I haven’t much else to talk about at the moment. I’ll be back in work on Monday, pretending I want to be there, so for now I’m making the most of my writing time.

I’ve just broken the 35k mark

*bounces carefully in chair*

and here’s an excerpt. Our hero has been to the barber shop and gets more than just a haircut:
Continue Reading »

For those of you who, like me, have been gagging for the next episode in the five part Dominus series, Part Two, Games of Rome is available today. For those of you who haven’t tried it yet, but enjoy a highly spiced alternate history setting with masses of incident, brutality and plot, why not give it a go?

Cover by Fiona Fu


In this sequel to Dominus, Gaius Fabius Rufus, the victorious general of Rome’s brutal Dacian Wars, finds his loyalties and his affections pulled in different directions. Should he return to Rome and secure his claim to the imperial throne, or remain at his seaside villa and protect his pleasure slave, the fierce Dacian prince, Allerix? Retaliation for the murder of his beloved friend beckons him home, but his desire for justice could put both him and Allerix in mortal danger. As Gaius’s deceptions multiply, another tragedy strikes. Will the Lion of the Lucky IV Legion be forced to sacrifice his besotted heart to achieve his aspirations for supreme power?

Every moment since Allerix’s violent capture has tested the young prince’s fortitude and cunning. If he can kill the triumphant emperor who decimated his Dacian nation, revenge and immortality will be his glorious, everlasting rewards. But to realize his scheme for vengeance, he must deceive the Roman master whose body he lusts, the handsome, arrogant man whom he has grown to adore and admire. Can two former enemies—the conqueror and the conquered—find trust and true love, or are the consequences of war destined to tear them apart? Can Gaius and Allerix survive the perilous games of Rome?

Dominus is a plot-packed erotic m/m fantasy set in ancient Rome during the reign of Emperor Trajan (AD 98-117). Games of Rome is the second book in this alternative history saga—a tumultuous journey of forbidden love, humor, sex, friendship, political intrigue, deception, and murder.

Buy Links:
Amazon UK | Amazon US | Smashwords


I’ve realised now that I’m writing a series. Not something I expected but I have this notebook called Ideas and I bung every little inkling of a story that I get in there with notes for a title, characters, places, occupations and how they all fit together.

Last week I realised just how many of them are set in or around a small Welsh borders town and satellite villages – they say you should write what you know – and I also realised that it wouldn’t take much effort to fit them together. If Mal and Rob in The Bones of Our Fathers need a solicitor, why not let Leo the solicitor from Northern Light serve their needs? If Leo needs a haircut why not let Terry from Untitled but there’s a Poodle do it. If someone is stupid enough to pick a fight with Terry over his poodle, he’s probably a bully and may well pick on poor lonely little Dai Beynon from Untitled Paranormally Murdery Thing and have his arse handed to him by the silent but incredibly dangerous David Ashton from The Language of Flowers. It could be fun to populate this small country town But I’d best get this one done first.

28359 so far today :) and here’s an excerpt:

Continue Reading »

Halfway into Nanowrimo

25294 words!! Whoohoo, over 25k! That’s more in the past 2 weeks than I’ve written in the whole of 2015 so far.

I’m about halfway through the story too and have written the first Big Misunderstanding™, a trope I really don’t much like but in this case it’s more of an ethical disagreement than done to make the relationship more iffy.

Anyhow, here’s a sample, all unshod, uncurried and straight off the moor:

It was trowel work, quick and satisfying and he was soon able to see the slabs in their entirety. They were a lot wider than he had thought they would be and he realised he’d be unlikely to be able to move them alone. Luckily Sion and Rob were still close to hand and each man fitted a hand into the overlap of the lid with the supporting stone and stood ready to lift on Mal’s work. He held up a length of two by one.

“Just lift the first one a couple of inches,” he asked, “so I can slip this in to support the lid. I want to get a couple of pictures. If we can document the whole process it could be good publicity for the site.” And for the museum, went without saying.

“Ready, Rob?” Sion grinned at Mal. “On three then – one, two, three.”

The stone lifted smoothly just a little soil tumbling into the void below, and Mal slotted the piece of wood in about a foot. “Lovely,” he said and took a penlight from his pocket. “Want the first look boys?”

“Hell yeah,” Rob said and Sion grinned at him and shouldered into the space between him and Mal.

Mal turned on the little torch and directed the beam into the gap. He smiled to hear two indrawn breaths. It was such a thrill to be the first to see something that had been hidden in the ground for centuries. he remembered his first time well. The dry earth under his knees, sun on his back, the grit on his tongue as a breeze laden with the scent of thyme and seaweed blew dust across the rocky Aegean peninsula. Then he had moved some more dust and and been looking into the face of a man long dead, just bones but broad browed and strong jawed. Moved, Mal had murmured, “Hello brother.”

It was a long moment before Rob or Sion stirred.

“Oh wow,” Rob whispered, his voice a little shaky. “Hello you. Pleased to meetcha.”

“Mal.” Sion looked across at him, eyes wide. “You got to see this.”

My guest today goes under the name of Ruff Bear in most places though, as so many of us do, he has another name for those boring administrative things that aren’t nearly as much fun as being a creator of truth and beauty. Sadly Facebook doesn’t have much truck with truth and beauty and insists on the workaday name so I’ve invited Bear to my blog so he can talk about the real him for a while.

Welcome Bear.

Can you tell me a little about yourself? For instance, do you have to have a day job as well as being a writer?

I have been writing since I was a teenager and had my first work, a poem, published when I was 17. Although encouraged by my writing instructors, I was uneasy about the difficulties of establishing a writing career. I spent over 30 years working in higher education as a professor of political science and a student success specialist. In June 2014, I decided to fulfill my teenage dream and become a fulltime writer.

When you aren’t writing, is there any other creative activity you enjoy? Have you ever written about it?

I enjoy gardening, cooking, travelling, reading books on world history, working out, and submission wrestling. I have written about travel and have a work in progress about the adult wrestling culture.

Bear is also a cracking photographer. Check out more of his work on the Bearly Designed website.

What are you reading? Can you recommend something that you wished you’d written yourself?

I am finishing up a collection of short stories and novellas by Robert Heinlein.  I read half of it and then switched to Neil MacGregor’s Germany: Memories of a Nation. I wish I could have written anything by Doris Lessing or Gabriel García Márquez. She blows me away with her range and he blows me away with his imagination.

In that crucial inspiration stage of a new story which comes first? Plot, situation or character?

Usually character comes first but sometimes I think of a situation I really want to explore. I never know what the plot is until I start writing.

Do your characters arrive fully fledged and ready to fly or do they develop as you work with them? Do you have a crisp mental picture of them or are they more a thought and a feeling than an image?

I know my characters completely the minute they set foot in the story. Well, maybe I don’t know their latest colonoscopy results.

Is there any genre you would love to write, ditto one you would avoid like a rattlesnake? 

Eventually I am going to get around to erotica in the D.H. Lawrence and Henry Miller sense. I can’t see myself writing horror, crime, or anything with a lot of blood and violence. I admire 19th century horror novels like Frankenstein and Dracula, but the horror isn’t the creatures but how people reacted to them.

I feel very alive when I visit deserts, but desertification is one of many problems facing the world due to climate change, inaction and greed. I wanted to tell a story about the consequences of that inaction and how it could lead to the near destruction of humanity. As someone in love with world history, I wanted to write about cycles in history but projected into the future. As a political scientist, I am drawn to study political change movements, the social contract and empires. I practice Taoism and wanted to create characters that reflected the promises and cautions of that philosophy.

Do you find there to be a lot of structural differences between a relationship driven story and one where the romance is a sub plot? 

A relationship driven story almost has to be episodic and removes the opportunity to develop a lot of intertwining themes. Even sub plots have to tie into the main relationship. Romance or relationships as sub plots add layers or help explore themes creating a richer story.

When writing series, what measures do you take to keep track of those annoying little details – eye colour, car type, name of ex-spouse’s dog – that are so easy to drop into text and so easy to forget about?

I do one reading that is solely to insure continuity and reveal repetitious descriptions. It drives me crazy that even the best television series will do things like mention a sibling and then next season say the character is an only child.

Put together your ideal team of men/women – drawing from all and any walks of life, fictional or non-fictional – who you would want to come to your rescue if menaced by muggers/alligators/fundamentalists?
Calvin and Hobbes. They always come up with some way to deal with adversity by ignoring convention, usually by creating a distraction that stops anyone else in his tracks. And I have seen film of a leopard hunting and killing a crocodile in water near the riverbank; tigers are larger than leopards and alligators are smaller than crocodiles, so Hobbes can handle them.

Villains are incredibly important in fiction since they challenge the main protagonists and give them something to contend with beyond the tension of a developing relationship. The cruel sea. The serial killer. The society itself. Your hero’s inner demons. What sort of villains do you prize?

Women, getting stuff done, deviously, since, well, forever really.
[Sian Phillips glorious as Livia Augusta in I, Claudius]

Devious men (devious women are never villains), indecisiveness and inaction in the face of crisis, social norms and customs that have lost their meaning, active engagement in any of the Seven Cardinal Sins except lust.

What are you working on at the moment? Can you discuss it or do you prefer to keep it a secret until it’s finished.

I am ghostwriting the memoirs of a couple who have lived and traveled widely. I am finishing up the first prequel short story for The Secret History of Another Rome, researching the two sequels, and making notes for more prequel stories. I am finishing a short story about a woman protected by spirits. And I am waiting for my husband to finish the first draft of a science fiction novel we are co-authoring called Crossing Xavier.

Could we please have an excerpt of something?

From The Secret History of Another Rome (the beginning of The Fifth Moment)

Octavian’s mother told her five-year-old son they would be leaving home to live elsewhere. She said it would be a great adventure and they could spend as much time as they wanted together once they arrived. In the meantime, he spent several days with his grandmothers visiting gardens and going on drives in the open air vehicle that was fueled by used cooking oil. One evening, the entire family ate at his great grandmother’s house and stayed up late talking and amusing the child.

One day the boy’s mother instructed him to make sure he said goodbye to his friends after they were done playing in the fields. Octavian couldn’t explain why he was leaving, only that his mother said they were. It wasn’t too unusual for a family to move from a community since opportunities came and went. Still, so far in their young lives, Octavian’s friends had only seen off one other, a girl who left for the interior when her mother was needed at a family cattle ranch when her aunt could no longer manage the place alone. When he said his farewells, the boy with long, bright auburn locks did not know it would be more than two decades before he saw another person less than seventeen years old.

A few days later Octavian found two trunks sitting in the parlor near the front door. It already had been an unusual morning. Instead of giving him his usual short trousers and a shirt to wear, his mother laid out a red piece of clothing that looked like a long shirt without sleeves, an off-white, hooded robe that went down to his ankles, and a light brown leather belt. He asked her what the shirt-like thing was and she said it was a tunic. She said from now on he would be wearing these clothes. It was odd. Mother was wearing a shirt and pants.

After breakfast, the day became even stranger. They traveled some distance to the far side of Mandela beyond Table Mountain to a flat expanse with a modest, white-washed building on one side. Mother told him this was an airstrip. Sitting in the flat, dusty field was a large, metal machine that had wings like a bird, but with upturned ends. He recognized the lettering painted above the windows near the front of the long, silver tube that made up the bulk of the machine. It was Arabic: امبراطورية روما في الإسكندرية. Octavian had been learning Arabic for as long as he had been speaking English and Spanish. The elegant script said Empire of Rome at Alexandria.

Octavian had heard the Empire mentioned by his elders. They did not speak well of it for the most part. His mother, however, used maps depicting the territories of the Empire in her lessons with him. The intelligent child put the pieces together.

“Mother, are we moving to the Empire?”

“Yes, Octavian. Very good of you to sort that out by yourself. We are going to Alexandria, the capital city of the Empire. We will live there.”


“Are you ready to go into the plane.”

“Plane? Is that what that is?”

“Yes. It is an airplane, but people just call it a plane for short.”

“Like calling Michael Mike.”

“Yes,” she said. Octavian realized he probably would never see his friend Mike again. “Let’s go. I packed a lunch for us that we can eat in the plane.”

“That sounds like fun.” Octavian enjoyed picnics, but had never had one inside a machine.

Octavian and his mother climbed the stairs and entered the cabin. They were greeted by a member of the flight crew, a smiling, friendly, dark-haired woman wearing a sea green tunic who spoke English with a bit of an accent. “Welcome aboard. I am honored to meet you and travel with you to the city. Please find seats in the passenger cabin. I will speak with you momentarily.”

Octavian’s mother led him into an area in the front of the plane with six large, reclining seats covered in a durable, nubby fabric.

“Here are some blankets and pillows,” the flight assistant added. “I admit the fabric can be a bit scratchy on the seats, so you may want to cover them with one of the blankets. The pillows are a good support for your lower back, as well as your head.”

She disappeared again as Octavian and his mother settled in. His mother was just removing lunch from the bag she had brought with her when the attendant returned. “Oh, I guess they didn’t tell you we provide meals. No worries. I am sure you will be hungry again toward the end of the flight.”

“Flight?” Octavian sputtered. “This machine really uses its wings to fly?”

“Yes, dear. Do you remember a few months ago when I was away for six days? I rode in an airplane to Australia and back. I wanted to be certain I knew what it was like before we moved.”


“And I think it best if I give you something after lunch to help you sleep. Even though we will be crossing Africa instead of the southern oceans as I did, there is not much to see and becomes boring rather quickly. You have never been in a confined space like this for any length of time. I don’t want you to become over-excited or ill.”

“But I want to see things, even if it is just clouds and sky.”

“You will be awake while we finish lunch. And I promise to wake you for the last hour of the flight so you have time to see what you want to see.”

Octavian knew his mother always thought matters out carefully and would not bow to him arguing further. Besides, while they were eating, the woman in green came around to ask them to use the belts attached to the seats before takeoff. The boy wondered why they should strap themselves in if they were going to remove their clothes and wasn’t sure why removing their clothes was necessary. However, he saw his mother connecting the ends of her seat belt without stripping. He must have misunderstood.

The engines made a thundering sound. Within minutes, the plane started moving. The machine picked up speed running down the flat, dusty field. Octavian was in awe watching the trees and ground go by so quickly. Suddenly, the airfield was pulling away and the plane was climbing. The boy felt the partially eaten meal settle in his stomach. He couldn’t take his eyes off the window as the landscape became smaller. The plane banked and he could see Cape Town and its harbor, then Mandela, his home community. He could even see his great grandmother’s house set amidst the fields.

As amazing as it was, take off and climbing above the spare clouds was disorienting. Octavian decided it probably was best to relax. After lunch, he took a small red tablet. Funny, he thought. Tablet means a small pill and an electronic screen for reading and writing in English and tableta could mean both in Spanish, too. Those sorts of connections always fascinated the child. Within minutes, however, all thought slipped away and he was curled up in the seat with two blankets and three pillows.

The Secret History of Another Rome

In the mid-2600s, Ranulf becomes Supreme Pontiff of the Empire of Rome at Alexandria, a patriarchy run by priest-bureaucrats called Librarians. After twenty-two years on the throne, Ranulf’s memories flood back to him, from the time he moved to Alexandria with his mother to his present situation resulting from his choices, his training and his relationships. Ranulf’s life has been a quest for truth, not the half-truths of the Librarians and their Secret History, but an understanding of how action rather than static dogma is the path to the future. Guided by mysterious strangers from another time and his own innate curiosity, Ranulf searches for this understanding. Why do the Librarians hide facts from their ruler? What will Ranulf do as he gradually uncovers the truth? How will he respond when he finally understands?

Buy Links:

Kellan Publishing | Amazon UK | Amazon US

Author Bio:

Bear was raised in the Baltimore-Washington area. He has lived in the Albany, NY, area for 20 years. He has been writing since the age of 13 and had his first work, a poem, published at 17. Bear has worked 30 years in higher education as a professor of political science and a student success specialist. He has lived overseas in China, Hong Kong, Lebanon and Saudi Arabia.

Bear currently works full time as a writer of plays, non-fiction, poetry and fiction. The Secret History of Another Rome is his first completed novel. He has written three full-length plays and a one-act play that is the start of another long play. Bear also writes political essays, which have been published at http://www.dailykos.com/user/Ruffbear7 and http://www.opednews.com/hkbearmcneelege. One essay was published in River & South Review’s Winter 2014 issue and a poem was published in December 2014 by Silver Birch Press in their I Am Waiting series. He is completing work on a non-fiction book on the changing definition of democracy and writing several novels and plays. Additionally, he sells blank note cards and prints featuring his original photography at http://www.bearlydesigned.com.

Bear enjoys gardening, cooking, travelling, reading books on world history, working out and wrestling. He and his spouse were married in 1996 in a Christian-Taoist ceremony in a beautiful state park. They enjoy taking care of their 95-year-old house and their three cats: Rani Dolly Lama, Buster Amarillo Spotbelly and Miss KayKay Snugglegrumps.


Author Page




Daily Cos



Author Name: Lynn Lorenz

Book Names: The Mercenary’s Tale, Jackson’s Pride, Baymore’s Heir, His Duke’s Gift

Series: In The Company of Men

Publisher: Hartwood Publishing

Cover Artist: Georgia Woods

Books: One through Five

Pages or Words: Varies by book

Categories: Historical, M/M Romance

Release Date: September 2015 – December 2015

Blurbs :

The Mercenary’s Tale – Drake is a mercenary for hire. He values little other than his sword and his skill. Fighting his attraction to the young men he trains, he refuses to take any on. When Ansel walks into his life, Drake breaks all his rules.
But life for mercenaries is hard, brutal and deadly.
Can Drake take a chance on finding the love he’s denied himself for so long?
Can he have a second chance?

Jackson’s Pride – Jackson has been called to attend his father, Lord Baymore. The man has never claimed Jackson as his son and Jackson believes this might be his father’s intent. He’s left the Duke of Marden’s employ to discover his destiny—to remain a nameless bastard or to claim his father’s name.
When Jackson stumbles across a man, stripped, beaten, and left in a field to die a slow death, Jackson rescues the man. After all, he’s guilty of the same thing—wanting a man.
Will Holcombe gambled and lost. His meeting with a young, willing man went horribly wrong, and now he must pay for it with his life.
Until a man walks up to him in a frozen field and cuts him down.
Jackson is like no one Will has ever met before—a man strong enough to stand with him, perhaps forever.
But Jackson’s on a mission. Will his pride blind him to what his life could be if he chose Will and not his father?
Or will his pride lead him to a fate worse than death?

Baymore’s Heir – Duke Jackson of Baymore finally has all he’s ever wanted—his name, a title, and the man he loves by his side. Lord Will Holcombe couldn’t be happier. He’s Jackson’s lover, best friend, and manages all of Jackson’s affairs. For two years, their life together, although deadly if anyone knew of their forbidden love, has been perfect.
Until Jackson the day when decides the one thing he needs is an heir.
And the one person to find him a wife is Will.

Silent Lodge – Drake and Logan are worried about their friend and captain of the guard, Peter. After the death in childbirth of Peter’s wife, he’s a changed man. Unfocused, lonely, and devastated, Peter needs a new challenge, instead of going through the motions of living.

Logan sends Peter on a mission – to discover Duke Weathersby’s plans for invasion. Logan’s father has a small hunting lodge near the border of their lands, and it has a caretaker. Peter sets off alone, to make camp at the lodge and do some scouting.

But what he finds at the lodge just may be his future. Arvel is a fascinating young man. Red haired, deaf and mute from a fever as a child, he’s been living in the lodge and caring for it for years. It’s a safe haven for him. But he’s not alone. He has a protector, Gareth.

When Gareth, Arvel and Peter are together, sparks fly. Arvel belongs to Gareth, but he wants Peter too. Can Peter join their small family? And if he does, will he always be the third to their couple?

His Duke’s Gift – In this Yuletide story, Duke Logan is preparing the keep for the holiday. Twelve nights of feasting and gift giving to those in his favor. Gifts must be made or bought. Once mercenary Drake struggles to think of just the right gift for his love and liege, and for their sons.

Something isn’t right. A stranger has arrived at the keep and Logan refuses to let Drake into his bedroom at night. Angry and frustrated, Drake fears Logan has lost his love for the mercenary.

When the Twelfth night arrives, and Drake has received no gift, he begins to think he might need to take his son and leave what has become his home.



Ansel lowered himself with effort to the ground and leaned back on his saddle. From across the fire I could tell he still ached. I rummaged in my saddlebag and found the vial of oil I used to keep my leathers supple. It would work for Ansel’s back.

“That’s enough moaning from you. Take off your shirt and stretch out; I’m giving you a rubdown before you become so stiff you can’t move.” It came out more like an order, and Ansel obeyed.

He unlaced his leather vest, removed it, and then with careful motions, pulled his shirt over his head. Smooth chest met my gaze, lean muscles and wide shoulders. Dark hair trailed down his stomach to disappear beneath the strings of his breeches.

“Lay on your belly.” It was not the wisest thing I’d ever done, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. In truth, I wanted to touch him.

He stretched out on his cloak, his smooth broad back to me, arms over his head. There were no scars on his back or on his chest. Hidden scars, indeed.

He turned his head and looked up at me as I stood over him, his eye reflecting the firelight. I kneeled and straddled his hips. As I settled my weight on him, he gave a small grunt.

“Not too heavy for you?” I poured some of the oil from the vial and worked it over my hands.

“No.” He watched as I spread the oil between my fingers.

At the first touch of my hands on his skin, he shuddered. I smiled as his eye caught mine, then he closed it, giving me a ghost of a smile.

My hands roved over his back, lightly at first, then I increased the pressure as I pressed into his muscles, working them like a woman kneads bread dough. His smooth skin glistened in the firelight as my oiled hands glided across. Despite my best intentions, I grew hard as I touched him. Damn me, but I’d longed to do this. For his part, his breathing deepened and I could feel his chest expanding with each inhale. Was he as hard as I was? If so, it must have been uncomfortable to have his cock pressed into the hard ground.

I slid back, moving lower to sit at the tops of his thighs, his round buttocks firm in front of me. I rocked forward and back as I rubbed, pressing my hardness against him, watching for his reaction.

Part of me wanted to go further and part of me wanted him to tell me to stop. He never made a sound or moved.

“Roll over.” I stood, still straddling him.

Ansel pushed himself over, and I gazed down at the bulge in his breeches, long and hard. My eyes traveled to his face. No sign of shame, just that calm, steady gaze of his telling me to continue. He lay there, propped on his elbows, and looked up at my own hard bulge, then he slid flat to the ground.

I went down on my knees and sat across his hips, trapping his rod beneath me, a hard lump against my stones. Pouring more oil into my hands, I began to rub his shoulders, working my way to the sharp planes of his chest. His eyes were shut, and his mouth held that vague smile. I ran my thumbs across his small, dark nipples, resisting urges I didn’t want to give in to.

He hissed in a deep breath and held it as my thumbs played with those sharp points. Circling them first one way, then another, I showed him no mercy. For myself, I could feel my own nipples harden and ache under my shirt. At last, I stopped my torture, and he sighed, letting his breath out in a slow exhale. Damn, I wanted to take one of those sharp points in my mouth and make him moan for me.

Moving lower, I worked my hands over his taut stomach muscles and the tender, purple bruises I’d given him. He winced only once.

I rocked forward on his rod and he moaned. By all the gods, it sounded so good to my ears that I did it again. And again. My sac tightened as my rod swelled.

I lowered my body closer, rocked my hardness against his, and felt his responding push back. Supporting my body with my hands on his chest, all pretense of rubbing sore muscles was gone. I set a steady rhythm and pressed harder.

Ansel’s hands reached up and took my hips, pulling them tighter, his hips answering. He eyes were very dark, wide open, and locked with mine. Sliding over his chest, my hands ran down his arms, locked fingers with his, and pulled them from my hips and over his head. I stretched my clothed body against his bare chest and pumped.

His breath came ragged and his moans louder. My face was mere inches from his. This was it. If I lowered my mouth to his, I’d be kissing a man. Then I thought, we were two layers of cloth from fucking, what was a kiss? Merely damnation.

As if he’d read my mind, his lips parted and he closed his eyes. Unable to resist, I covered his mouth with mine and slammed my rod against him. I thrust faster now, even as my tongue entered his mouth to dance with his tongue, exchanging our tastes. He was as sweet tasting as any woman I’d kissed.

When he groaned into my mouth, I could feel it in my chest. I rocked faster and pressed harder. His legs widened, to give me more room, and I pumped harder. Sucking his tongue into my mouth, I held it captive. A groan ripped his lips from mine as he arched his back, his entire body tensed, and his hands clenched mine. I felt the jerking of his cock beneath me as he spilled and almost joined him.

With a shudder, he opened his eyes and looked into mine.

“Damn.” I smiled.

“Damn.” He smiled and licked his lips. I watched his tongue make a pass over the top and then the bottom, and then disappear inside. I wanted to take it in my mouth again.

Instead, freeing his hands, I rolled off him and sat against my saddle.

He propped himself up on one elbow, dipped his fingers beneath his breeches and pulled them out. They shone in the light, his cream covering them. Gods, I wondered what it would taste like.

“I should clean up.” He stood, went to his bag, rummaged in it, and came up with a bit of cloth. Wiping himself, he dropped the rag on the ground and came back to the fire.

I watched him as he stood in front of me.

“You’re still needing.” He kneeled, locked eyes with me, and pushed my knees apart. My rod strained against my breeches, so any denial would be seen for the lie it was.

When he reached for my strings, I should have said something, such as “Stop” or “Don’t touch me,” but we’d gone too far for false words.

His fingers made short work of the strings and he sat back. Without my shifting, my rod would remain firmly in place. There could be no more pretenses; if I wanted him, I had to move. I took a breath, shifted, pushed my breeches open, pulled the string of my trews, and freed my cock.

It stood tall, thick and long, dark with blood, as I took it in my already slick hand and greeted it like an old friend, with a slow, long stroke. Ansel’s gaze never left my hand as he moved closer.

“Let me.” He reached for my rod, and our fingers touched as he covered my hand with his. Together we glided over my quivering shaft, his fingers picking up traces of oil. Prickles of pleasure danced through my body, settling in my sac.

I slipped my hand from under his, sat back, and watched as his hand pleasured me. I’d held back before he’d released, but now it would be much harder with his hand wrapped around the bared shaft of my cock.

And what pleasure he gave me, like none I’d had before. He knew just how I needed to be touched, just how to stroke long, then fast and short, then long and squeeze the tip. I had to grit my teeth to keep from moaning as each stroke brought me closer to the cliffs of release. I wanted more. I wanted to possess him, own him, and make him mine in every way.

“Lick me.” My voice was quiet, deep, commanding.

Without a word, he lowered his head. I watched as his tongue made a long, slow pass over the blood-swollen tip, pulling a moan from me. He licked under the rim of my rod’s head and I moaned again.

Who possessed whom?

Buy the book:


Mercenary’s Tale





Baymore’s Heir





Jackson’s Pride




Meet the author:

Lynn Lorenz is an award-winning and best-selling author of over 30 gay romances. She lives in Texas, where she’s a fan of all things Texan, like Longhorns, big hair, and cowboys in tight jeans. She’s never met a comma she didn’t like, and enjoys editing and brainstorming with other writers. Lynn spends most of her time writing about hot sex with even hotter heroes, plot twists, werewolves, and medieval swashbucklers. She’s currently at work on her latest book, making herself giggle and blush, and avoiding all the housework.

Where to find the author:

Website: http://www.lynnlorenz.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/lynn.lorenz.58

Twitter: @lynnlorenz


Goodreads Link: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1496392.Lynn_Lorenz

Tour Dates & Stops:

10-Nov: Elin Gregory, BFD Book Blog

12-Nov: Up All Night, Read All Day, Tara Lain

17-Nov: Divine Magazine, Scattered Thoughts & Rogue Words

19-Nov: Molly Lolly

24-Nov: Velvet Panic, Havan Fellows

26-Nov: Lee Brazil, Jessie G. Books

1-Dec: Love Bytes, The Novel Approach

3-Dec: Bayou Book Junkie, MM Good Book Reviews


Rafflecopter Prize: E-copy of any book from any of Lynn’s series





My guest today is Andrew Peters a young man who has a number of very well received books in his backlist including a critically acclaimed series about feline shifters and two fascinating YA books based on the Atlantis myth. I’ve known Andrew for a while now and have been following his publishing career with glee, but I was surprised and touched when he suggested that we did a ‘read and interview ‘ swap in celebration of his latest release, Banished Sons of Poseidon, the second of his Atlantis books. Since this was on my ‘to read’ list anyway I was delighted to get an ARC. [Honestly if you haven’t yet tried the series give it a go. The first book is The Seventh Pleiade which can be found here.]

Anyway – here we go with the questions. Many thanks to Andrew for suggesting the format.

So first of all – subject matter. At first sight a YA treatment of the Greek myths and a contemporary paranormal series about shifter politics seem an odd mixture but I noticed a theme in both series of ordinary humans faced with something beyond their experience and having to come to terms both with it and their own response to it. Does that theme fascinate you or is that just the way the stories pan out?

That’s an interesting observation. It’s not something I’ve reflected on before in quite that way. I approached my Werecat series from a lost myth and mysticism point-of-view, so I usually talk about those things being a common thread in the two series.

I’m a diehard fan of underdogs, and perhaps that attitude touches on the theme you mention. One thing that led me into writing fantasy was the lack of gay heroes in commercial lit, and more generally, the tendency of fantasy heroes to be a bit too perfect for my taste. It’s not engaging for me to write or read about a hero who has all the tools and privileges to get the job done. I’m more interested in the hero’s flaws and his moral dilemmas and the possibility of someone who doesn’t fit the mold accomplishing feats that better the world.

In both series you have been faced with the problems inherent in keeping track of a large cast, their names, appearance, quirks and relationships. How on earth do you do this? I ask from the POV of a person who once found she had used the same name for three different bit part characters in the same novel.

I appreciate that confession. I spend a lot of time coming up with character and place names that don’t sound similar to something I’ve used before. I even go through the alphabet so that they don’t start with the same letter. That’s as much for my own benefit as the reader’s. :)

For The Seventh Pleiade, I made a character spreadsheet, and I also did some fun things like have each character answer a magazine-style quiz. Vanity Fair has a feature where they ask celebrities to respond to the famous Proust Questionnaire, and they do these great, satirical “intelligence reports” comparing the quirks and habits of political candidates or pop culture personae. I think it’s a great exercise for writers to put their characters through those tests. (Here’s a link to one of VF’s Proust Questionnaires: http://www.vanityfair.com/hollywood/2014/11/amy-poehler-proust-questionnaire)[Note from Elin: I have no idea who Amy Poeler is but I would not trust this person to babysit]
Believe it or not, I trimmed the number of characters in The Seventh Pleiade during rewrites. I realize that my tendency to create a cast of thousands can be intimidating. Most of the time I can’t help myself. I love stories with epic casts of characters like Russian novels and fantasy works by Tolkien and George R.R. Martin.

In The Seventh Pleiade the hero is the well born youth Aerander but in the follow up, Banished Sons of Poseidon, you change the focus to Dam, his cousin, whose reputation was less than stellar in the first book. What is it about Dam that made you feel his story had to be told?

Dam grew on me as I was writing The Seventh Pleiade, and I was surprised by the intensity of the interaction between him and Aerander. I think what happened was that mysterious phenomenon of a character telling the author what was really going on in the story. In this case, it felt like Aerander told me that in the midst of the big disaster he’s trying to stop, his relationship with his cousin Dam was really central to him emotionally. Banished Sons of Poseidon allowed me to explore that relationship further and to iron out the unfinished business between the two boys.
I also felt that Dam deserved the opportunity to explain himself. It bothered me to hear that some readers responded to him negatively in the first book. He does start out as a dark, troubled character, but my hope was that my treatment of him opened up a more nuanced response to his actions.

In your Atlantis series I noticed many familiar names and terms but all had been treated in a unique way. How difficult was it to come up with new ways of handling the old concepts and were you ever tempted to cut corners and go along with Plato?

I was probably rather fanatical about that balance because the premise of the books is that Plato’s account is an authentic history, but relying on nine thousand years of oral histories, the story got stretched into a tale of Greek nationalism and left out some rather important bits.
Plato’s account is quite intriguing in that he gives us an unusually detailed description of the size, geography, and even the city plan for Atlantis. But with the exception of the inviolable Poseidon, he tells us very little about the histories of the people who inhabited the kingdom. He merely lists these wonderfully eccentric names for Poseidon’s wife and sons, which for me were too good not to use in the story. I invented Aerander and his contemporaries of course since they were dozens of generations removed from the country’s founding fathers. I also introduced the idea of people of different nationalities and cultures living in Atlantis because that seemed important to depict life in a kingdom that had conquered the globe.

In terms of the downfall of Atlantis, Plato invokes the familiar theme of hubris and Zeus’s retribution. That was something I wanted to portray with a little more light and shade. It seemed too neat to me, and in Plato’s account, he leaves the story unfinished at a critical moment. That made me think that maybe he was hiding the truth of what really happened, or maybe he was hiding that he didn’t really know. I happily filled in a conspiracy to explain the “true” story of Atlantis’s downfall. It’s a long way around your question, but I felt like I was on a bit of a mission to show what really happened to Atlantis so the creative liberties felt like opportunities more so than challenges.

Your Atlantis books are Young Adult and so are fairly chaste in their depiction of relationships. Your werecats have a more contemporary vibe. Are you able to maintain the mindset required to write one or the other or did you sometimes think “oh dear, I’d better tone this down/spice this up?”

I think I’m on sturdier ground with the “fairly chaste” approach. With me, sex scenes can get a little purple. One reviewer (from Kirkus) used the term “Chatterly-esque,” which I suppose could be flattering in some circles but not especially in the Young Adult universe.

I admire authors like you who can write intimate moments elegantly. I got a lot more practice writing sex in the Werecat series, and hopefully that shows. That story is more action/adventure than romance or certainly erotica, so I wrote sex on the page when it made sense for the story. It did take pushing myself a bit.

As a life long storyteller [*nods* yes I have read your FAQ on your website] is there one story you’ve been longing to tell for years but haven’t got round to yet?

I’m glad someone is visiting my website. I shelved a half dozen or so stories that I haven’t gotten around to. A lot of my early work was on the absurd side, and I left it behind when I took the dive into the more sober realm of fantasy.
Maybe we’ll look back at this interview in ten years and say: you heard it here first. I’ve had this silly idea of writing a horror spoof based on zombie squirrels. Or maybe the literary world will get lucky and never have to deal with that title. Aren’t you glad you asked? :)

Google image search ‘zombie squirrels’ and this is probably the least distressing result.

I know that you work with LGBT youth. What advice would you give to young and aspiring writers? What advice did you find most useful to you when you were starting out? The two aren’t necessarily the same – the state of the publishing/marketing business changes yearly.

It’s interesting because some of the earliest advice and feedback I received was not especially encouraging, and I try to not continue that negative cycle when talking to writers who are starting out. I’m thinking about my college writing classes which were pretty brutal and competitive and the cynical attitude of older writers I came in contact with who basically told me: “Enjoy writing now. The fun ends when you get published.”

I kind of filtered through that, and I certainly did receive some great advice along the way with regard to staying disciplined as a writer, reading as much as you can, being experimental (for example, I can’t write poetry to save my life, but I do it as an exercise to strengthen my writing), and taking advantage of the opportunities that come your way. Regarding the latter, some simple, sage advice that stayed with me was: Just get your work out there. Doesn’t matter big or small the platform. Every publication is an opportunity to connect with readers.

Will there be a follow up to Poseidon? I really hope that there will be. I can’t really say any more without spoilers but you left me with some questions unanswered and that’s always a good sign.

Great to hear the story left you wanting more. I mention in my author’s note to Banished Sons that I hadn’t expected to write a follow up to The Seventh Pleiade, so I’m hesitant to give you an unequivocal no. But I’m afraid I don’t have immediate plans to return to those characters and that setting. I have a bunch of other things brewing on my writing stove right now. But who knows what the future holds?

What can we expect from you over the next couple of years? Also what are you working on at the moment?

I’m quite excited about 2016 because I have two books coming out. The first is Poseidon and Cleito, which takes the Atlantis legend from its pre-formative years. The second is The City of Seven Gods, which is a strange, gritty, sort of ancient world alternative history novel. They’re both openers in two different series so I’m going to have my hands full! Right now, I’m finishing the final installment in the Werecat series.

Many thanks, Andrew, for answering my questions so gallantly, and good luck with your releases next year.

Author Bio:

Photo by Larry Black

Andrew J. Peters is the author of the Werecat series, The Seventh Pleiade and its forthcoming follow-up Banished Sons of Poseidon.

He grew up in Buffalo, New York, studied psychology at Cornell University, and has spent most of his career as a social worker and an advocate for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender youth. A lifelong writer, Andrew has been a contributing writer at The Good Men Project, YA Highway, Reading Teen, Dear Teen Me, La Bloga, and Layers of Thought among other media. Andrew lives in New York City with his partner Genaro and their cat Chloë.

Website : Facebook : Twitter : Goodreads

After escaping from a flood that buried the aboveground in seawater, a fractured group of boys contend with the way ahead and their trust of an underground race of men who gives them shelter. For sixteen-year-old Dam, whose world was toppling before the tragedy, it’s a strange, new second chance. There are wonders in the underworld and a foreign warrior Hanhau who is eager for friendship despite Dam’s dishonorable past.

But a rift between his countrymen threatens to send their settlement into chaos. Peace between the evacuees and Hanhau’s tribe depends on sharing a precious relic that glows with arcane energy. When danger emerges from the shadowed backcountry, Dam must undertake a desperate mission. It’s the only hope to make it home to Atlantis. It’s the only way to save Hanhau and his people.

Bold Stroked Books | Amazon US | Amazon UK | B&N | Indie Bound


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