Ethan Day's Blog, page 4

Lex Valentine’s Breath of Heaven

The 42 Days of Christmas Series from MLR Press continues and today I’m posting an excerpt provided by Lex Valentine!!!

Breath of Heaven

by Lex Valentine

 

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Sebastian Marchetti and his husband Ryder Beckett are flying high since their retirement from the Air Force. They’re still young, still hot for each other and enjoying life as a married couple and members of the Flying Marchettis aerobatic team. When tragedy strikes their extended family, the couple become parents overnight and the demons of Ryder’s past return with a vengeance. With the Marchettis and the entire town of Forza pitching in to help, Bas and Ryder strive to make Christmas unforgettable for a special little boy and his newborn brother while laying to rest past and present pain.

Excerpt:

Ryder pushed the shovel into the dirt with more force than necessary to loosen the sandy soil. He could have used the small backhoe that Sebastian had borrowed from his brothers-in-law who owned Todd Brothers Construction, but he needed the physical activity to help slow the spinning of his brain. He worked for the better part of three hours until his muscles burned and protested. He ignored everything except the staked out areas that needed to be dug. The rain had let up for a few hours but storm clouds gathered darkly once more. Ryder never noticed. When the sky began to pelt him with huge drops of water, he ignored it. Not until hard hands closed over his biceps did he jerk himself free of the stupor he’d been in.

“You’re soaked.”

Sebastian’s flat tones alerted Ryder to his husband’s concern. Bas very obviously held himself in check, keeping his emotions to himself in what Ryder knew was an attempt to be supportive and not add to the turmoil of the situation.

“Yeah. We should probably go inside.” Ryder turned his head toward the house, staring unseeingly at the windows that spilled golden light into the deepening gloom.

“There’s no lightning. No danger,” Sebastian said quietly, rubbing his hands down Ryder’s arms in a soothing manner.

Heaving a sigh, Ryder pushed the shovel deep into the ground in front of him and let go of the handle. The tool stood like a lone beacon in the rain soaked night, a symbol of Ryder’s confusion and pain.

“I can’t imagine what Ryan is going through,” he murmured. “If I lost you, I would be done. I don’t know how he picked up the phone and called me. After his first few words, when he practically screamed that Kat was dead, he sounded so calm, so unemotional, so…together.”

Hard arms came around him as Sebastian drew him back against his body, the rain pouring over them, drenching them through their t-shirts and jeans.

“Everyone deals with grief differently, Ryder. Your brother seems to feel the need to put his house in order, to take care of things,” Sebastian said in Ryder’s ear. “Maybe being busy and focusing on what needs to be done helps him to channel his grief into productive outlets. Maybe he’s hanging by a thread and he’s just waiting until he gets here to let go and lose it. Maybe he needs your support and your love to help him deal with his grief. After all, he called you, not your mother and father.”

Ryder closed his eyes on a stab of pain. “My father wouldn’t tolerate any show of emotion. He’s an Army man after all, a Ranger. And my mother would make up for his lack of emotion by an overabundance of it.” He shook his head. “No, Ryan wouldn’t call them first. They would only make him feel worse.”

Sebastian brushed a kiss to Ryder’s ear. “Well then, your brother called the only person he trusted to help him deal with this devastating blow. You.”

A rush of emotion swept over Ryder and his legs gave out, dropping him to the ground. Caught off balance, Sebastian was pulled with him and the two of them tumbled into the hole Ryder had dug which was fast becoming a mud pit in the downpour. Ryder twisted around, pressing his body against Sebastian’s, ignoring the mud that caked them both.

“Ryan’s loss made me realize what you went through when my plane went down,” he said hoarsely, tears forming in his eyes and trickling out to mingle with the rain on his face.

He dug his fingers into Sebastian’s hard shoulders, holding him tightly with a frantic sense of their mortality fueling his strength and urgency. Their bodies cleaved together and they rocked into each other’s hips, mud coating every inch of them as they rolled in the flower bed. Seeking Sebastian’s mouth, Ryder kissed him hard, pushing his tongue between his lover’s lips, demanding a response. He slipped his hands beneath Bas’s t-shirt, spreading slick mud over the hard muscles he loved to touch.

Muffled moans of pleasure came from Bas as he returned the caress, his fingers finding the curve of Ryder’s ass and digging into the muscle through the layers of denim and mud. Ryder ground his crotch against Bas’s, uncaring that they were out in the open lying in a growing pool of mud in the middle of a December rainstorm. He needed Bas. Needed to feel Bas around him, in him, loving him, sexing him. He needed to feel alive so that the specter of his brother’s loss would go away. So that death would go away. So that the fragility of life was held at bay by the love he felt for Bas and that Bas felt for him. Ryan’s wife might be dead but Ryder’s husband wasn’t and Ryder needed Bas as he had never needed him before. Right there in the mud of their yard.

He pulled at Bas’s clothes, popping open the buttons of his lover’s jeans. Bas murmured a weak protest and Ryder kissed it from his lips. He brushed his fingers over Bas’s cheek, streaking it with mud. Then he smiled sadly.

“I knew how hard it was for you when my plane went down and you had no right to even ask how I was or what happened,” he whispered, his gaze holding Bas’s. “I knew, but I didn’t understand. Hearing Ryan tell me that his wife had been killed gave me that understanding. For the past few hours I’ve thought of nothing but what my life would be like if something happened to you. If tragedy can strike the golden boy Ryan Beckett then where does that leave me?”

“It leaves you with me. In my arms, safe in my love,” Sebastian said promptly, hugging Ryder tightly despite the squish of the mud between and beneath them. “No one, not even death can take that love from us, Ryder. Life holds no guarantees. You know this. You’ve been to Afghanistan. You’ve punched out of a disintegrating jet. And so have I. Either of us could have been killed by that. I could have died in Iraq, but I didn’t. We survived war zones, we survived the stupid ass policies of our government about being gay. Our love has transcended so much that I can’t imagine death would take it from us.”

More tears squeezed from Ryder’s eyes at Bas’s words and he nuzzled his husband’s throat, trying to burrow into his warmth. “Don’t leave me,” he moaned, shivering with emotion. “Don’t ever leave me, Bas.”

Tenderly, Sebastian kissed him, staring at him with solemn eyes. “I won’t. My love will always be with you, Ryder.”

With a deep, shuddering sigh, Ryder eased his grip on Bas. “Maybe we should take this into the house.”

Bas chuckled. “Why? I was enjoying the slipperiness of the mud, weren’t you?” He cocked a brow at Ryder as a wicked grin began to turn up the corners of his mouth.

Ryder slipped one hand between their bodies, snaking his fingers into the open fly of Bas’s soaked jeans. “I’m a dirty boy. I always have been.” His hand closed around hot, hard flesh. “God, you better be dirty too, Bas cause I won’t be responsible for corrupting you.”

A full-blown laugh filled with love and lust and amusement escaped Sebastian as he snaked his hands into Ryder’s jeans seeking Ryder’s hard flesh. His dark eyes held more emotion than Ryder could ever remember seeing in them, even when they first confessed their love or when they’d gotten married. In the face of tragedy, their love blossomed, he thought with savage satisfaction, his hand stroking Bas’s cock in time with Bas’s strokes of Ryder’s cock. He smiled as lust swamped his senses. Their love triumphed even when covered in a thick coat of mud.

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Barry Brennessel's, All the Souls on Earth

The 42 Days of Christmas Series from MLR Press continues and today I'm posting an excerpt provided by Barry Brennessel!

 

All the Souls on Earth

by Barry Brennessel

 

Click Here to Purchase

 

Elijah's previous holiday season was a disaster. This year, he's determined to give a surprise gift that he prays will erase the lingering bad memories. But his idea catches the attention of March—an attractive, mysterious man who is bent on stopping Elijah in his tracks. Both men are determined to fight for what they want, but they soon find they are also fighting their growing feelings for one another.

Will Elijah be able to deliver his gift, or will March forever alter the spirit of the holidays?

EXCERPT:

The bar on Madison Ave was a dimly lit, wood-paneled affair, with only a few patrons milling about. Not surprising, given that it was an early Tuesday afternoon. Kitschy Christmas decorations adorned the walls, doorways and windows: annoyingly jolly cardboard snowmen, silver and green garlands, plastic reindeer. Yet another rendition of "Here Comes Santa Claus" blared from the six speakers situated around the place.

"Hiya," the bartender said as he twirled a hand towel over his head then tossed it into a plastic bin of glasses behind him. Standard young and muscular mixologist, as they were calling them these days.

"Good afternoon," March said.

"What can I get for you?"

March looked around. No sign of him yet. "Do you have Boodles?"

"Do I have…?"

"Boodles. Gin."

"Nah. We got Tanqueray, Beefeater, Hend—"

"Plymouth?"

"No."

A wide variety of ales was always available at these clubs, but the mixed drinks were rarely inspiring. "I'll have an Arrogant Bastard. You can determine the level of irony."

The young man chose not to comment as he opened March's bottle of beer and slid it over to him.

March had tried to convince himself that going to see Bret Evans earlier had been in the interest of honing the boy's developing visionary talents. But when he asked Bret to locate Elijah Liepa yet again, March felt a pang of guilt. Spying, stalking, eavesdropping…he had probably reduced himself to that and more.

"A red building on Madison," Bret had told him, flipping up his mop top of blond hair, and jiggling his leg as so many antsy teen boys tend to do. "With a black door. A bald guy on a stool outside. A rope, like they use at movie premiers. That red fake velvet kind of rope."

Bret's visions were becoming sharper, and lasting longer. But at fifteen, he was easily distracted, and his vocabulary still lacking.

"And an awesome ride out front! A GTO! Aw, man, March, you should see—"

"Focus, Bret."

"Ahhh. I lost it."

At least the boy had pinpointed where Elijah Liepa had gone for the afternoon.

"That'll be $6.99." The bartender's voice sliced into his thoughts.

"Beg pardon?"

"For the Arrogant Bastard."

"Oh, yes. Right."

March knew he would garner looks as he wandered the floor: his dark hair slicked back; the long leather coat; his angular face. Had he any interest, he could take home any number of men. His plate was too full these days, however, to think about any of that. And truth be told, he'd rather have wandered around the place secretly, in the shadows, drawing no attention. There was little alternative, however. He had to scan every form. It surprised him that of the eight men, not one was Elijah Liepa. Could Bret have been wrong? Or had Liepa been and gone?

His answer came in the form of a squeezed arm. March turned.

"I warned you about following me."

March stared at Elijah's face. He was willing to wager that he, too, could have his pick of men to go home with. He seemed even more strikingly handsome than March remembered.

"Please, Mr. Liepa, let's keep our cool. I want to have a calm, rational discussion with you. That's all."

An unknown crooner belted out "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" with some electronic accompaniment. March winced. He wished they'd turn off the infernal holiday racket. He took a measure of pride at having been friends two centuries ago with a writer by the name of Charles Dickens. March was convinced he himself was the model for Ebenezer Scrooge, but that Dickens had done him the disservice of turning the fictional crank into both an unattractive geezer and a soppy mess at the end.

"Not a fan of the holidays?" Elijah asked him. The man must have noticed the pained look on his face.

"Not particularly. No."

"It's my favorite time of year," Elijah said. He paused. "At least, it used to be."

March glanced down at the half-empty glass in Elijah's hand. "May I buy you another drink? And then perhaps we can sit in a quiet corner and have a chat."

Elijah's eyes danced left and right. He glanced up at the ceiling, then looked directly at March. "Okay. I'll give you ten minutes."

"What's your poison?"

"Vodka martini. Up. Onions on the side. I'll grab a table."

* * *

Elijah studied March as he walked over to the table. The man looked like he belonged on stage. Or in a classic horror movie.

"Here we are then. Vodka martini."

March placed the drink before Elijah. He sat down, crossed his legs, and raised his bottle of beer. "Cheers."

Elijah lifted his glass. The men toasted. Elijah focused on March's lips as he sipped his beer. Elijah vowed he wasn't going to dwell on March's striking features. How could a man be that handsome and not seem aware of it?

March leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Now then, Mr. Liepa. Here is my theory."

Elijah's first reaction was to move away; to keep March out of his personal space. But he stayed rigid. He wanted to be sure that he showed the man he would not be intimidated. "Your theory? About what?"

"Frankly, I'd have to be a bit of a twit to not have figured it out. You hope to do just as Viktor Griese did."

Elijah couldn't deny it. However, he wouldn't give March the satisfaction of confirming the fact.

"There's something you need to understand," March continued. "As with everything in the universe, there has to be balance. Energy has to be compensated for. In order for something come out, something must go in to replace it. Understand?"

Elijah took a sip of his drink. "You're an unusual man, March. What are you exactly?"

"What am I? I can think of a more polite way to phrase that question."

"Don't pull the Old World manners shtick on me. I want to know how you know so much about these…supernatural…things, and why you're hanging around a group of kids that seem to have…powers or something."

"Is it really any more shocking than some people of Latvian descent being able to see the spirits of their ancestors once a year? Or Native Americans using magic to heal the sick? Or any number of unexplained phenomena in any given culture?"

"Are you some kind of guardian of all these things? Some kind of law enforcement?"

"Not exactly. But I'm a man of logic who understands that if people toy around with—"

"Look, March. Here's what you need to understand. All I'm trying to do…all I want…is to say a proper goodbye to someone."

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Barry Brennessel’s, All the Souls on Earth

The 42 Days of Christmas Series from MLR Press continues and today I’m posting an excerpt provided by Barry Brennessel!

 

All the Souls on Earth

by Barry Brennessel

 

Click Here to Purchase

 

Elijah’s previous holiday season was a disaster. This year, he’s determined to give a surprise gift that he prays will erase the lingering bad memories. But his idea catches the attention of March—an attractive, mysterious man who is bent on stopping Elijah in his tracks. Both men are determined to fight for what they want, but they soon find they are also fighting their growing feelings for one another.

Will Elijah be able to deliver his gift, or will March forever alter the spirit of the holidays?

EXCERPT:

The bar on Madison Ave was a dimly lit, wood-paneled affair, with only a few patrons milling about. Not surprising, given that it was an early Tuesday afternoon. Kitschy Christmas decorations adorned the walls, doorways and windows: annoyingly jolly cardboard snowmen, silver and green garlands, plastic reindeer. Yet another rendition of “Here Comes Santa Claus” blared from the six speakers situated around the place.

“Hiya,” the bartender said as he twirled a hand towel over his head then tossed it into a plastic bin of glasses behind him. Standard young and muscular mixologist, as they were calling them these days.

“Good afternoon,” March said.

“What can I get for you?”

March looked around. No sign of him yet. “Do you have Boodles?”

“Do I have…?”

“Boodles. Gin.”

“Nah. We got Tanqueray, Beefeater, Hend—”

“Plymouth?”

“No.”

A wide variety of ales was always available at these clubs, but the mixed drinks were rarely inspiring. “I’ll have an Arrogant Bastard. You can determine the level of irony.”

The young man chose not to comment as he opened March’s bottle of beer and slid it over to him.

March had tried to convince himself that going to see Bret Evans earlier had been in the interest of honing the boy’s developing visionary talents. But when he asked Bret to locate Elijah Liepa yet again, March felt a pang of guilt. Spying, stalking, eavesdropping…he had probably reduced himself to that and more.

“A red building on Madison,” Bret had told him, flipping up his mop top of blond hair, and jiggling his leg as so many antsy teen boys tend to do. “With a black door. A bald guy on a stool outside. A rope, like they use at movie premiers. That red fake velvet kind of rope.”

Bret’s visions were becoming sharper, and lasting longer. But at fifteen, he was easily distracted, and his vocabulary still lacking.

“And an awesome ride out front! A GTO! Aw, man, March, you should see—”

“Focus, Bret.”

“Ahhh. I lost it.”

At least the boy had pinpointed where Elijah Liepa had gone for the afternoon.

“That’ll be $6.99.” The bartender’s voice sliced into his thoughts.

“Beg pardon?”

“For the Arrogant Bastard.”

“Oh, yes. Right.”

March knew he would garner looks as he wandered the floor: his dark hair slicked back; the long leather coat; his angular face. Had he any interest, he could take home any number of men. His plate was too full these days, however, to think about any of that. And truth be told, he’d rather have wandered around the place secretly, in the shadows, drawing no attention. There was little alternative, however. He had to scan every form. It surprised him that of the eight men, not one was Elijah Liepa. Could Bret have been wrong? Or had Liepa been and gone?

His answer came in the form of a squeezed arm. March turned.

“I warned you about following me.”

March stared at Elijah’s face. He was willing to wager that he, too, could have his pick of men to go home with. He seemed even more strikingly handsome than March remembered.

“Please, Mr. Liepa, let’s keep our cool. I want to have a calm, rational discussion with you. That’s all.”

An unknown crooner belted out “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” with some electronic accompaniment. March winced. He wished they’d turn off the infernal holiday racket. He took a measure of pride at having been friends two centuries ago with a writer by the name of Charles Dickens. March was convinced he himself was the model for Ebenezer Scrooge, but that Dickens had done him the disservice of turning the fictional crank into both an unattractive geezer and a soppy mess at the end.

“Not a fan of the holidays?” Elijah asked him. The man must have noticed the pained look on his face.

“Not particularly. No.”

“It’s my favorite time of year,” Elijah said. He paused. “At least, it used to be.”

March glanced down at the half-empty glass in Elijah’s hand. “May I buy you another drink? And then perhaps we can sit in a quiet corner and have a chat.”

Elijah’s eyes danced left and right. He glanced up at the ceiling, then looked directly at March. “Okay. I’ll give you ten minutes.”

“What’s your poison?”

“Vodka martini. Up. Onions on the side. I’ll grab a table.”

* * *

Elijah studied March as he walked over to the table. The man looked like he belonged on stage. Or in a classic horror movie.

“Here we are then. Vodka martini.”

March placed the drink before Elijah. He sat down, crossed his legs, and raised his bottle of beer. “Cheers.”

Elijah lifted his glass. The men toasted. Elijah focused on March’s lips as he sipped his beer. Elijah vowed he wasn’t going to dwell on March’s striking features. How could a man be that handsome and not seem aware of it?

March leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Now then, Mr. Liepa. Here is my theory.”

Elijah’s first reaction was to move away; to keep March out of his personal space. But he stayed rigid. He wanted to be sure that he showed the man he would not be intimidated. “Your theory? About what?”

“Frankly, I’d have to be a bit of a twit to not have figured it out. You hope to do just as Viktor Griese did.”

Elijah couldn’t deny it. However, he wouldn’t give March the satisfaction of confirming the fact.

“There’s something you need to understand,” March continued. “As with everything in the universe, there has to be balance. Energy has to be compensated for. In order for something come out, something must go in to replace it. Understand?”

Elijah took a sip of his drink. “You’re an unusual man, March. What are you exactly?”

“What am I? I can think of a more polite way to phrase that question.”

“Don’t pull the Old World manners shtick on me. I want to know how you know so much about these…supernatural…things, and why you’re hanging around a group of kids that seem to have…powers or something.”

“Is it really any more shocking than some people of Latvian descent being able to see the spirits of their ancestors once a year? Or Native Americans using magic to heal the sick? Or any number of unexplained phenomena in any given culture?”

“Are you some kind of guardian of all these things? Some kind of law enforcement?”

“Not exactly. But I’m a man of logic who understands that if people toy around with—”

“Look, March. Here’s what you need to understand. All I’m trying to do…all I want…is to say a proper goodbye to someone.”

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Ally Blue's Christmas Future

The 42 Days of Christmas Series from MLR Press continues and today I'm posting an excerpt provided by the loverly Ally Blue!

 

"I don't know why I wanted to do a time travel Solstice story. Just being contrary, I guess. I seem to have trouble doing anything the normal way. LOL." – Ally Blue on Christmas Future

 

Christmas Future

by Ally Blue

 

Click Here To Purchase

 

Home is when the heart is.

Dr. William McGregor never intended his homemade time machine to strand him and his lifelong crush in the distant future. But building a life there with Tony is everything Will ever wanted. When rescue comes, they must decide if it's a Christmas miracle, or the end of their private paradise.

Part 1: The Future

No one was more surprised than William McGregor when the time machine he built in his storage shed actually worked.

He clutched the wheel of the riding mower around which he'd assembled his masterpiece and gaped at the wilderness where his cluttered workbench and pegboard full of tools had once been. I'll have to show this to Dr. Rupert. She'll have no choice but to give me the Haynes project now.

"Sweet Satan's granny. What's that, a projection TV or something?"

William twisted in his seat enough to glance at the man behind him. He caught a glimpse of the wide brown eyes that had captivated him for years and had to look away. "I told you, Tony. We've gone forward ten thousand years into the future. Which was your idea, if you'll remember. And we got here in the time machine you are currently sitting in."

Tony laughed. "Yeah, sure." He grabbed Will's shoulders in both hands and gave him a playful shake. "C'mon, Doc. How'd you do it? I gotta say, I'm impressed. I didn't even notice the projection equipment. Then again, you could hide Bigfoot in that wreck you call a shed and no one would notice."

Will shut his eyes and counted backward from fifty by sevens. He'd ask himself why he'd told Tony Prescott about the time machine, but he knew why. Because he was crazy in love with the man and could deny him nothing. Therefore, when he'd come strolling into Will's shed uninvited that morning, nodded toward the tarp-covered machine and asked what it was, Will had told him the truth as if he had no choice in the matter. Of course Tony hadn't believed it was really a time machine, which meant Will had to prove it.

He never realized he hadn't believed it would work until it did.

Which probably said something less than flattering about his confidence in his own abilities.

He really didn't want to think about that right now.

Will opened his eyes. "I promise you, this is real. This is the future."

"Uh-huh. Sure it is." Tony leaned forward until his five o'clock shadow almost brushed Will's cheek. He pointed out through the makeshift front window of the vehicle, biceps bulging in his ever-present black T-shirt. "How the hell did you do that? Is it a hologram or something?"

Will squinted against the glare of a sun he could swear was slightly larger than usual. His mouth fell open. A flock of winged creatures he couldn't identify skimmed over the tops of the thin, scraggly trees a couple hundred yards away. They obviously weren't birds, but he couldn't tell exactly what they were. He shook his head. "I don't know."

Tony laughed. "Man, I'd never've pegged you for a practical joker." Pulling back into the rear seat, he opened the door of the rickety shell Will had cobbled together out of aluminum scraps, duct tape and bullheadedness. "Well, it's been real, but I promised Aunt Gertie I'd help Uncle El and the cousins hang the Christmas lights. I better book or I'm gonna be late and Jimbo'll scarf all the cookies."

Will waited, chewing on the pad of his thumb, while the man he'd loved in silence for most of his life hopped out of the homemade time machine and came face-to-face with the facts of the situation.

For a couple of tense minutes, nothing happened. Then Tony jogged past the front window, headed toward the unusual trees and unidentified flying things.

This was not one of the reactions Will had expected. Heart thumping, he fumbled his door open, tripped over his own feet trying to get out and landed in the softest, most fragrant grass he'd ever had the pleasure of falling face first into. He took a moment to luxuriate in the coolness against his cheek and palms before climbing to his feet and running after Tony.

"Tony! Wait!" He picked up his pace when Tony ignored him. God, he needed to get out of the lab and into the gym once in a while. Not two minutes of running and he was already out of breath. "Tony, dammit, wait!"

Maybe it was the cursing that did it. Will rarely cursed. Whatever the reason, Tony stopped halfway to the grove and stared at the treetops with a blank expression. Will jogged up to him and stood trying not to gasp like he'd just sprinted a mile uphill instead of loping a hundred yards or so across a nice flat field.

"You should work out more," Tony observed without looking at him.

Will glared at Tony's profile. "Really? I hadn't noticed. Thanks." He mopped his forehead with his hand. Wow, the distant future was hot, even in December. "What're you doing?"

For several long seconds, Tony said nothing. He continued not looking at Will, which cranked Will's nervousness level up past eleven and into the hundreds somewhere. Never in the thirty-some-odd years they'd known one another had Tony shown any tendency toward bouts of silent thought. In Will's opinion, this sudden change in demeanor did not bode well.

Finally, Tony shook his head and turned a bewildered gaze to Will. "I don't understand. Where the hell is this place? How did we get here so fast?"

"We haven't moved in space at all. We're still in my backyard. But it's ten thousand years in the future."

"That's impossible."

"No, it isn't."

Tony crossed his arms. "Look, I know I'm not the sharpest crayon in the box, but I'm not an idiot. I know enough about physics to know that time travel is not possible."

Will sighed. Tony possessed an above average intelligence, but for reasons unknown believed himself to be stupid. His insecurity about the whole thing was aggravating at the best of times. This was not the best of times, and Will couldn't be bothered to find ways to present the facts while soothing his best friend's ego.

"Tony, please don't take offense, because you're actually one of the smartest people I know and I think you could understand this concept if you took the time to let me explain it to you. But you're not a physicist. I am. It's what I do. Time travel is, in fact, possible. I'd show you my equations, but you always say it hurts your brain when I do that. In any case, I've been developing my theories for years now, and I have built a working time machine." He held up a hand to stop Tony's protest. "We were sitting on a riding lawnmower. You saw it. Did you feel any motion whatsoever when I moved the lever? Anything at all?"

Tony glanced around at the pale blue sky, the green grass, and the grove of trees which looked more odd now that they stood closer to them. The flying things were nowhere to be seen, for which Will was grateful. They gave him the shivers.

His brow furrowed, Tony shook his head. "You know what, I don't care where this is. Or when. Or whatever. I want to go back. I want to go to Aunt Gertie's and hang Christmas lights and eat cookies. Take me back now."

Will studied Tony's face. The tightness of his jaw, the way the lips Will so wanted to kiss were pressed together, the way his gaze never settled, all announced his fear of this place—this time—as clearly as his request to leave.

Guilt squirmed in the pit of Will's stomach. He shouldn't have brought Tony here. Forcing a smile, he nodded. "Yes, we should go back. Come on."

He turned and started toward the time machine, resisting the urge to try to take Tony's hand. Tony fell into step beside him.

They hadn't gotten more than a few steps before Will realized something had gone horribly wrong. He didn't dare glance Tony's way, but started running as fast as he could on shaking legs, Tony racing along at his side.

It couldn't be, it just couldn't. He'd gone over the return loop protocols until he could recite them in his sleep. All the equations were perfect.

So why was nothing left of his time machine but a fast-vanishing dent in the grass?

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Ally Blue’s Christmas Future

The 42 Days of Christmas Series from MLR Press continues and today I’m posting an excerpt provided by the loverly Ally Blue!

 

“I don’t know why I wanted to do a time travel Solstice story. Just being contrary, I guess. I seem to have trouble doing anything the normal way. LOL.” – Ally Blue on Christmas Future

 

Christmas Future

by Ally Blue

 

Click Here To Purchase

 

Home is when the heart is.

Dr. William McGregor never intended his homemade time machine to strand him and his lifelong crush in the distant future. But building a life there with Tony is everything Will ever wanted. When rescue comes, they must decide if it’s a Christmas miracle, or the end of their private paradise.

Part 1: The Future

No one was more surprised than William McGregor when the time machine he built in his storage shed actually worked.

He clutched the wheel of the riding mower around which he’d assembled his masterpiece and gaped at the wilderness where his cluttered workbench and pegboard full of tools had once been. I’ll have to show this to Dr. Rupert. She’ll have no choice but to give me the Haynes project now.

“Sweet Satan’s granny. What’s that, a projection TV or something?”

William twisted in his seat enough to glance at the man behind him. He caught a glimpse of the wide brown eyes that had captivated him for years and had to look away. “I told you, Tony. We’ve gone forward ten thousand years into the future. Which was your idea, if you’ll remember. And we got here in the time machine you are currently sitting in.”

Tony laughed. “Yeah, sure.” He grabbed Will’s shoulders in both hands and gave him a playful shake. “C’mon, Doc. How’d you do it? I gotta say, I’m impressed. I didn’t even notice the projection equipment. Then again, you could hide Bigfoot in that wreck you call a shed and no one would notice.”

Will shut his eyes and counted backward from fifty by sevens. He’d ask himself why he’d told Tony Prescott about the time machine, but he knew why. Because he was crazy in love with the man and could deny him nothing. Therefore, when he’d come strolling into Will’s shed uninvited that morning, nodded toward the tarp-covered machine and asked what it was, Will had told him the truth as if he had no choice in the matter. Of course Tony hadn’t believed it was really a time machine, which meant Will had to prove it.

He never realized he hadn’t believed it would work until it did.

Which probably said something less than flattering about his confidence in his own abilities.

He really didn’t want to think about that right now.

Will opened his eyes. “I promise you, this is real. This is the future.”

“Uh-huh. Sure it is.” Tony leaned forward until his five o’clock shadow almost brushed Will’s cheek. He pointed out through the makeshift front window of the vehicle, biceps bulging in his ever-present black T-shirt. “How the hell did you do that? Is it a hologram or something?”

Will squinted against the glare of a sun he could swear was slightly larger than usual. His mouth fell open. A flock of winged creatures he couldn’t identify skimmed over the tops of the thin, scraggly trees a couple hundred yards away. They obviously weren’t birds, but he couldn’t tell exactly what they were. He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Tony laughed. “Man, I’d never’ve pegged you for a practical joker.” Pulling back into the rear seat, he opened the door of the rickety shell Will had cobbled together out of aluminum scraps, duct tape and bullheadedness. “Well, it’s been real, but I promised Aunt Gertie I’d help Uncle El and the cousins hang the Christmas lights. I better book or I’m gonna be late and Jimbo’ll scarf all the cookies.”

Will waited, chewing on the pad of his thumb, while the man he’d loved in silence for most of his life hopped out of the homemade time machine and came face-to-face with the facts of the situation.

For a couple of tense minutes, nothing happened. Then Tony jogged past the front window, headed toward the unusual trees and unidentified flying things.

This was not one of the reactions Will had expected. Heart thumping, he fumbled his door open, tripped over his own feet trying to get out and landed in the softest, most fragrant grass he’d ever had the pleasure of falling face first into. He took a moment to luxuriate in the coolness against his cheek and palms before climbing to his feet and running after Tony.

“Tony! Wait!” He picked up his pace when Tony ignored him. God, he needed to get out of the lab and into the gym once in a while. Not two minutes of running and he was already out of breath. “Tony, dammit, wait!”

Maybe it was the cursing that did it. Will rarely cursed. Whatever the reason, Tony stopped halfway to the grove and stared at the treetops with a blank expression. Will jogged up to him and stood trying not to gasp like he’d just sprinted a mile uphill instead of loping a hundred yards or so across a nice flat field.

“You should work out more,” Tony observed without looking at him.

Will glared at Tony’s profile. “Really? I hadn’t noticed. Thanks.” He mopped his forehead with his hand. Wow, the distant future was hot, even in December. “What’re you doing?”

For several long seconds, Tony said nothing. He continued not looking at Will, which cranked Will’s nervousness level up past eleven and into the hundreds somewhere. Never in the thirty-some-odd years they’d known one another had Tony shown any tendency toward bouts of silent thought. In Will’s opinion, this sudden change in demeanor did not bode well.

Finally, Tony shook his head and turned a bewildered gaze to Will. “I don’t understand. Where the hell is this place? How did we get here so fast?”

“We haven’t moved in space at all. We’re still in my backyard. But it’s ten thousand years in the future.”

“That’s impossible.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Tony crossed his arms. “Look, I know I’m not the sharpest crayon in the box, but I’m not an idiot. I know enough about physics to know that time travel is not possible.”

Will sighed. Tony possessed an above average intelligence, but for reasons unknown believed himself to be stupid. His insecurity about the whole thing was aggravating at the best of times. This was not the best of times, and Will couldn’t be bothered to find ways to present the facts while soothing his best friend’s ego.

“Tony, please don’t take offense, because you’re actually one of the smartest people I know and I think you could understand this concept if you took the time to let me explain it to you. But you’re not a physicist. I am. It’s what I do. Time travel is, in fact, possible. I’d show you my equations, but you always say it hurts your brain when I do that. In any case, I’ve been developing my theories for years now, and I have built a working time machine.” He held up a hand to stop Tony’s protest. “We were sitting on a riding lawnmower. You saw it. Did you feel any motion whatsoever when I moved the lever? Anything at all?”

Tony glanced around at the pale blue sky, the green grass, and the grove of trees which looked more odd now that they stood closer to them. The flying things were nowhere to be seen, for which Will was grateful. They gave him the shivers.

His brow furrowed, Tony shook his head. “You know what, I don’t care where this is. Or when. Or whatever. I want to go back. I want to go to Aunt Gertie’s and hang Christmas lights and eat cookies. Take me back now.”

Will studied Tony’s face. The tightness of his jaw, the way the lips Will so wanted to kiss were pressed together, the way his gaze never settled, all announced his fear of this place—this time—as clearly as his request to leave.

Guilt squirmed in the pit of Will’s stomach. He shouldn’t have brought Tony here. Forcing a smile, he nodded. “Yes, we should go back. Come on.”

He turned and started toward the time machine, resisting the urge to try to take Tony’s hand. Tony fell into step beside him.

They hadn’t gotten more than a few steps before Will realized something had gone horribly wrong. He didn’t dare glance Tony’s way, but started running as fast as he could on shaking legs, Tony racing along at his side.

It couldn’t be, it just couldn’t. He’d gone over the return loop protocols until he could recite them in his sleep. All the equations were perfect.

So why was nothing left of his time machine but a fast-vanishing dent in the grass?

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The 2011 Gay Day Holiday Edition is Here!!!

Sunday, December 11th is Gay Day at my Yahoo Group.  Gay Day is the one day a month when the best authors in GLBT Romance stop by to post excerpts of their new and upcoming releases.

The following authors will be generously offering giveaways you can enter to win:

Josephine Myles – Winter Warmers

Tara Lain – Mistletowed

Lex Valentine – Breath of Heaven

Jambrea Jo Jones – Freedom

Stephani Hecht – Choice from Backlist

PD Singer – Maroon: Donal agus Jimmy

Devon Rhodes – Let It Snow

Andrew Grey – Love Means… Healing

KC Burn – Choice from Backlist

AKM Miles – Scarcity Holidays

Geoff Knight – Together in Electric Dreams

K.M. Mahoney – Odd Man

Justin South – Santa's Coming

Sara York – Surprise Sleep Over

Lee Rowan – TBA

Jon Treadway – Print copy of Surfer Boys OR Christmas Campaign e-book

Sloan Parker – Take Me Home

William Cooper – Christmas Gifts

EM Lynley – Wicked Good & Emerald:Rewriting History 1

JL Merrow – Wight Mischief & Camwolf

Stevie Woods – Cold Fear & First Christmas

Kimberly Gardner – Slave Master's Choice & Too Soon For Love

Ethan Day – A Summit City Christmas

The authors below were feeling particularly generous this holiday season:

 

ZA Maxfield

One lucky winner will receive all three of ZA's holiday themed stories: A Picture Perfect Holiday , I Heard Him Exclaim & What Child is This

 

JP Bowie

Is offering up his two newest releases: Christmas Wishes & He Ain't Heavy

In addition he's also offering up to one Kindle reader a choice between Time after Time or Trip of a Lifetime in Kindle format only

 

Last but certainly not least

 

Ally Blue

Ally is giving away her Christmas short: Christmas Future

In addition she's giving away one copy of each of the books from her Mother Earth series:

Dragon's Kiss (Mother Earth book 1), Shenandoah (Mother Earth book 2) & Convergence (Mother Earth book 3)

The amazing Authors below will be popping in and out to chat & post excerpts from their latest books:

Missy Welsh – Every Time a Bell Rings

Sara York – Working it Out

Andrea Speed – Infected

Lee Rowan – Tangled Web

Josephine Myles – Boats in the Night

Donna McIntosh – The Christmas Gift

Berengaria Brown – Perfectly Presented

Clare London – Media Naranja w/ Jordan Castillo Price

Ryssa Edwards – Rogue's Christmas

KC Burn – Cop Out

Elizabeth Noble – Strays

Lily Sawyer – Somebody to Love

Kate McMurray – Across the East River Bridge

The day will run from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. CST in the Ethan Day Yahoo Group where we'll be posting excerpts, running contests for free books, and chatting about all the new and upcoming releases from your favorite authors.

A Summit City Christmas is now available!!!

 

The wait is officially over – Boone and Wade are back!!! A Summit City Christmas is now available at MLR Press. I hope you all have as much fun going back to the Summit as I did.

 

A safe and truly wonderful holiday season to one and all.

Ethan

 

A Summit City Christmas

Now available from MLR Press

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Blurb:

Holiday's with friends and family are never dull and Boone's first Christmas in Summit City is no exception to that Yuletide rule.

You are cordially invited to join Boone and Wade for a Christmas Eve extravaganza, including many of your other favorites from the Summit City – Sno Ho series.

Rick R. Reed's Matches

The 42 Days of Christmas Series from MLR Press continues and today I'm posting an excerpt provided by Rick R. Reed.

Matches
By Rick R. Reed

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Christmas Eve should be a night filled with magic and love. But for Anderson, down on his luck and homeless in Chicago's frigid chill, it's a fight for survival. Whether he's sleeping on the el, or holed up in an abandoned car, all he really has are his memories to keep him warm-memories of a time when he loved a man named Welk and the world was perfect. When Anderson finds a book of discarded matches on the sidewalk, he pockets them. Later, trying to keep the cold at bay hunkered down in a church entryway, Anderson discovers the matches are the key to bringing his memories of Welk, happiness, and security to life. Within their flames, visions dance-and perhaps a reunion with the man he loved most.

Excerpt:

"Don't do it! Please don't do it!" Anderson whispered, watching from the shadows and knowing it would do no good to put much breath behind his words. He could scream until his lungs were raw; it wouldn't change the fact he was losing his home.

They wouldn't listen.

His "home" was a 1992 Chevy Impala, brown, nearly indistinguishable from its scabs of rust. It had all four tires, all bald, one flat. The windshield was cracked.

But he had called it home for the past several nights. Outfitted with a sleeping bag he had found in a Dumpster in an alley off Clark Street, the automotive residence was almost palatial for Anderson, who had grown accustomed to shivering in doorways throughout Chicago's arctic winter nights, warmed by cardboard and newspapers.

"Please don't take it away," he whimpered. He clenched his fists as he watched a Chicago city tow truck hoist the old car up and maneuver it out of its spot, where it had been abandoned in the labyrinthine underworld of lower Wacker Drive. Anderson had hoped the vehicle would go unnoticed until at least spring.

Wouldn't that have been just grand?

A cold wind blew through the lower level street, which ran beneath the city's tony Michigan Avenue. Anderson watched the car disappear, moving through the darkness of the tunnel, hooked to the back of the truck with its whirling lights. He wanted to stamp his feet, he wanted to cry, he wanted to run after the truck and throw himself on the mercy of the driver, pleading that it was Christmas Eve, for Christ's sake.

But he would do none of these things. Anderson was used to being quiet, to walking around invisible, as if his homelessness had transformed him into a ghost.

People didn't notice the homeless. They averted their eyes when they saw him coming, perhaps afraid that he would ask for spare change or that he would remind them of their own vulnerability or-God forbid-he might try to touch them. After all, he hadn't bathed in weeks. He knew he stunk. His beard had grown riotously over the past several months, along with his hair, and both were greasy and matted. His skin and clothes were grimy. And the clothes? The wool coat, the jeans, the flannel shirt, the sweater, and hiking boots? They had all degenerated, the fabrics almost rags, the boots worn beyond usefulness, a hole patched in the left one with a piece of cardboard.

Anderson knew he must be a horror at worst, an object of pity or scorn at best.

He hadn't always been this way. Less than a year ago, he was one of them, the people he saw bustling along Michigan Avenue, or coming out of dry cleaners or grocery stores, or later at night, in and out of nightspots along Clark Street or Halsted. People who were warm and clean, wearing new clothes as though they thought nothing of it, and-most importantly-people who had homes to go to, a place to lay their weary heads at night. They were people who ate on a regular basis, consuming what they wanted when they wanted, and took it all for granted.

Yeah. He had been one of them, not so long ago. He trudged up a metal staircase that would take him to upper Wacker Drive, where he could mingle among the daytime crowds in the Loop. Today, Christmas Eve, downtown Chicago would not be quite as bustling with working people. Perhaps he could hole up in the lobby of an office building for a while, where it was blissfully warm, before being chased away by security.

Yeah. Good luck with that. Anderson emerged into the wind and the sleet, which felt like needles pelting his skin. He looked to the east and saw a bank of deep gray clouds, bruising, hanging over the roiling slate waters of Lake Michigan. He knew the clouds were just waiting to unleash inches, perhaps even feet, of snow by late afternoon.

Dreaming of a white Christmas? You got it, buddy. Nice if you're inside, perhaps next to a crackling fire and beneath the glow of Christmas tree lights.

If someone had told Anderson he would fall so far so fast even as little as a year or so ago, he wouldn't have believed them. If that same person had pointed out one of the homeless selling, perhaps, a StreetWisenewspaper, and said, "That's gonna be you one day soon," he would have laughed in their faces.

It couldn't happen. Not to him.

Except it did.

One day he was a graphic designer for a little company in the Wrigleyville neighborhood that did custom silk-screened T-shirts, working 40 hours a week and bringing home a regular paycheck. It wasn't much and didn't go too far in a city the size of Chicago, but it was his and it afforded him a studio apartment just three blocks from the Lake in Rogers Park on the far north side. That paycheck bought him food, the occasional beer at Big Chicks on Sheridan Road, heat, water, even a broadband Internet connection, although he never could afford cable TV. It made him one of the regular folks, the ones with a place to bed down at night.

And then the cutbacks came. Because Anderson had been with his company for a while, he was not the first to go. But then the place went out of business and no matter how smart or talented he was, there was simply no job anymore. Anderson landed in the world of recession he had only heard about on the news or read of in the papers.

He had unemployment and he could get by. Surely he would find another job before the government checks dried up.

Except he didn't. The streets were swarming with unemployed graphic designers and his background at a T-shirt company did not put him anywhere near the top of anyone's hiring list. He even looked into working at grocery stores, restaurants, even fast food. But it seemed there was fierce competition for those jobs as well.

It didn't take long for the unemployment checks to run out. He begged his landlord for more time, getting further and further in arrears. He even offered to do maintenance, but he was unqualified. Eventually, his cute little studio was no longer his. He found himself evicted, one of those people he used to pity, with all their belongings put out on the street.

It was amazing how fast he found himself on the streets. He turned to friends, couch-surfed for a while, but that door stood open only for so long.

His parents had long been dead; his mother ravaged by cancer and his father in a car accident.

It was a woeful tale made even more woeful by the fact that even his boyfriend, a strapping blond cyclist named Welk, was also gone, claimed by a drunk driver as he rode his Trek to work in downtown Chicago one morning. When Welk expired at the intersection of Grand Avenue and Lake Shore Drive, his life draining out of him on cold concrete, Anderson had thought the world would never be the same without the man he loved in it.

Little did he know how prophetic that thought was.

So, he ended up one of the homeless. At first, it was warm outside and wasn't too bad. He could sleep in Lincoln Park sometimes, or hole up next to a breakwater on a beach.

His story, he realized after a while, was not so unique. Those living paycheck to paycheck, he learned on the streets, were just a gossamer curtain away from losing everything. It was easy. The spiral downward was not as long or protracted as he once would have thought.

Anderson was not alone. There were thousands like him on the streets of Chicago, competing for spaces every day in the missions and soup kitchens.

It was a lousy way to live, made more disheartening by the fact that the longer he stayed out here on the streets, the harder it would be to ever get back in, where life was comfortable and warm, where there was enough food to eat, and a roof over one's head to keep one dry and to protect a person from a whole host of maladies awaiting those who no longer had a place to call home.

Anderson looked up as the first flakes of snow began to fall. Once upon a time, he would have been excited by the Yuletide fluff, would have gazed out at it from someplace warm, with perhaps a pot of vegetable soup simmering on his stove and Welk queuing up It's a Wonderful Life in the DVD player.

His mouth watered at the thought of the soup. He pictured a bowl of thick, brownish redbroth with steam rising above it. He imagined carrots, peas, corn, and potatoes. These days, he found himself fantasizing about food as he once had about sex.

Stop it now, he told himself, stomach grumbling.

Almost as if to match the growl of his gut, an el train rumbled overhead. Anderson watched its course as it made its way around a bend in the famous Loop, shrieking and sending out sparks.

The train! Of course…the train. I can board and ride it all day. It's warm, dry. I can sleep.

Anderson scratched his beard. But I need money to get on board and I have nothing.As if to prove the point to himself, Anderson patted his empty pockets.

Even though desperate times called for desperate measures, Anderson still had not gotten over his aversion to begging. More than the refusals, he hated the way people ignored him if he deigned to ask for a spare quarter, walking by him, gazes forward, as if they didn't see him.

As if he didn't exist.

There were lots of people walking past him right this very minute, many weighted down with shopping bags from Macy's or Nordstrom. Surely they could spare a dollar or two so he could ride the el and get out of the cold.

But not one of them saw him. Not one of them would give him so much as a moment's eye contact to open the door, so he could ask the question.

He could root through a trashcan or Dumpster, hoping to find a CTA transit pass someone had discarded with money still on it. But what were the odds?

Another train rumbled overheard. Anderson shook with the chill. It must be close to zero out here, he thought. And the snow is coming down heavier.

Anderson headed north, walking up Michigan Avenue. He turned right and took metal stairs down to Grand Avenue, where he knew there was a subway stop. At least he could get out of the cold and the snow, which was coming down now so heavily Anderson could barely see where he was going. Perhaps someone in the station would be kind enough to give him a Christmas present of a train ride.

Anderson made his way down the stairs into the Grand Avenue subway station, the mildew smell of the station rising up as he descended. A rush of commuters passed him going up; a train must have just discharged them. People edged by, giving him as wide a berth as possible. Just as he neared the bottom, a young woman with short black hair, wearing a down coat trimmed in fur, stumbled on the concrete stairs. She dropped her purse and its contents spilled out. Anderson paused and spotted the makeup, the few dollar bills-and a CTA transit card. A part of him told him to grab it and run, that she could well afford another one. If there was enough money stored on the card, it could get him through a good part of the winter.

But no matter how cold it got, no matter how much snow fell, no matter how well the woman could afford to buy another card, Anderson couldn't do it. He just didn't have it in him to steal.

He reached down to help her gather her things and she recoiled, gasping at the sight of him and scooting back and away. "That's okay!" she said, quickly lowering her gaze to hurriedly pick up the things she had dropped.

It hurt Anderson to see the fear and disgust in her eyes.

In the station, Anderson didn't know what to do. To access the platform, you had to have a card. Sure, he could jump the turnstiles and risk getting arrested; he had seen it done. Some got away with it, more didn't.

Like stealing the woman on the stair's transit pass, it simply wasn't within Anderson to do something criminal.

Among the straggling commuters, Anderson spied an old woman who looked kindly. Perhaps she would take pity on him. With her upsweep of gray hair, her sensible wool coat, rubber boots, and hand-crocheted scarf, she appeared kindly, reminding Anderson of his own late grandmother. There was something lively and warm in her pale blue eyes.

Anderson stepped in front of her and smiled. "Excuse me, ma'am."

The woman stopped, regarding him.

"I hate to ask, but I need to get on the train and, honestly, I don't have a dime to my name." Anderson thought for a moment and came up with a small white lie. "I need to get to the south side, where my family is." He smiled again. "It's Christmas."

The woman didn't say anything.

"Do you think you could spare a couple dollars so I could ride?" Anderson gnawed at his lower lip, hating the position circumstance and the economy had put him in.

"Get the hell out of my way," the woman said quietly, edging by him. She called over her shoulder, "Get a job, why don't you?"

Anderson was taken aback by the coldness and the almost-hatred in her voice. It was so unexpected and so unnecessarily cruel.

Anderson felt the bright sting of tears at the corner of his eyes. His shoulders slumped. He was about to turn and leave the station when a young guy, about his own age, came up to him. Once upon a time, Anderson would have thought he was cute, and if he had opened the door a little, Anderson might have flirted with him. But now his only reaction was-what now?

"What a bitch," the man said, his gaze roaming over to where the old woman was mounting the stairs. He reached into the pocket of his worn denim jacket that looked too thin for the weather and pulled out a transit card. He held it out to Anderson. "Take it. There's only one ride left on there. I wish I could give you more, but I'm pretty strapped myself."

Tentatively, Anderson reached for the card. "Are you sure you can spare this?"

"I wouldn't have offered it to you if I couldn't." He wiggled the hand holding the card. "Go on."

Anderson took it, wondering if some guardian angel, or even Welk, was looking out for him.

"Thank you."

"It's nothin'. Merry Christmas."

Anderson swallowed hard, feeling a lump in his throat. "Merry Christmas to you too."

The guy turned and headed up the stairs, out into the snow.

And Anderson moved toward the turnstiles.

The card worked.

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Stevie Wood's First Christmas

The 42 Days of Christmas Series from MLR Press continues and today I'm posting an excerpt provided by Stevie Woods!

 

FIRST CHRISTMAS (#1.5 The Tomcat Line)

by Stevie Woods

 

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Ian's experiences with Christmas have never been particularly good and Mac wants their first Christmas together to be something special, a time Ian will always treasure. As ever, things don't quite go according to plan

 

EXCERPT:

Ian had a great evening celebrating Neil's third anniversary with Mac and his friends, but now all he wanted was to get home so he could find out what Mac was up to. Ian and Mac might have only been a couple for a few months, but Ian believed he knew his Mac very well and was sure his lover was up to something. And Mac up to something could be wonderful or downright scary.

Ian went on up to their bedroom while Mac locked up and set the alarms. Ian undressed and had a quick shower and by the time he walked back into the bedroom, Mac was sprawled on the top of their bed, naked except for his shorts.

"You should've waited for me; I'd have joined you in the shower."

Ian smiled. "The door wasn't locked; you know you're always welcome."

"Wasn't sure tonight, you were rather quiet on the drive home. Wondered if I'd done something to upset you."

"Keeping secrets doesn't go down well with me," Ian said.

"Secrets? What secrets?"

"Come on, my devious lover. What is it you wouldn't discuss with me earlier?"

"Damn, I hoped you'd forgotten about that." Mac rose and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Forgotten? Don't think so. You made me curious and you know what curiosity does to me." Ian grinned and raised an eyebrow.

Mac stared at Ian, chewing his upper lip, and for the first time Ian felt a quiver of concern. Was there something wrong, something that was worrying Mac that he didn't want to share with him? Ian had thought their relationship was strong and stable, but if Mac didn't feel the desire to share with him…

Then Mac smiled. "Only too well," he said and it took Ian a moment to realize Mac was answering his earlier question. Mac got up and walked to him, stopping just in front of him.

"Ian, could I ask for once that you curb you curiosity and trust me to keep my own counsel for a little while. I promise I will reveal all when the time is right."

Ian frowned and stared deeply into Mac's eyes and his lover met his gaze squarely. "Promise me there is nothing wrong. No cause for me to worry."

Mac pulled Ian into his embrace and still meeting his eyes, he said, "I swear. There is no reason at all for you to worry, my love. I can see it being very difficult in our life together for me to ever to give you a surprise."

Ian opened his mouth to say something, but Mac silenced him in the pleasantest way possible, he slid his tongue into Ian's mouth. The only sound Ian could make then was a moan and he didn't halt at just one.

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J.P. Bowie's Christmas Wishes

The 42 Days of Christmas Series from MLR Press continues and today I'm posting an excerpt provided by J.P. Bowie!

Christmas Wishes

by J.P. Bowie

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Christopher Fielding has no choice but to spend Christmas with his family in York, away from William MacPherson, the biology professor with whom he has fallen in love. Finding his sister Nan in some distress over her pregnancy, Christopher makes a wish that all will be well with her and the baby, and another that William, traveling by train to his family in Scotland will be safe from the blizzard raging over the countryside.

As Christmas Eve approaches, William's train is stranded in snow drifts and Nan's baby is about to arrive prematurely. Cut off by the weather from a doctor's help, the family is in despair, and Christopher feels that his wishes may not be enough. Perhaps what they now need is nothing short of a miracle.

 

This excerpt is from when Christopher meets William for the first time.

"Fielding! Fielding, for pity's sake, will you kindly get a move on? The best of the grub will have long gone if you don't stop dawdling!"

Christopher ran the backs of his fingertips over the keys of the grand piano in a sharp, angry sounding glissando and closed the lid a little more loudly than he'd intended.

"You've been twiddling around on that thing for hours, Fielding." Percy Sommers-Smythe, not at all put out by his friend's obvious annoyance, regarded him from across the rehearsal hall. "Are you coming to luncheon or are you not?"

"Coming." He stood, gathered up his music and strolled across the wooden floor with maddening nonchalance, grinning now at Percy's impatience. "It wouldn't do you a bit of harm if you missed a meal now and then," he teased, pointing at Percy's ample belly.

"How rude." Percy sucked in the belly under scrutiny then turned his back on his friend. "I shall not speak to you—for at least thirty seconds." They laughed together as they walked toward the dining hall. "Have you met the new biology professor yet? Mac something… Macpherson, I think he's called. Something Scottish anyway."

"No, I have not. A Scot, eh? I can never understand a word they say. All those 'cannas' and 'dinnas'—and they call it English."

"A bit high-handed of you, Fielding," Percy remarked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, I suppose it is. I'm a bit out of sorts today. That 'twiddling' you referred to earlier is a new piece I'm having the devil of a job finishing. I have the melody, but the underlying chords remain elusive. I want it to sound… different, I suppose."

"I'm sure it will come to you, old chap. Ah…" Percy inhaled the aroma of some fragrant stew as they entered the dining hall. "Lancashire Hotpot, I do believe. One of my favourites."

Christopher chuckled at his friend's euphoric expression. "Along with every other dish in the Western hemisphere. I've yet to see you turn your nose up at any concoction from the kitchens."

They took their assigned places at the table and Percy immediately ordered up two plates of his favourite dish without even asking his luncheon partner if that was what he wanted. Unaware and uninterested in what he would be presently served, Christopher looked around, acknowledging the nods and faint smiles of recognition from familiar faces. Then his eyes were suddenly riveted on a completely unfamiliar face. A face, the likes of which he had never before seen.

The man had everything every other man at the table had. Two eyes, a nose, a mouth… dear God, that mouth… a chin, perhaps firmer than most, hair a dark gold red, shoulders, wider than necessary, surely. Christopher found that he had almost stopped breathing and was only vaguely aware that Percy was saying something; was addressing the beautiful stranger.

"I say, you must be the new biology professor. Macpherson, is it?"

"Indeed. William Macpherson." The beautiful stranger rose and inclined his head in a short formal bow. Then he raised his head and Christopher's heart stopped along with his breathing.

Those eyes… of the deepest green… emerald pools to drown in…

"Percy Sommers-Smythe." Percy held out his hand in greeting in his usual amiable fashion. "I'm the dreaded mathematics professor, and this fellow at my side is—" Percy was momentarily put off his stride when he saw the thunderstruck expression on his friend's face. "Uh… is… uh—Fielding! What the devil's the matter with you? Are you quite well?"

Christopher felt his face flood with a fiery heat. "Oh… yes…i-indeed," he stammered. "Quite well. So sorry." He extended his hand across the table. "Christopher Fielding, s-so happy to make your acquaintance, sir." He almost swooned when warm, firm flesh enclosed his hand in a lingering grip.

"Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Professor Fielding."

Christopher was close to collapsing back into his chair when his hand was finally released. Never, never before had another human being affected him in this way. He felt dizzy, nauseous, excited—terrified that another man's touch could inflict such tumultuous sensations within him. And most embarrassing of all, he was so hard inside the confines of his trousers, he knew he could not stand up even if someone was to suddenly shout, "Fire!"

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