No Brainer by Rebecca Leigh

Grace Jones is a government-employed zombie killer. Ethan Waters is a zombie. Together Ethan and Grace battle the zombie mafia and have hot sex. But will they also find love?

Grace Jones is a government-employed zombie killer. As a member of the elite Zombie Investigative Agency, she spends her days ridding the world of lower zombies. Her nine-to-five gig is turned upside down when she's assigned to investigate the zombie mafia's Red Brain Project. One of the members of her team is an ex-lover and the other is a zombie.
Ethan Waters is a zombie. Different from the brain-sucking and savage lower zombies, Ethan lives the more sophisticated life of an upper zombie. Ethan turns out to be the perfect compassionate foil to Grace's often emotionless slayer. Together Ethan and Grace battle the zombie mafia, have hot sex, and also find love.
CONTENT ADVISORY: This title contains a HFN ending. (And it is M/F!)

The worst part of entering a lair is the stench.

"Fuck!" My body doubles over.

I can't stop the yellowish-green, sour liquid from curling through my throat and spurting out of my mouth. If I'd eaten one damn thing today, I would have puked it up. As it is there's only bile. The acid from my stomach burns my throat and sears my tongue. My queasy gut isn't exactly an asset when it comes to my job.

I've smelled rotting flesh before, plenty of times, but the stink in this house is as overpowering as it gets. The air smells like something has been decomposing in here for weeks.

I swat the flies buzzing around my head as I step through the open door and over the threshold. Another wave hits me and more bile lands on the dirty hardwood floors. Puking has become somewhat of standard fare for me in the past couple years. You'd think I'd get used to it, but I never have. My sense of smell was just designed a little too acute to deal. I wipe thin strings of spit from my mouth and continue into the hall of death.

I cover my nose with my hand in an attempt to stave off at least some of the stench. It doesn't help. The aroma of decay lingers in the air as thick as the humidity after a hard rain in the middle of summer. Breathing only through gritted teeth doesn't help because the smell manifests itself in my mouth with a rotten and stale flavor. I love living in central Texas, but the weather is not good for my line of work. Even in the winter, it's too damn hot to go looking for dead bodies.

I pick up my pace, running across the entryway and into the first room on the left. The closer I get, the more pungent the odor. I've been doing this job too long not to realize I'm heading in the right direction.

If the stench wasn't enough of a sign, the trail of blood leading from the front door would be a dead giveaway. No pun intended. What'd they do, order take-out and drag in the pizza boy kicking and screaming?

Apparently the answer to that is yes--and a whole lot more.

Finding the bodies is close to unbearable. I can deal with destroying the undead. Hell, I live for that shit. I can even handle quelling the last signs of life in any of the victims exposed to the virus that threaten to rise again. Offing them before they come back makes my job easier anyway. But seeing the used and discarded bodies is definitely the worst.

The stench coming from what was once the study is unbearable.

It was probably a comfortable and quaint room a couple of decades ago. A rock-covered fireplace sits nestled in the corner with cedar logs that were never lit. The Victorian-themed furniture would have been comfortable after a long day at work. The graying colors, muted tones of blue and green, would have been relaxing.

For a moment, I wonder who'd lived here--before it became a haven for the undead. Maybe a man and woman with a couple of kids. I bet they had a maid. People that own grand homes like this always have a maid. A nanny too, to raise their offspring. The man would come home from a hard day's work and the little wife-y would have his tonic waiting. The kids would scramble around his feet to vie for daddy's attention. There are no pictures in the room to signal whether my guess is correct. Did the family escape the monsters that took over their abode? Or did they join the fray?

If this were my place, I'd kick my heels onto the ottoman and stretch out on the loveseat. Maybe have a shot of vodka. A stiff drink is about the only thing that can calm my nerves these days. I'd close my eyes and dream of a world where my job wasn't necessary, a world where the dead stay dead.

But this is not my place. This house hasn't belonged to anyone in years. At least not anyone alive.

The furniture is dusty and riddled with holes. Cobwebs hang from the ceilings. The cherry floor is unpolished, dirty, and cracked.

And in the middle of it all is a pile of bodies.

As I walk closer I can see maybe seven different heads. Or what's left of them, discarded like so much rubbish. Under bloodied and matted hair, open skulls still ooze the last remnants of brains.

I walk slowly over to the pile and kick the bodies around. Some of the limbs still stiff with rigor mortis fall to the side. All the eyes are wide with the last horror of impending death. The eyes stare, piercing through nothingness with a plea for help that never came.

From the vestiges of boobs and dicks, it looks like four men and three women. Some of them have been dead longer than others. On some, the blood smeared from head to toe is crusted. On others, even the gray matter is starting to dry. A few have maggots squirming around in the festering flesh.

I've learned to tell how long someone's been dead by the stage of decomposition. The types of insects and the vapors emitted from a body depend on the stage. Most of these seven unlucky souls are nearing the putrification stage. The bodies are bloated and have a greenish brown tint.

The zombies had a fucking feast. A brain luau.

I examine the bodies up close one more time to make sure that none of them will rise again. The best way to tell is by examining the gray matter. I wasn't very good at it in the beginning, but now it only takes me a few minutes to figure it out. The easiest way to tell is by how much brains are left in the skull. More brains equals higher likelihood of a new zombie entering the world. If there is sufficient gray matter remaining, the next step is to check the brain stem. If it's exposed and there are bite marks near it, then the person's been infected. The only way for the virus to spread is through the cranial nerves.

I see bite marks on the necks and chests that have turned to sores and are crusted with scabs. If exposed to the virus, the sores would still be fresh. If a body doesn't transform within the first several days, it's dead for good. I guess that makes these guys and gals lucky.

On first assessment, my guess is the monsters that killed them are more than likely long gone. Some creatures make homes out of their lairs. Vampires are like that; they keep returning over and over to the places that hold a semblance of life for them. Vampires nest. Zombies are different; they set up house long enough to eat and then they scatter.

Sometimes new zombies will stay temporarily in an old lair, perhaps because they possess some vestige of human fear. Maybe they're afraid to venture out after they've transformed. But it never lasts for long. The need for brains pulls them into my world.

I'll still take a look around the rest of the house to ensure this lair is abandoned.

I glance one more time at the pile. Damn, the cleanup crew's going to have a hell of a time with this joint.

I cuss as I make my way through the rest of the house room by room. The stench and the sight of blood are overwhelming. I'm not sure why there aren't more bodies here. It's hard to believe this much damage could have come only from the people in the study. There's got to be enough blood smeared over the walls and floors to account for at least two dozen. Maybe the bodies were carried away to serve as late night snacks.

Stronger zombies have a penchant for storing nibbles here and there. Like a dog burying a bone. Or a squirrel storing food up for the winter. The habit might explain why the fiends decay so quickly--eating snacks composed of old, dried brains does little to curb the effects of decomposition in the undead.

The winding staircase leading to the second floor is so old the wood is rotten. The banister on one side is broken off and leaning precariously in mid-air. The steps, once covered with an ornately patterned oriental carpet, are slanted and cracked. The only thing left of the carpet is tattered pieces clinging to the edges of the stairs.

I take each step with caution. The last thing I need is to fall to the ground below and break something. I fractured my arm once while battling a hive of zombies and I damn near lost the fight. The higher I ascend, the more the stairs creak and sway. I don't even realize I am holding my breath until a loud, hard puff escapes my lips when I reach the top.

There are two wings. To the east, there is a long row of closed doors. Any one of them could be housing throngs of undead. To the west, a short hallway leads to a single immense steel door. The metal structure is out of place among the Victorian English décor. The oddity is enough of a reason to check there first. The trail of still-wet blood leading from the stairwell to the door is an even better reason.

I creep over the blood-stained carpet. When I turn the knob, the door squeaks as it opens. The room on the other side is pitch black despite the fact that it is the middle of the day. The only light shines in a tiny sliver from the hallway.

I step one foot inside and realize my original assessment that this house is deserted is wrong. Dead wrong. I hear the distinct sounds of slurping coming from the far corner of the room. Another step and I hear a gurgle, a loud groan, and a shuffle.

Zombies may be strong, even in death, but they are notoriously slow. For some reason early deterioration focuses on the appendages, especially feet and legs. The zombie in this room is no exception. I race toward the zombie at a rapid walk, my eyes adjusting quickly to the darkness. When I'm a few feet from him, the scant light reveals his grotesque features.

The left side of his head is mangled and reveals the remnants of his dried brain. One eye is hollow and the other is an oozing hole with an eyeball halfway hanging out of the socket. His nose and upper lip are gone and his lower lip is swollen, dripping with blood and freshly eaten brains.

He only has one arm and he reaches it toward me with a groan.

"Uuhhhgg," he moans.

His bony hand covers my shoulder. Each digit curls and makes a slight cracking sound. He pushes down, sending a sharp pain pulsing through my arm and back. His fingers are like a bear trap, digging into my skin. His long and gnarled nails slice and draw blood.

"Uuhhhgg." He inches forward with another guttural moan.

"Die, fucker." I could have easily run away from him rather than let him touch me, but the closer they are the easier the kill. I pull out the Glock nestled in a holster next to my thigh and point it between his eyes.

I pull the trigger and the face, devoid of any emotion but hunger, is gone. What was left of his head explodes and bits scatter on the floor in the darkness. The now fully dead body crumbles.

After I flick away a sliver of zombie flesh that landed on my cheek, I stumble to the corner of the room. My feet thud against the body the zombie had been munching on. There's no way for me to tell if the person will rise without dragging what's left into the fully lit hallway.

I tug the arms and slide the carcass over the floor until the light reveals a teenage girl. She couldn't have been more than sixteen. Her streaked blonde hair is matted to one side of her head with dried blood and her eyes are frozen wide with fear. I push the crusted hair to the side to reveal an opening the size of the zombie's mouth. Warm brains still cling to the serrated edges of the wound. Other than the one gash, there are no other bite marks anywhere on her body. She'll stay dead.

Another lucky stiff.

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Soy Sauce Face by Sedonia Guillone

AN EXCERPT from Soy Sauce Face

At the open door he pauses. “Okay, thanks.” His eyes lock with mine, the way they did in his mirror’s reflection. For a moment, other words seem to hover on his lips, and then he decides not to say them. He’s been doing this lately, leaving me to wonder what he would possibly want to say to me. Perhaps some day he will tell me, although if it’s something I’d rather not hear, then better he stays silent.

“Get there safely,” I say to his lingering form. I have my own ritual of unsaid things, one of which is, “Please stay home, Jun. You don’t have to go to that place. I’ll take care of you.” But I don’t speak out loud. When I’ve said it in the past, he’s resented it, insisting he needs to do this. He wants to be somebody and make something of his life, according to his own words. Yet, if he saw himself at all through my eyes, even for a moment, he’d understand how much of a somebody he already is. I cherish him and love him. Worship him really—just by virtue of who he is. He wouldn’t be so driven to make something of his life because he’d know he’s already accomplished his ultimate goal.

If he saw that, then he’d also understand what his working in Kabukicho does to me, how it makes me worry so much. How protective I feel of him. Though Jun is a grown man of twenty-seven, to me there’s something so little and vulnerable about him, I can’t help the eerie feeling that snakes through me each night he leaves for work. Tonight it’s especially strong.

“I will, Tomo. See you later.”

“Definitely.”

One more flash of his silver-and-black clad figure and the door clicks shut behind him.
I sigh, listening to his boot steps on the cement walkway until the sound fades.
Alone in the apartment, I go and kneel in front of my parents’ photographs. Smoke from the incense curls delicately into the air in front of their faces and emits a trace of sandalwood, a scent that echoes how wistful I feel. I look at my mother’s face. I was only five when she died. I don’t remember much about her except seeing her smile while she made sure I ate and was clean. She never knew Jun as my father did.

I turn to Dad’s picture, a portrait of him in the uniform he wore before he was promoted to detective and started wearing a suit to work. In fact, this is how I remember him dressed around the time he added Jun to our family register as a son, the act which I’m sure saved Jun’s life. After Jun was abandoned by both his parents, knowing that someone cared so much about him as to make him a son was very healing to his heart. I knew that for sure when Jun stopped calling my father “Nakadai-san” and started calling him Dad.

So why does Jun still want to go off and get a place of his own? Why can’t he let himself understand how much he means to me so he’ll be happy? Since we met, we’ve been best friends. In spite of our different interests—I loved motorcycles and Jun was into fashion—for the longest time he seemed happy just to hang out with me and Dad. Until Dad was killed. That’s when things changed.

I ask my father the questions silently to his equally silent image. When Dad was alive he used to say that Jun’s demons still haunted him even though being a part of our family had helped to make him happier. Dad said everyone has deep, driving forces inside them that remained a mystery unless they took the time to understand them. But, he would add, it doesn’t mean that you can’t always care about Jun. Dad had learned so much about human nature in his line of work. If anyone was aware of the dark side of human beings, it was my father.

Back in my room, getting ready to shower, I also stare at the one photograph I keep on my chest of drawers. To me the image encapsulates the great happiness of my life—me and Jun and my dad during hanami. We’re sitting on our plastic sheet in the park not far from our apartment, under an enchanting canopy of cherry blossom trees. In front of us are scattered the empty bento boxes that had held our meals of rice and barbecued skewers of pork. Dad had been taking a picture of me and Jun when a passing couple had offered to take the picture for him so that he could be in it with his sons. That night after we got home, Dad told me and Jun of his decision to put Jun on the family register.
I owe the fact that Jun hasn’t gotten into serious trouble to that one act of love from my father. However, Jun is still hosting, and nothing I’ve ever said to him makes him realize he can stop. I just hate thinking of him over there in Kabukicho. I know too much about that area of Tokyo from having a father who was a police officer. I wish Jun had gone to work in a fancy hotel, which is what he’d originally planned to do, but he’s so determined to make something of his life that my pleas sink, unnoticed like stones in a murky pond.

I stare a few more moments at the photograph before heading into the shower. From there, my evening unfolds as it always does. Supper—tonight, it’s nikujaga, a simple stew of meat and vegetables from last night—followed by a walk around the neighborhood, watching the kids tumble about on the complex’s monkey bars and swings. After checking on my motorcycle parked in its space, I change for bed and watch some TV before I fall asleep on the sofa. I want to wait up for Jun, even though tonight is Friday and any other regular guy would probably be out on a date or something social instead of passing the time until his friend gets home from work. I’ve often thought of getting some kind of work that would put us on the same schedule, but the job I have pays well and it’s our security should Jun ever come to his senses and give up hosting.

Then he’ll know he really doesn’t have to worry about money. Perhaps it’s all a fantasy in my head, but it keeps me going day after day.

Tonight, I’m in a twilight kind of sleep, the TV droning softly in the background, when the ring of my cell phone cuts through the haze. At first disoriented, I hold the phone up and see Jun’s name lighting up on the ID. The darkness outside tells me it’s the middle of the night, not a time when Jun would normally call.

Icy fingers rake through my chest. My sleepiness dispels as I press the button. “Jun, are you all right?” I don’t even bother to say a greeting I’m so alarmed.

“Is this Nakadai Tomohito?” The voice is female. Not Jun’s. My alarm escalates to terror.

“Yes. Where is Jun?”

She pauses. “My name is Michiko. I’m the mama-san of the bar where Jun works.” Her voice wavers. It’s a smoky-sounding voice that without the stress would sound confident.

“Something…has happened. Jun was…attacked. He’s being brought to the emergency room at Meiji Memorial. I found your name on his phone as the emergency contact.”

Oh my God. “I’m on my way.” I throw on my jeans jacket over the undershirt I’m already wearing. My pajama pants will have to do. I grab my wallet, keys and helmet, shove my feet into my loafers and fly out the door.

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X Bar by Michele L Montgomery

Excerpt:

“How many times can one person go through this, Stevie? How many more times can you handle being told the same thing over and over? For your sanity and mine, let it go and accept it.”

Steven looked at the denial letter he was holding and shook his head. “I can’t, Jorge. I can’t accept it because it’s not fair, nor is it right. The same damn excuse. I’m a gay man. They won’t approve me because I’m gay. What a crock of shit. I’d do a hell of a better job raising a child then some het couples do. You know this is true. You’ve seen them. Standing on the corners with cardboard signs begging for a fucking quarter and they’re surrounded by four, five kids dressed in rags, their eyes sad and tired. Some of those kids should be in school but instead they are standing on a corner begging. How is that okay and my being gay isn’t?” He walked to his bedroom window and looked down at the sparkling pool in the backyard. He would not cry. He was too angry to cry. Thousands of dollars he’d put into two agencies and they both said no. What the fuck did they think he was going to do with a child? “Fuck! I can’t just forget it. They are violating my rights as a human being. I have shown that I can afford a kid—hell, I can afford a bushel of ‘em—but do they care? No. They are only concerned with the fact that I’m gay. How much do you want to bet that if I were a single straight man they’d allow it, or a single straight woman? I’d get one for sure then. But if you’re gay forgetaboutit. What era do we live in?”

“Steven, you need to drop this.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t? Let me ask you this. Is it more important to you to adopt a child, to start a family, than we are? Because I’m telling you I don’t know how much longer I can do this. Add that to the other and I’m at my wits end.”

“What other? Jesus, Jorge, why don’t you just get it all off your chest and out in the open.”

“It needs to be said. I’m tired of biting my tongue. While you’re off on a mission to adopt a child, to start a family you can’t even commit to me. I’m asking you for something that should be easy for you to say yes to, yet each time I bring it up you freak out and we fight. I know what I want. I want you and only you. I’ve known it since the day we met in person. What’s it going to take? ”

Steven loudly exhaled as a way of covering up his nerves at that point. Jorge acted as if it was the easiest thing in the world and maybe it was to others but for Steven it was one of the hardest. “I told you, Jorge, I need time. This isn’t a big secret, you know how I feel. You know I love you; why can’t that be enough for right now?”

“Because,” Jorge huffed. “We’ve been dating for almost two years and I understood the first year, but come on already. I’ve agreed to your open relationship policy because you couldn’t come to terms with a monogamous relationship. But I need more now. I want more of you and if you truly loved me you’d be saying yes, but you can’t. And why is that? Huh? If I was the man for you, of your future, you would not have a problem committing to me and me only. Am I just a fill-in until your perfect guy comes along? And you want me to support your urges, your needs for a family when you can’t even commit to me?”

Steven spun around to look at his lover and while Jorge had a good point, as he usually did, Steven was scared to death to give in to what his boyfriend needed and or wanted. Steven tried the whole monogamous thing before and that was disastrous. He wasn’t ready to give his whole self over to one man. That gave the other man too much power over Steven, and that was one thing he could not allow for. Giving over all that power, that control, was a dangerous path for him, and he could not suffer through another broken heart. Not at his age. And as far as a child went, he had no doubt in his mind that he could do that on his own. But he had to be sure his partner would be as dedicated to his child as Steven knew he’d be.

“You know that’s not it at all. You know how I feel about you. Why does this have to come up every damn time you come for a visit? You know me; you know how I am, and you keep pushing me for something I can’t give you yet. All it does is put a gap between us when that’s the last thing I want. Why can’t we just enjoy what we have right here and right now? Take it slow and really be sure that we are perfect for each other in the good and bad times. Jorge, you don’t even live here. How often in the past year have we actually seen one another in person and not on the damn computer or on the phone? We don’t even live together. How can we know we’re meant to be to be together? “How can we know we’re meant to be this way? Is it because the sex? We used to take trips. We’d go hiking and horseback riding; we’d take long walks, and we’d dance. We had some of our best talks. We’ve been seeing each other for what? Almost two years and during that time I’ve seen you how many times?”

Jorge flopped down on the edge of the bed and just shook his head.

“How many times, Jorge? Is it enough for either one of us to really know this is it? This is the man I want to marry and hopefully start a family with at some point? I told you, baby, as soon as you graduate and we have that option to live at least in the same state we’ll re-evaluate our situation. Besides, you act like I’m out whoring around with as many guys as I can and that’s so far from the truth it’s not even funny. I haven’t seen anyone else nor have I slept with anyone else in over a year.”

“And that’s not saying you won’t.”

Steven brushed his fingers through his short blond hair and sighed. Steven knew he should give in to the younger man; hell, he loved Jorge, and in his heart he knew he’d found the man he wanted a life with but there was that little bit of fear that rose to the surface each time he really gave what Jorge was asking for any thought. Like now, and right now he wanted to run. That damn word felt like a ball and chain around his neck, and each time Jorge brought it up,

Steven felt it getting tighter and tighter until his airway was being cut off. “And that’s not saying that even if I do say yes that either of us won’t. There’re two here. You’re young, Jorge. Twelve years younger than I am, and what’s to say you won’t meet someone at school when I give into what you’re asking of me? You don’t know and neither do I. I’m asking you to take us one step at a time and when you graduate, we’ll take this another step ahead. That’s all I’m asking. We need to enjoy today for what it is, and let tomorrow worry about itself.”

“Well, how in the hell do we manage to get to that point, huh? Wait till I graduate? I’m ready now. I know I am. You won’t even give us a chance, and I come to San Diego as often as I can between courses and when I do you’re always too busy to really give us the attention we deserve. When was the last time we actually did anything together? We make love—we make lots of love—but there was so much more, and I miss it.”

“And I told you to give me time.”

“I’m not going to wait forever. You need to come to a decision and you need to do it pretty fast. I’m not waiting forever. You want me or do you want a child more?”

Steven swallowed back that ever growing lump in his throat. Looking at Jorge with shock in his eyes he said, “You’re asking me to choose between a family and you, us?”

“I’m asking you to just stop. This obsession you have and have had since I met you is taking you over. It’s like a cancer. It’s all you think about, it’s all you talk about.” Jorge walked closer to where Steven was standing, looked at him dead in his ice blue eyes and continued. “You had so many goals and then out of nowhere this one thing takes first place, grow roots, and bam, it’s like a possession. It’s taken you over to the point that even our friends are questioning your emotional health.”

Steven rolled his eyes, doubt taking over. “Jorge, really? Don’t you think that’s a little dramatic? And I disagree with your ‘we never do anything together’ statement. Whenever you’re in town, we’re always together. You even come to work with me and hang out at the bar until I get off. When I’m off, we’re here or at your folks’ place by the beach. And the only reason we don’t vacation as much is because that was last summer, and hello? You’re in school now. We don’t have the time to get away as often as we used to. Jorge, you just got back from seeing your family in Mexico, for two full weeks. You didn’t have to stay there that whole time, yet you chose to.”

Jorge sighed and stood up to get away from Steven at that moment. “You know how they are with parties and all that. Besides, that’s not what I was talking about. I’m talking about together, as in you and me. Just us. How are we going to get to that level of knowing each other the way you want if we don’t take the steps to see it happen? I want us to commit to each other and it’s clear you don’t. And yet you want to commit to a child. Call me confused.”

Steven sighed and turned away from his too handsome, doe eyed Hispanic lover. God, when he met Jorge almost two years earlier, Jorge was only twenty-three, a boy compared to Steven’s thirty-four year old ass. Shit, Steven considered himself lucky to have gotten the guy’s attention to begin with.

When Steven met Jorge, he wasn’t looking for another long term relationship or any relationship at all, if truth be told. He’d just separated from Clay, his abusive ex-lover, not six months prior to that. He’d always been the type of guy who liked the idea of playing the field, tasting what was out there. He was plenty young enough to play around before settling on the one. Then he met Jorge, and his eyes caught Steven, caught his heart, completely.

Jorge huffed and sat down on the side of the king sized bed. “Hell, you can kiss those little weekend trips goodbye because you can’t just drag a kid all over the place, and not only that, how will it be just us with a little one around? We’ll have no real quality time, Steven. Are you even thinking about any of that, or just yourself here?

“Steven, I’m going to go home. I think we need to spend some time apart and think about this, about us and our future. I do not want to fight with you. Not over the same old subject. It’s very tiring and I have school to think about. I have a report to do anyway.”

“Your flight leaves today?”

“My flight leaves Friday. I’ve told you that three times over the past two weeks. It doesn’t surprise me that you’ve forgotten, though.”

Steven heard the exasperation in Jorge’s voice and saw the irritation in his eyes. “So, what, you’re going to the condo on the beach, or to your place in Chicago?”

“Why does it matter where I go, as long as it’s away from you and all this fighting? I hate it. Even when I’m here with you, I’m not here with you, nor are you with me. Your head is always somewhere else. When you go to work and I sit there, you’re too busy to talk to me. It’s maddening.”

Steven counted to ten, exhaled, and said in a quiet voice, “Jorge. Just…” he paused, sighed, and turned around to face him. “Let’s not fight. I don’t see you often enough, as it is. Baby, come on,” he pleaded, closing the distance between them. “I’m sorry. I promise to work on my fears. I admit I’m fully at fault here; it’s not you at all. I love you more than I thought possible but I need to be sure. I need you to be sure because when we take that step it’s a forever thing. It’s not something we will take lightly. You know what my goals are and I know what yours are. They don’t exactly match up and we need to be sure. I mean, one example is the family thing you don’t like to think about. I do want to do that. And you said yourself you’re not ready.”

“Oh, brother,” Jorge whispered. “Don’t make this all me—my age, my school, where I live and the fact that I’m not quite ready to even think about starting a family. I’m ready to commit to you. Give me that same respect back. I love you and only you. Why can’t you hear me?”

“I hear you and what you’re saying and I’m not trying to make his all about you, this is about us.” Steven cupped Jorge’s face in his hands, and smiled. “Look, it’s still early. Why don’t we head to the beach and just kick back, take a walk, have some very bad for us food, and tie it all up with some serious fucking when we get back here.” Steven leaned into Jorge and licked his lips. “Please, baby. Let’s go have some fun.”

Jorge took a shaky breath as his eyes slipped close when their lips touched and nodded.

Steven probed those lips until Jorge opened them and let his tongue in and they both moaned, both grabbed the other in a strong urgent embrace, hands roaming up and down, front to back and back again. Steven had missed this man’s taste, his heat, his passion and it’d been only a couple hours since they’d fucked when they woke up. His dick was hard as a diamond, his brain fuzzy and his breath taken by Jorge’s maddening passionate kiss. He turned them and walked Jorge toward the bed, his hand tangled in Jorge’s soft black shoulder length hair.

The back of Jorge’s legs met up with the edge of the bed and they both went down, Steven on top of Jorge, his hands bringing Jorge’s over his head, weaving his fingers between Jorge’s, holding them down. Steven ground his dick on Jorge’s, side to side, back and forth.

“I need you. I need to be buried inside you. Now.”

Jorge panted beneath him and nodded excitedly. His hands went right to his pants, he unbuttoned them and shimmied out of them, yanking his socks and letting them drop to the floor. “How do you want me?”

“All fours, baby. I want deep and hard. You okay with that?”

Jorge nodded eagerly and got into position as Steven pulled his shirt off and grabbed the lube off the table beside the bed. “You should be still stretched, just a little lube,” he said already coating Jorge’s hole with his finger. He slipped it inside Jorge’s body and moved it around for a few moments then withdrew the digit to replace it with his dick. “That’s it, baby. Open for me. Let me in. Let me love you.”

Jorge moaned and stuck his ass out more, spread his legs and looked back at Steven, his eyes were hazed over, he was panting, his dick hard with pre-cum coming from the slit. “Do it. Fuck me.”

Steven lined his dick up to Jorge’s hole, wrapped his arms around Jorge’s body and held him tight as his dick slid into the man he loved. An instant tight, silky, warmth held his dick; he went slow and didn’t rush. He wanted to take his time and feel every bit that he could. The urge to move overpowered his wishes to just feel, though, and he pulled almost all the way out before sinking back into his lover. “You’re so fucking tight. I don’t know how long I’m going to last, baby.”

“If you don’t move, I’m going to flip us over and I’m going to ride the fuck out of you. Fuck me!”

Steven smiled, and gave Jorge exactly what he was after. He thrust in, skin on skin, hips forward and back, Jorge’s moans of absolute delight drove Steven harder, fucking Jorge fast, no mercy. He wasn’t going to last long, not like this, he felt the orgasm building, threatening to spill and he didn’t hold back. He took Jorge’s cock in his hand and pumped him in time with his thrusts and when Jorge yelled out, Steven let go, and the pressure that built in his balls and dick came rushing to the surface, rendering his world white.

“That is what I call fantastic sex,” Jorge panted as Steven pulled out of him. He plopped down beside him and pulled Jorge into his arms.

“That is what I call nap worthy.”

Jorge laughed and sat up. He traced Steven’s lips with his finger and said, “We just got up, no more sleeping today. You said something about the beach?”

Steven groaned. “Youth is wasted on the young. Just sayin’.”

http://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-xbar-812700-144.html

From the Ashes

A couple of years ago at the urging of a friend, I started writing slash fan fiction. At that time, I also started a Facebook account so she and I could post yaoi and slash links and photos for each other. Somewhere along the way a few authors sent me friend requests. I was a little startled, but since they were fine with my interests, I added them.

Linda Reilly was an m/m author and encouraged me to continue writing. Next, Rebecca Leigh who liked my slash and said I should keep up with it.  AB Gayle helped me with POV. The support of these ladies kept me writing once I finished the slash and I'm deeply appreciative of that.

I had only written a few chapters of my Samurai Champloo slash (Infinite Infatuation) when Linda pointed out that Samhain Publishing had a call for m/m fairy tale submissions. I remember thinking, "Yeah right! They wouldn't be interested in anything from me." But that set my mind to working and I came up with a plausible Cinderfella.

Cinder insisted that I tell his story Right Now even though I was in the middle of a chapter of my slash. So I sat down and wrote half the story in one night! About 4:00am, I decided I should really get some sleep before I had to get up in the morning for work. Big mistake! I seriously pissed Cinder off and he wouldn't talk to me for the next couple of nights. I did finally finish the story in spite of that.

Recently, Deanna Wadsworth, the queen of gab, pushed me to add to the story and submit for publication. I'm glad she did. I'm actually very pleased with the nearly finished WIP. With many thanks to Cinder's godmothers, you know who you are ladies!

I'm on the second round of edits and unfortunately do not have a cover to display yet, but I think maybe a little excerpt might be in order.

Blurb:

Cinder never thought that he could rise from the ashes of his life, but an unexpected encounter with a woman claiming to be his fairy godmother may be just what he needs. Finding himself flung into his very own fairy tale, she sends him off to meet his Prince Charming. But was the gown really necessary?

Excerpt:

Cinder glanced around. Paper lanterns floated in the trees, lined the walks, and graced the gazebo near the reflecting pool, giving the grounds a mystical air. Their warm glow caught the dancing jets of the fountain splashing merrily to his right. The musical, crystalline tones carried on the night wind’s breath. He was reminded of the enchanted gardens in the fairy tales his father had read to him when he was a child. What would happen to him if he dared walk there?

Henri led him toward the gazebo. Soon he would find out.

The cool breeze caressed his uncovered neck. Cinder shivered at the ethereal touch. Henri turned to him, the question clear in his eyes, but he didn’t know how to answer. Instead he breathed in the tangible scent of rich earth and flowing water, hoping to calm his bounding heart.

Henri lightly stroked his arm. Cinder’s breath caught at the silky brush of the other man’s fingers. He drew another shaky breath. Henri may have meant to soothe him, instead his touch set Cinder’s wayward body aflame.

They left the last of the courtiers behind as they entered the dim interior of the fanciful pavilion. Vines climbed its intricately carved posts, perfuming the air within. The music and voices of the aristocrats faded away. Only a single intrepid nightingale could be heard over the cheerful babbling of the fountain. Hidden from the rest of the court, an unworldly sense of peace filled him. Was his very own fairy tale about to come true?

Bespelled and bemused, he could feel the magic in every beat of his heart, in every trembling breath he drew.

Once inside the bower, Henri reached to cup Cinder's cheek. Unused to being touched, he nearly flinched away but managed to still, heart pounding, before giving himself away. The older man's thumb slid across his cheekbone and came to rest lightly on his mouth. Why did he want to lean into that caress?

The other man's warm, slightly musky scent filled his nostrils, drowning his senses.

Henri's other hand wrapped around his waist and drew him close while tipping his face upwards. Cinder's breath left him in a rush, stirring the noble’s hair. Henri was all that he could see, his mouth slowly, carefully descending toward Cinder’s. If he allowed this, the other man might discover his deception. He couldn’t risk that, so why then did he ache to feel Henri’s kiss? Their lips brushed, light as thistle down.

Surprisingly, Henri's mouth was soft and warm upon his own. After a moment, Henri's pressed more firmly against his. Something fluttered in his chest, trying to get out.

Cinder didn't think to pull away until he felt Henri's tongue seeking entrance. The hand on his face slipped to his nape and held firm. He froze in shock, not even daring to breathe, as flames rushed through his body. The very beat of his heart betrayed him.

The questing tongue stroked his lips and pushed between them. It slid over his teeth, seeking to enter. When he protested, Henri's tongue swept in and began a lazy, sensuous exploration that left him breathless.

Soon he found himself stroking Henri's tongue with his own. Henri responded to his fledgling attempts by pulling him closer and moaning into his mouth. He had never experienced anything so deeply sensual and erotic. He fed his own needy pleas to the other man one at a time.

Finally they separated slightly, Cinder panting heavily, trying to catch his breath. Was Henri as affected by their kiss as he was? A quick glance confirmed Cinder was not alone in his arousal. Flushed and gasping, Henri gazed at him with eyes full of wonder and something unnamed smoldering in their depths.

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Being Part of the Good

The world we live in is a complex, dangerous place. All one has to do for verification of that is turn on the news, or check the Internet. Stories of war, cruelty and evil abound. We have to look harder to find stories that make us smile, or laugh, or even shed a tear of joy. Sometimes I get philosophical when I'm faced with the bad and evil acts that occur all too often around the globe.

Romance, in any of its many facets, is a counterpoint to the brutal realism we face with regularity. The ways of love, and the stories of love, help us believe in a better world, that there is hope for us. At the very least, romance is an escape. At its best, it is a reflection of our inner selves, the love inside that needs to be expressed and shared.

M/M romance is a part of the romantic fiction genre that is fast growing, finding new readers all the time. The growth and growing acceptance of this sub-genre has been amazing, and add to the hope I feel for this human race. The exposure to more and more people, most of them reportedly straight females, demonstrates to me a growing acceptance of the variations of love.

I was at a romance readers/authors meeting this spring. In one of the sessions, a panel member was asked why straight women read m/m romance. I listened to a few answers from panel members before I volunteered my own. "Women want to know that men can fall in love." To me, the messaging behind M/M, if one wants to look for such, is the representation and verification that men are capable of the deep feelings, profound thought processes, and the both sweet and goofy behavior that comprises love. 

We need reminding that humanity is inherently good, that most of the world goes about its days functioning in a productive, constructive way. Reading, writing, believing in romance is an important part of the good. We need to perpetuate it, to expand it, to spread the hope and the love far and wide.

In doing so, we don’t just spread love; we open minds and we foster tolerance and acceptance. Seems to me the world could use a heck of a lot more of that.

~JM Cartwright 

www.jmcartwright.com

...where the romance is real

Chicks & Dicks Blog

Thank You by Cardeno C.

Happy Monday, y’all. I’m going to use today’s post as an opportunity to thank the readers out there who support small, independent publishers and the writers who are fortunate enough to have our books published through them.

I’ve heard people say that writers write because we have to, that we do it for ourselves. I can’t deny that, for me, that’s true to some extent. I started writing because I wanted to share uplifting, positive portrayals of relationships. I had characters in my head talking to me and writing down their stories felt natural. I didn’t know about Dreamspinner Press then, or about all the other independent publishers who give a venue to gay romance novels. So I posted my little stories on the internet and hoped that they’d touch someone, somewhere. And that’s when that “writing for myself” thing changed a little.

I started getting e-mails from people who were reading my writing and suddenly my characters weren’t just talking to me, they were talking to Carissa or Tony or Tricia or Bob or Jenn or Sam. And, for me, that’s the moment when I stopped writing just for myself and started writing for other people too.

The people who told me I should consider publishing my books and told me about Dreamspinner Press (thanks Tisha). The people who help without hesitation when I need someone to translate a chat (thanks Barbara, Shirley, and GiveARush). The people who review a timeline I want to post on my website and remind about things I’ve forgotten about my own books (Anita and Amanda, thanks for everything). The people who give me suggestions that make my books better (Katie, I’ll continue working on those female characters). The people who buy my books right when they’re released, even if they don’t usually like paranormals (glad I could convert you, Sam). The people who e-mail me about my stories and their thoughts about them (Marc, Elizabeth, Tricia, Terri, thank you). And the people who take the time to write reviews or tell their friends about the books (Natred, James, Anisa, Kim, you’re the reason new people buy my books, which is what helps the new ones get published, thank you).

Of course, no thank you would be complete without a shout to L.A. Borgaard, who betas all my books and remembers details that my poor brain can’t keep straight. Kelly Shorten, the best website designer ever. And Paul Richmond and Reese Dante, covers sell books - thanks for making mine amazing. 

Those are just some names, some people. There are many others who have encouraged me or who’ve written a review on a website somewhere that I’ve come across and thought about and, hopefully, learned from. I’m grateful to them too. So, that’s it from me for today.

Thank you.

CC

www.cardenoc.com