Romance #Football

Meet Rip and Gil…

Blurb:

Rip Cord, the infamous Bad Boy of the NFL, ends up on Gil Davis’ front porch drunk as a skunk. Not only has he been fired by his franchise, but also his sports agent. His last brawl on the football field during a prime time game was the final straw.

Accounting geek Gil Davis hasn’t seen his on-again, off-again lover since the summer when the professional football player whisked him away for a kinky sex-filled getaway weekend. But immediately after, Rip returned to the NFL and was on the road leaving no time for Gil.
 Now Rip wants to come back into Gil’s life one more time, this time to not only make a future with him, but to finally admit who he really is deep down inside. After hiding his sexual preference since he was a teen, Rip realizes he’s made too many bad choices along the way. It’s time to make the right choice with Gil.


But is Gil ready to forgive Rip for keeping him at a distance? And more importantly, after two false starts, can they finally live happily ever after?

--

Excerpt:

“Is the coffee helping?”

On the surface her question sounded caring, but the pointed gaze and the tightly crossed arms told him otherwise.

“Yeah. I’m drunk and awake now.”

“Good. So…why are you here?” She pursed her lips stubbornly. She wasn’t leaving without some answers. The sooner he answered, the sooner she would skedaddle.

He blew across the hot liquid before taking another sip. “For Gil.”

“For Gil, or for you?” Her gaze was unwavering as she waited for his answer. Her left index finger was beating a pattern into her right bicep. Tap, tap, tap. Tick tock. Tick tock. Ding. Time’s up.

“I just told you.”

“Well, I think you’re here for yourself because you’re a selfish shit. You need to stop playing with his emotions. You hear me?”

Rip winced. Holy hellion. “I’m not.”

“Oh, you are. You need to man up and either be with Gil or leave him the hell alone. He’s not your boy toy. You can’t just take him out to play when you want to.”

Is that what she thought he was doing? Shit. Did Gil see it like that? “I don’t mean to—”

“Bullshit. I wish I’d never talked him into going to his class reunion. He didn’t want to go, you know. I made him.”

Rip grimaced. “I know.”

“He had a crush on you, and you opened the door to more. Between that night and the weekend at the cabin—”

“I never meant—”

“Listen Mister I’m-a-famous-wide-receiver-for-the-NFL, you knew exactly what you were doing.”

“For your information, I feel the same way about him as he does me.”

“Right.” Katie laughed bitterly. “You do know Gil loves you, right?”

Rip glanced at her, eyes wide. “He… does?”

Sure. Gil has feelings for him. Hell, he has feelings for Gil. But love?

“Of course he does, you shit. How could you not notice? Oh, that’s right, you’re a thick-headed football player that only cares about himself.”

“I care about Gil.”

“Then why don’t you act like it?”

Rip turned away from her and put an arm over his face. “I don’t know,” he muttered.

He was sick to his stomach. Not only from the over-indulging but from what Katie said.

He’d never cared for anyone before. Never. His mom had died when he was young, and his pop had been a complete asshole. And, fuck, he did not want to end up like him. Unfortunately, he seemed to be headed down that same path.

First as being deemed The Bad Boy of the NFL—not without good reason—and now with Gil. He never meant to hurt Gil. He liked Gil. He always had. Even in high school. Yeah, so they hadn’t been actual “friends” because they ran in different circles. Gil with the geek squad and Rip with the jocks. But that was normal high school shit. Right?

He had never picked on Gil in high school like the other students had. No, it wasn’t just being picked on. It was downright bullying. The night of their tenth-year class reunion, Gil had asked Rip why he hadn’t ever come to his rescue. Rip’s lame answer was that he’d had a reputation to uphold. He was the captain of the varsity team. He was a jock. It was a bullshit excuse and he had apologized, of course. But it came too late for high school. However, here he was again…trying to live up to his reputation of being a badass pro football player.

And look where that got him…

Sobering up in his gay lover’s house. The lover whom he’d been ignoring because Rip was too much of a damn coward to come out of the closet and be his true self.

That’s because he always had to hide who he really was. Always.

All he’d known most of his life was how to be a good football player.

And now he didn’t even have that.

He emptied the mug and handed it back to Katie. “Thanks…and sorry.”

Katie pushed to her feet. “You’re apologizing to the wrong person.”

She beat feet out of the bedroom and slammed the door shut behind her.

Fuck.

The Bad Boy of NFL was no longer.

Now he was just a fuck up.

--

Buy Links:

Loose Id: http://www.loose-id.com/rip-cord-ever-after.html

aRe: https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-ripcordtheeverafter-2173625-149.html

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01N75NJFG/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1479341431&sr=8-2&keywords=Jeanne+St.+James

iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/nz/book/rip-cord-the-ever-after/id1176692069?mt=11

Google Books: https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Jeanne_St_James_Rip_Cord?id=ASp_DQAAQBAJ

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/rip-cord-1

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Add to GoodReads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/32993072-rip-cord

--

Author Bio:

JEANNE ST. JAMES is an erotic romance author who loves an Alpha male (or two). She was only thirteen when she started writing since it gave her an escape from teenage angst! Her first paid published piece was an erotic story in Playgirl magazine. Her first erotic romance novel, Banged Up, was published in 2009. She is happily owned by farting French bulldogs. She writes M/F, M/M, and M/M/F ménages.

She has a few new releases coming up in 2016 and 2017. So keep an eye on her website at www.jeannestjames.com or sign up for her newsletter: https://www.MyAuthorBiz.com/ENewsletter.php?acct=JJ4625816541890

Author Links:

Website: http://www.jeannestjames.com
Blog: http://jeannestjames.blogspot.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/jeannestjamesAuthor
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/jeannestjames/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/JeanneStJames
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/jeannestjames
Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/author/show/3082300.Jeanne_St_James
Newsletter: https://www.MyAuthorBiz.com/ENewsletter.php?acct=JJ4625816541890

Challenge Accepted by Annabeth Leong

Blurb:

After being shamed for her dominant desires too many times, Christine has resolved never to date a vanilla man again. She needs a man who knows he's submissive, and she's determined to hold out until she finds one.

Until she meets Sam, that is. Christine can't bring herself to turn down the handsome parkour aficionado, so instead she tries to scare him off with an intensely kinky first date.

When Sam meets her extreme challenges head-on, Christine must decide if he can become the man to serve her every need—in the bedroom, and in her life.

------

Warnings: m/f anal play; BDSM content includes impact play, foot worship, dominance and submission, clamps placed in fairly extreme locations, and implied piercings.

-----

Excerpt:

Even seeing only her back, Sam had no trouble recognizing Christine as he carried a sack of dirty clothes into the basement laundry room of his new apartment building. He’d liked her tall, thick frame the moment he’d caught her watching him, and he liked the way she moved. She folded clothes with sure, clean gestures. He’d been an athlete for enough of his life that he could immediately spot a woman in full control of her body and presence. 

He hefted the laundry onto his shoulder and assumed a casual stance. He made his movements feel easy so they would look easy. “Christine.” 

She turned. He liked that she didn’t jump. Maybe she knew he was coming. 

He saw her reacting to him—gaze flicking down his body, body shifting to emphasize her hip. Her eyes were fierce, not welcoming. She looked as if she might be about to set him on fire. Apart from that, though, her nod was polite and distant. 

Stretching and making a show of it, he set the laundry down beside a free machine. He didn’t know what to think of the contradictions he read in her body language. He was intrigued and wanted to get to know her. She, on the other hand, wasn’t being clear about what she wanted. He couldn’t tell if she was hoping he’d strike up a conversation or wishing he’d drop his clothes into the wash and get the hell out. 

Sam had been raised in the type of family that communicated in code, and he didn’t like it. The only way he knew to make sense of the world was to speak his mind. “You up for company?” 

She hesitated. “I think so,” she said finally. 

“I’m glad.” His voice came out softer than he’d intended, his tone deferent. 

There was something about Christine that made him want to address her that way. He stole glances as he started a washer. She dressed professionally, but not in an imposing way. Her body looked strong, but her shoulders were relaxed, her face at ease. She didn’t loom or intimidate, though he imagined she could if she wanted to. She had big, dark eyes and rich, brown skin. Her features weren’t delicate—he liked the bold lines of her nose and jaw—but neither were they harsh. The only hint of real severity he could see was in the way she wore her hair—straightened to within an inch of its life and sharply restrained. 

“The weather’s gotten nice,” Sam said, reaching for an easy conversation starter. “Anything you’re looking forward to doing now?” 

Christine shrugged. “Not wearing a heavy jacket.” Was that a touch of humor in the curve of her lips? He wasn’t sure. 

“Definitely.” Sam kept his voice light. “You recognized parkour. Is that your sport?” 

She laughed. "Afraid not." Sam wondered if she was warming to him, but she was still so difficult to read. He hated the idea of lingering where he wasn’t wanted. 

“Look,” he said. “I’d like to get to know you. I’d like to take you out sometime. Are you interested?” He had a nice Italian restaurant in mind if she said yes. If she said no, he’d ignore the flickers of interest he kept feeling from her. 

She didn’t agree or refuse, though. Instead, she looked pained. “Why would you ask me that? We’ve got nothing in common.” 

Sam stepped back, holding up his hands. “I asked because I wanted to know your answer,” he said, the words low and even. “If you’re not, it’s cool. I won’t bother you about it.” He’d be disappointed, of course, but he wasn’t the kind of jerk who would try to make a woman feel guilty about turning him down. 

Christine reached toward him but dropped her arm just before she made contact. “You couldn’t handle me.” 

Sam probably should have walked away at that point, but he’d noticed the way she’d almost touched him and the stubborn part of him couldn’t let the challenge pass. “What do you mean, I couldn’t handle you?” 

Familiar anger rose to his chest. In high school, everyone had assumed he was a nerd because he was Chinese. He’d been told he wouldn’t be able to handle being on the football team, wouldn’t be able to handle American-style boxing—though everyone also seemed to expect him to be an expert at Wing Chun—and wouldn’t be able to handle going with the other guys on the team to play pranks on the local rivals. 

Sam had responded to each of those challenges by proving his doubters wrong, doing everything better and harder than the people who had questioned him. He’d given up on obligatory popular sports to focus on parkour, but there was still a part of him that thrilled each time he pulled off a difficult move, exulting that, yet again, he’d shown them. 

Christine’s skin darkened with a blush, but she lifted her chin defiantly. “I’m kinky, okay? I doubt you’re ready for that.” 

Sam blinked. “Wow, okay. That seems like something we could sort out after we go on a date and find out if we like each other. No need to jump ahead.” 

“No point.” She shook her head, the gesture firm and dismissive. “It’s a waste of time to get to know each other if we’re just going to wind up incompatible.” 

“Really?” Sam bristled. It irritated him when women assumed a Chinese guy wouldn’t know anything about sex, and he hoped that wasn’t what was going on. “I have heard about that book, you know. The one all the women are reading.” 

“No, that’s not what I’m talking about. I like to be the one on the handle end of the flogger. You don’t want it, trust me.” 

Sam had almost no idea what that entailed, but he pressed, annoyed that she’d presumed to tell him what he would and wouldn’t want. “How do you know? Talk to me about it first. Try me.” 

“If you don’t already know about it, it’s just not going to work. I promise.” 

Sam had never been aware of an interest in kink, but he couldn’t stand assumptions. “Tell me straight-out what you want to do,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ll tell you whether or not I want to do it.” 

Christine stared as if he’d suggested a really strange plan. It reminded Sam of so many movies he’d seen, times when characters acted like telling the truth was such an odd and original thing to come up with. “I don’t know…” she said. 

He grabbed his now-empty laundry bag. The fabric snapped as he yanked it through the air. The fresh, warm scent pouring from the dryers seemed sour in that moment. “Or turn me down. Just don’t tell me what I can and can’t handle.”

Again, she moved as if she wanted to take hold of his wrist and stop him. Sam paused, trying to make it clear he would let her if that was what she wanted to do. They were still for a while, and then he gave up and walked to the door. 

“Wait,” Christine said before he could leave. 

“Yeah?” 

“Maybe. Do you use IM? Can we talk later?” 

He shrugged. “Sure.” This was probably another part of the brush-off. Maybe she thought it would be nicer if she offered to chat online. He didn’t particularly like that tactic, but he didn’t feel like criticizing it now. Without expecting to hear from her again, he gave her his username. 

----

Buy Links: 

Loose ID: http://www.loose-id.com/challenge-accepted.html

Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/1JtPabF 

Amazon US: http://amzn.to/1R3TTYq 

All Romance eBooks: http://bit.ly/1R3TXHJ

Kobo: https://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/challenge-accepted-1 

Bio: 

Annabeth Leong wears high heels and frequents the former haunts of H.P. Lovecraft. She is obsessed with baseball and marine life, and is an enthusiastic member of New England Feet. 

She is frequently confused about her sexuality, but enjoys searching for answers. Her work appears in more than 50 anthologies, including Best Bondage Erotica 2013, 2014, and 2015, Best Women's Erotica 2015, and Best Erotic Romance 2014 and 2015.

She is the author of a number of erotic novels, ranging from sweet to dark. Find Annabeth online at annabetherotica.com, and on Twitter @AnnabethLeong

Midwinter Night's Dream by Whitley Gray

 

BLURB:

Two years ago, Joe Blake lost his secret lover, firefighter Bryce Marshall. Grieving, Joe left his job as a fireman and paramedic to become the spokes model for undergarment company Escalade. 

They lured him into the limelight and drove him deeper into the closet. Modeling doesn't provide fulfillment; Joe wants privacy and to feel useful again. A holiday at his mountain cabin outside Denver is the perfect escape. The last thing he anticipated, or wanted, was sharing his retreat with another man.


Excerpt

Joe squinted into the whirling flakes. A bad night to be out driving. He’d passed half a dozen cars off the highway before he’d gotten to the rural route that led to the cabin. Pine trees formed a dark wall beyond the road when the snow let up long enough to see. The windshield wipers could barely keep up, and with the drifting, the Jeep might get high centered. And that would be a disaster. At least he had enough food and supplies to last ten days if he got stuck inside the vehicle. It’d be unpleasant—not to mention a hell of a way to spend Christmas—but he’d survive. 

The headlights caught on the reflector post marking the drive, and Joe downshifted. Something was glowing by the side of the road, next to a clump of bushes. Not normal. There were no lights without generator power, and the only generator for miles was his. In any case, no one had ever installed a lamp down there. What would be the point? 

The Jeep rolled to a stop. Joe hoped to hell he didn’t get stuck. He yanked on a heavy watch cap and opened the door. Icy air intruded, filling the Jeep with winter, and he hopped down and slammed the door. The wind whistled through the trees and pushed the snow on the ground. It’d take a couple of seconds to check this out. He waded around the front of the Jeep through the snow. The headlights shone on the oddity, and the hair on his neck stood at attention. A flashlight, half-buried in snow. Next to the light was a black lace-up boot. 

Aw, fuck. Not on Christmas. Why are you out here? 

Joe knelt next to the figure partially covered in snow and began to dig. A pant leg, then the edge of an army jacket. A hand in a thin rag wool glove. And finally, a face. A young face, motionless, ice crusted over the eyes, nose, and mouth. The guy looked…dead. Joe closed his eyes. Golden hair sticking out of a fire helmet, and soot. 

My God… 

Stop. He opened his eyes and ran his gloved fingertips along the man’s cheek. A knit cap. Ice, not soot. The pale face in front of him was a stranger’s. It’s the holiday, the location preying on you. Shake it off. 

Joe shoved his hand down the man’s collar and found a slow and weak carotid pulse. The skin was warmer beneath the clothing. Letting out a steaming breath, Joe sat back on his heels. Not dead, thank God, but unconscious, hypothermic, and possibly frostbitten. 

Salvageable. 

Instinct kicked in. He had the knowledge and skills to save this guy. The snow pummeled him as Joe began scooping the drift off the man. It took a couple of minutes to free the motionless victim from the grip of the blizzard. Joe squatted and threw the man over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. The guy couldn’t have gone over one hundred sixty pounds, and lay limp and lifeless. Joe headed for the Jeep, the snow squeaking beneath his boots. 

Fighting the wind, Joe opened the back door of the Cherokee, settled the ice man supine on the bench seat, and buckled him in. With the Jeep in gear, Joe headed up the drive. Monstrous drifts threatened to block the way, and he maneuvered around them, avoiding the rough on the sides of the road. If the storm kept up, he’d be snowed in by midnight. Snowed in and not alone. 

Merry Christmas and welcome home. 

* * * * 

Heat surrounded Errol’s body. The surface beneath him was soft, and he couldn’t perceive any light through his eyelids. His hands and feet hurt. He was exhausted and achy. Couldn’t open his eyes. A little more rest… 

Something ticked out a muted rhythm, and every click made his head throb. During his nap someone had taken a ball-peen hammer to his head, and his tongue had become glued to the roof of his mouth. Felt like the hangover from hell. 

Water. Water would be good. A hint of wood smoke filled Errol’s nose, mixed with a spicier smell—evergreen and clove, like Christmas. He must be dreaming. 

The featherweight web of sleep persisted, and he rubbed at his eyes and opened them a crack. Wait a minute. Where was he? 

Well, first of all, warm and cozy in an enormous bed. Not his; not by a long shot. The thing was heaped with sleeping bags and quilts, making the covers weighty. He squinted and peeked under the covers. Naked. The ache behind his eyes intensified as he absorbed his lack of clothing. Yikes. 

A dozen feet away, there was a fireplace made of river rock, flanked by bookcases. Banked embers glowed in the hearth, outlining walls made of logs in faint rosy light. A clock ticked on the mantel, the source of the tapping irritating his ears. A sweep of muted plaid framed the dark windows, and snow hissed against the panes, seeking entry. Okay, naked, in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar place. What the— 

Something rustled next to him, and he rolled over. A tuft of dark curls stuck up from the covers. Nothing else of his bedmate showed. Holy shit, make that naked next to an unfamiliar body. 

Oh, no. No, no, no. He couldn’t remember doing the sing-o-gram, but maybe he’d had a holiday drink and ended up sleeping with someone at the client’s house? Judging by the way his head felt, he had the mother of all hangovers, and if alcohol had been involved, who knew? Man, he’d be in such deep shit. Pour Vous had a strict no-sex-with-the-clients policy. If he’d broken the rules, Smitty would roast his chestnuts over an open fire and cut him loose. Without a job, he’d be out on the street in a week. He shivered. 

Smitty didn’t have to know. 

With a deep sigh, the bedmate rolled over, one arm pushing the covers down to the waist. Errol’s eyes widened. Whoops. Naked, muscular, and male. Dark curly hair, a shadow of beard covering his jaw, and a face like a model. Errol had never really understood the meaning of chiseled features before now, but this met the definition. Yowza. 

Wait a minute. Smitty had said the telegram recipient was a blond woman. This was very definitely not her. So who the hell was this guy? Had Errol slept with him? Like wild-monkey-sex slept with him? 

This had to be some crazy dream. Must be that convenience-store burrito he’d eaten for lunch. Guys like Errol didn’t wake up with guys like this. Errol pinched himself and blinked. The guy was still there. 

Errol covered his face with his hands and rubbed his eyes. Opened them. Still there. Must be real. What in the hell was going on? Where was he? What had happened? 

A job, out in the sticks. Snowing. Dark. Cold, very cold. No, not snowing, blizzarding—could blizzard be a verb?—and he’d walked away from the Volvo, into the snow, fifty paces. Sixty? At some point, he’d lost count. Walking had tired him out, and he’d stopped to rest. 

And that was where the recollection ended: stopping to rest. And now waking up God knew where, to this. 

A gust blew down the chimney, fanning the embers to life, and the guy stretched. Errol inched away toward the edge of the mattress. Mountain of a Man yawned, rolled his head on the pillow, and lifted his lids. In the low light, his eyes were as dark as his hair. Lifting up on one elbow, he flashed a boyish smile. “You’re awake.” 

He looked awfully happy about that. Did he expect something? Errol swallowed and clutched the covers to his nakedness. “Who are you, and where are my clothes?” 

The stranger’s smile faded. “I’m Joe. Your clothes are drying.” 

“What happened?” 

“I dug you out of a snow bank last night. Almost hit you with my Jeep. You were freezing…unconscious, slow heart rate. Hypothermia. So when I got you home”—he waved at the room—“I stripped off your wet clothes and put you in bed. I got in with you to warm you up skin to skin. It was the best way under the circumstances.” 

Errol froze. Skin to skin with a naked man. Uh-oh. A setup for potential disaster. 

Joe narrowed his eyes. “You okay?” 

Heart in his throat, Errol managed a bob of the head. Hopefully his dick had been hypothermic and unconscious too. 

“Hang on a minute.” The guy rolled away and got out of the other side of the bed, facing away. Firelight played along his muscles. All of him was magnificent curves and planes: shoulders, back, butt, legs. A couple of inches over six feet tall. Sexy as hell, like a magazine ad come to life. 

Joe headed for a door in the corner, pushed it open, and disappeared into another room. Errol glimpsed the edge of a claw-foot tub. 

“Wait—how long have I been here?” 

“About seven hours. It’s four a.m. on December twenty-third.” Joe emerged wearing a robe tied at the waist and tossed a flannel shirt on the bed next to Errol. “You can wear that for now. Ought to keep you warm. You should stay in bed.” 

“I’m awake now.” Staying beneath the covers, Errol shoved his arms through the sleeves of the shirt and did up the buttons. The tails would cover everything important. 

“And that’s great. I’m really glad to see you awake, but you need to stay warm.” Joe stood next to the opposite side of the bed, not moving. 

Errol cleared his throat. Gran would frown at him for his lack of manners. “Thanks, Joe, for”— cuddling naked—“warming me up. I’m Errol.” 

“Yep, I know.” Joe grinned. “Errol—like the actor Errol Flynn.” 

Here we go. That’s what came of having a mother with a twisted sense of humor. The fancy name his mother had saddled him with had done nothing for his fledgling acting career, that was for damn sure. Laughs and funny looks were the extent of it. “How do you know my name?” 

“Your driver’s license. Needed to see who I was taking care of. Errol Lockhart, age twenty-six. Five feet ten inches, 160 pounds, blond hair, blue eyes. Organ donor.” Joe shoved his hands in the pockets of his robe. “Your hair’s longer now, but I was sure it was you.” 

Hyperaware, Errol ran a hand over his head. Hairstyling hadn’t survived his personal budget cuts, and it had gotten shaggy. His fingers had a vague burning to them. Holding his hands out, he studied them. Holy cow, they were red. 

“Can I check your hands and feet?” Joe asked. 

Errol balled his fists against his chest. “Why?” 

“You have a touch of frostbite.” Joe ambled over to the couch and chairs by the fireplace. The furniture had the same chubby-nubby look of the stuff Errol’s gran had favored, old and comfortable. A rolled-up rug rested against one wall, unused, leaving the wood floor bare except for dust. 

Joe squatted and rummaged in a big duffel bag with some sort of insignia, gathered a few items before returning to Errol and laying them on the bed. 

Antibacterial wipes, a jar of hydrating ointment, and a thermometer. Was this guy a nurse or something? Who carried that kind of stuff with them? 

“Open wide.” Joe held up the thermometer. “Need to see if you’re warmed up.” 

Errol opened his mouth, and Joe popped the thermometer in. 

“Hold out your hands.” 

Meeting his gaze, Errol complied. Deftly Joe applied the cream, long fingers calloused but kind, running over Errol’s hands. No wedding ring. It had been a while since someone had touched him with kindness, and it felt good, even if it was somewhat clinical. Errol’s toes were next, and Joe squatted as he looked them over. 

“A good thing you were wearing boots out there.” Joe stood and cleaned his hands with a wipe. “Your feet look better than your hands. I’ll take the thermometer.” 

Errol slid it out of his mouth and handed it over. What would Joe propose if Errol’s temp wasn’t normal? More naked cuddling? Because now that he was awake, two hundred pounds of hunky man wrapped around him might awaken other parts of Errol’s anatomy, and that could get embarrassing. 

Or it might piss Joe off, and then what would happen? Errol shivered. 

He won’t kick you out. Joe pulled you out of a snow bank, for God’s sake. He rescued you. 

Joe squinted at the numbers and frowned. “Still a bit cold. We need to get some warm fluids in you.” 

Joe headed to an L-shaped kitchen in the far corner. The stove was like something out of the last century—four-legged, black cast iron, and chrome accents. It had round lids instead of burners, and a white enamel backsplash with two small doors above. Joe lifted a section of the cooking surface, dropped in some sticks of kindling, and lit them with a match. He filled a teakettle with bottled water and set the pot on the stovetop. 

Very…rustic. 

Opposite the kitchen was the fireplace with a couch and chairs, and beyond that a door—presumably the front door, but who knew? The whole place couldn’t be bigger than twenty by twenty. This was pretty much a one-room cabin with a bathroom. 

Errol rubbed at his eyes, trying to get with the program. “Where are my clothes?” 

“By the fire.” Joe nodded toward a chair next to the hearth and smiled. “Do you always wear a metallic gold thong?” 

Heat rushed into Errol’s face. “I was on my way to a job.” 

Joe shook his head and opened a cupboard. “Must be some job.” 

Errol looked away. “It’s not what it looks like. I’m not a rent boy or a strip-naked stripper or anything like that. I do—did—singing telegrams.” For some reason, he felt the need to make sure Joe didn’t get the wrong impression. 

“They made you go out in a blizzard?” 

Images flashed of the Volvo rolling to a halt, and the interior cooling as snow gradually covered the windshield with a dull blanket. “No. I volunteered for the job, but on the way there Bessie broke down.” 

Eyebrows raised, Joe took a couple of mugs from a cabinet and set them on the counter. “Who’s Bessie?” 

“My car. I waited for a while, but there was no traffic. I decided to hoof it. I got cold and tired and stopped to rest. And now, I’m here. Wherever here is.” 

“My cabin. I think you must’ve taken a wrong turn on your way to sing your telegram last night, because there’s no one in this neck of the woods.” 

“Exactly how far from civilization are we?” 

“This time of year, the closest human civilization is twenty-eight miles. It’s mostly vacation homes in this area.” 

Errol’s gut tightened. “Do you think you can take me to my car?” 

Joe snorted. “Have you looked outside? It’s a blizzard, my friend. A good old-fashioned six-foot-drifts, downed-lines, can’t-leave-the-house blizzard.” 

“I can’t stay here.” I don’t know you. 

“You don’t really have a choice at this point.” 

Maybe he could call for a ride. The highway patrol or a snowplow or something. “Do you have cell service?” 

“Nope.” 

Nope? Where the hell was this place? “Internet?” 

Leaning against the counter, Joe lowered his chin and gave Errol a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look before turning back to the stove. 

Errol swung his legs out of bed and tugged the shirttails down. His feet hit the floor. His toes were sore, but the floor was unexpectedly warm. 

The teapot whistled. Joe took a box of teabags from an open shelf, draped a teabag in each mug, and filled them with steaming water. “Sugar or milk?” 

“Sugar, I guess.” 

Joe shoveled a quantity into each mug and stirred. He carried the mugs over, offered one to Errol, and sat down next to him on the bed. Joe smelled faintly of wood smoke and pine. Errol blew on the tea and took a sip. Hot, strong, and sweet, just the way he liked it. 

“Do you live out here full-time?” Errol asked. 

“Nope. I…don’t live in this area.” 

“So, is this a summer home or something?” 

“Pretty rustic for a summer home, don’t you think?” Joe said it with a wry look and a crooked grin. 

“Hunting lodge?” No twenty-point buck mounted over the fireplace, but hey, not everyone went for the dead-deer look, right? In fact, the wall above the mantel was blank. Framed pictures graced the mantel, along with what looked like a collection of vintage toy fire engines. As a kid, Errol had had a modern version of a pumper truck, back when he’d wanted to be a fireman. Back before the acting bug bit. 

Joe said, “My great-grandfather built the cabin, mostly as a place to stay when he went fishing up here. In the spring, the lake is full of trout.” 

“There’s a lake?” The directions he’d been given hadn’t had a lake. 

“Yeah. Are you a fisherman?” 

The thought of stringing a squirming worm on a hook, followed by catching a slimy fish…and cleaning it? Fish guts—blech. Errol shuddered, and Joe laughed. 

“I’ll take that as a no. Anyway, the place passed to my Gramps and then my dad. And now me.” 

“Are you expecting company for the holiday?” 

“No.” Joe swirled his mug and stared into its depths, frowning. His hands were large and well formed. They looked strong. “No company.” 

Wrong question. Errol shifted on the bed, uncomfortable, sitting there with a stranger while wearing only a flannel shirt. Errol lifted the cup to his lips and downed the rest of the tea. Heat and the heaviness of fatigue spread from his chest out to his fingers and toes 

“Hungry?” Joe asked. 

“Not now.” He felt like he’d hiked for days, and a yawn got loose. “Tired.” 

“Okay.” Joe stood and took Errol’s cup. “Get some rest.” 

“Are you going to…warm me up?” Heat filled his face. God, that sounded bad. Errol slid under the covers. 

Joe gave that crooked smile. “I think you’re good on your own now.” 

“Okay.” He hadn’t been good on his own for months. Clamping his eyes shut, Errol dragged the covers up to his nose. He heard Joe sigh and pad away. 

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Buy Link--  http://www.loose-id.com/midwinter-night-s-dream.html


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Author Link

Whitley Gray
http://www.whitleygray.com/