Tuesday, May 6, 2014

Forsaking Truth by Lydia Michaels is out now!!

Forsaking Truth {McCullough Mountain 5}by Lydia Michaels

Genre: Erotic Romance (MM)

Heat Level: Romance (graphic) (MM)

Book Length: 224 pages

Date of Publication: May 5, 2014 (Available on Amazon, B&N, etc. 5/13/14)

His greatest conflict in life is that another man loves him unconditionally. He’ll forsake everything before he’ll come to face who he truly is.

When Luke McCullough’s athletic potential is diminished by a field injury, his pride pays the price. Returned to Center County a broken man, the long road to recovery seems dreary and overshadowed by opportunities lost, until he meets Tristan Hughes.

Tristan came to Center County to escape his past and start anew, but nothing prepared him for Luke. Intrigued, Tristan cautiously gets to know this powerful man, only to fall head over heels for the vulnerable soul hiding behind all that intensity and drive.

Luke has never been interested in men, so when he can’t get Tristan out of his head he doubles his efforts to fight the inevitable. Stolen glances lead to heated encounters, followed by punishing regret, but Luke’s inability to face the truth of who he really is may cost him the only happiness he’s ever known.

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Excerpt: (Adult Language)

He stepped close and his palm curled around the back of Luke’s neck. A split second later—too quick to pull back—Tristan’s lips met his.
Luke grunted and jerked away at the first stroke of the other guy’s tongue. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I…I thought you wanted me to. You touched me.”
He frowned. No he didn’t. Yes. You fucking did. You’re still touching him. He jerked his hand away. It was the beer! Shit, he needed to lay off the drinking.
“Luke, look, it’s okay. I just thought with everything today—the shower—clearly I misread—”
“Are you dating my cousin?” he suddenly blurted.
“What? No. Ryan’s straight.” Tristan’s answer shouldn’t have relieved him, but it did.
“You’re gay?”
Luke was distracted as Tristan took a deep breath.  Tanned skin shadowed with hair drew his gaze to the cut of his chest glistening with a hint of sweat or maybe spilt beer. “Yeah, but it doesn’t have to be an issue. If you aren’t interested, we can act like nothing happened here and just go back to five minutes ago.”
“Does Ryan know you’re gay?”
“Yeah. He’s fine with it. Most people are. It’s not like I openly maul anything with a dick. I have a specific taste.”
“Well…” He turned and forked a hand through his hair. “You’re very handsome. Christ, I already saw you naked.”
And for some reason Luke had purposely made sure he’d seen him. He wanted him to look, like it was some pissing match or something. Thinking back, it was stupid and nothing like he’d ever done before.
“I’ll go,” Tristan said, grabbing his soiled shirt.
Luke caught his arm. “Wait.”
“For what, Luke? I clearly misread the situation.”
“Did you think I was gay?”
“No, but then…I don’t know. I thought maybe you were bi. You hear things about football players playing grab ass in the locker rooms and shit. I don’t know what the fuck I thought. Then you touched me and I just…stopped thinking.”
“You like being with men?” Well, no shit. That’s pretty much what it was to be gay. He couldn’t fathom it. Did Tristan take the top or bottom? He didn’t look gay, whatever that looked like.
“What do you do with them?”
“Jesus, Luke, everything. What do you want to know?”
“Does it hurt?”
“Fuck no. It feels fantastic.”
He stepped back, needing to do something, but not the type to fidget. “Have you ever been with a woman?”
Tristan’s expression became serious. “No. It’s always been guys.”
“This is crazy. I need a beer.” He turned and pulled out a new bottle. He’s fucking gay.
Luke never met a gay person that he knew of. He lived in Center County, not the most liberal place. “Man, you picked the wrong town to move to.”
“Tell me where the right town is.” Tristan stepped into the den. “I’m just another guy, Luke. I just wanna work and live and have the right to the same happiness everyone else is looking for in this fucked up world.”
Luke’s gaze moved over his chest. There were over a dozen scars. “That’s why your dad beat you, for being gay?”
“Yeah.” There was so much gravity in that one little word something in Luke broke.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. Taught me a lesson I’ll never forget. No matter how hard someone hits me, or shuns me, or calls me ugly names, I’m still me. They don’t have to like it. They don’t have to live with it, but I do. And I refuse to be something I’m not.”
Luke dropped into the chair. “How old were you?”
“When I realized I was gay? Probably four.”
“No, when your dad did that to you.”
“Eighteen. Five days later my lover tried to kick the shit out of me in front of the whole school and called me everything he was afraid to call himself. Three months later I left for college and never looked back.”
Holy shit. “Did you ever think it would be easier to be straight?”
“I’ve thought lots of things. Sometimes I think it would be fun to fly, but that doesn’t make it possible.”
“No women?”
“No. Only men.”
“I’m not gay.” Luke stated, needing to hear the affirmation.
Tristan nodded. “And that’s cool. I didn’t mean to…”
The silence stretched between them. Finally, Tristan said, “I’m gonna take off.”
“Okay.” He was in a daze. This was some heavy shit.
“Thanks for…”
“Thanks for your help.”
They nodded at one another and Tristan slipped on his wet shirt. A moment later the door closed.
Luke sat there for probably five minutes just digesting everything. He liked Tristan. A lot. Just not in any sort of romantic way. He didn’t swing that way. He liked pussy. He was a boob man or maybe a leg man. Definitely wasn’t a gay man.
He stood and went to hit the lights. He was way past the legal limit and needed to sleep. Maybe things would be clearer in the morning.
He dropped the empties in the bin and went to lock up. As he approached the door it suddenly opened. He stilled and Tristan stepped back in. Why was he back? His return sent a rush of blood pumping through Luke’s veins and his breathing picked up.
“I don’t have a car here.”
Right. He’d picked him up. “I’ve been drinking.”
“I could call a cab.”
“Or you could crash here.” He hadn’t thought about his offer, it just slipped out.
“Or I could crash here.”
Luke stared at him and waited. Sure, Tristan could crash. He could sleep on the recliner. Luke swallowed. He felt like he was doing something very wrong. Part of him was glad he couldn’t drive. So glad, that when the thought of calling Sheilagh and asking her to take Tristan back to his Aunt Rosemarie’s popped in his head, he immediately shoved it away.
“I was about to hit the sack anyway,” he said.
Tristan nodded. “You got an extra blanket?”
“Yeah. I’ll grab it. Make yourself comfortable.”
He went to the closet in the hall and pulled out a spare blanket. When he turned, Tristan was in the den, kicking off his boots. “Here you go.”
“Thanks, Luke. Listen, I’m sorry about all this. I hope—”
Luke slammed his lips to Tristan’s mouth. He didn’t know who was more shocked, him or Tristan. All he knew was the thought of Tristan, who’d taken his fair share of beatings for only being who he was, apologizing to him, cut him apart. He silenced him the only way he knew how.

Author Bio:

Award winning author, Lydia Michaels, writes all forms of hot romance. She presses the bounds of love and surprises readers just when they assume they have her stories figured out. From Amish vampyres, to wild Irishmen, to broken heroes, and heroines no man can match, Lydia takes readers on an emotional journey of the heart, mind, and soul with every story she pens. Her books are intellectual, erotic, haunting, always centered on love.

Lydia Michaels loves to hear from readers! She can be contacted by email at Lydia@LydiaMichaels.org

Other Titles by Lydia Michaels:

Falling In
Breaking Out
Coming Home
Sacred Waters
Faking It
Forsaking Truth
As Tears Go By
Simple Man
Breaking Perfect
White Chocolate
All 4 You
To Catch a Wolfe
Chasing Feathers
Called to Order
Calling for a Miracle
Destiny Calls
Call Her Mine

Thursday, May 1, 2014

Glory Lands by Vastine Bondurant - a Blog Tour

Vastine is giving away at the end of the tour the following prize: A 100.00 Victoria's Secret Gift Card or a 100.00 Amazon Gift Card. How cool is that? I'd comment if I were you!

A Texas Piney Woods Story   

Rural East Texas, 1931. Preacher’s son Emory Joe Logan and a fiddler from Shreveport, Glory Lands, meet and form a tender bond. When they are caught and arrested for homosexual acts by Sheriff Elihu Bishop, the lawman’s sanctimonious bigotry threatens to rip the young men from their families.

Emory Joe’s father, Pastor Charles Logan, is brought to his knees in terror, confusion, and anger. He still regrets not standing up against Bishop when the lawman murdered a youth in cold blood nine years ago.

Now there’s no longer a choice for the preacher to stand up to the lawman. Cold-blooded justice, bigotry-disguised-as-religion, and hatred take on a whole new meaning when they’re standing on his doorstep, ready to take the son he loves.
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Readers' Remarks on Glory Lands

"...But every so often a story comes along and absolutely annihilates me. Glory Lands is that story...~ Astrid (Amazon)

Here's an excerpt for your reading pleasure!

Oh, Emory Joe was a skinny country boy, a kid hidden deep in the heart of the piney woods. No imposing deity. But to look at him right then—the light in his bashful smile, the trust beginning to bloom in his eyes—he was a god to me.

Eyeing me with a lifted eyebrow that signaled he surely expected to shock me, he shrugged. “I have kissed a boy, you know.”

Did you now?”

“Yes.” He braced his shoulders, his head tossed back. King of the county, he was. “I have.”

“Well, what do you know.” I nodded.

“Are you shocked?” So proud, so adorable.

“Do you want me to be shocked?”

“What I want is, if you were thinking of kissing me, for you to know it’s all right.”

Jesus Lordy Almighty.

“I’m not shocked.” The power of his gentle light paralyzed me. I wanted to step nearer, but couldn’t. “How could a fella not want to kiss you?”

Offering nothing but a faint turning up of the lips that eased the nervous needles burning my skin, Emory Joe slowly turned and made his way back to the bank.

Once standing on the sandy strip, he dropped his hands to his sides and scratched his fingers on his thighs. “Well, then….”

“You nervous, Emory Joe?” I advanced a step.

“Why, yes, kind of… I mean….”

“Those hands of yours, always a-goin’ to town on your pants legs.”

“Daddy teases me about it too. I am a might nervous.” Just as I opened my mouth to apologize, he tossed back his head, stopped his busy fingers, and smiled. “So….” And, his voice half-sure and half-trembly, he invited, “Would you like to kiss me?”

My pulse marched like a battalion of boots in my ears. I couldn’t hear my voice over the noise, but I thought I said, “I’d like very much to kiss you, Emory Joe.” 

And he just stood there. Waiting. Smiling.

Did I walk on the water or through it? Somehow I made it to the bank to his side.

He sighed. Those full lips parted and the blue eyes closed. Expectant. Willing.

I leaned, just inches from his lips, so close I could smell the readiness of him mingled with the red scent of the rose in my pocket, and something pleasant and electric filled the tiny space between us.

The touch of his lips. Soft, firm, giving, greedy, innocent, seasoned, sweet, spicy, playful, deadly serious. All that in one breath of a kiss.

Had I fainted? No, I stood on my two feet, but I couldn’t feel my legs. All I felt was Emory Joe and his want.

After a million years stuffed into one second, he pulled away, and I, like a baby bird straining for morsels at feeding time, stretched my neck to bring back the contact.

Happy and scared, I watched while he fumbled with the buckles at the straps of his overalls. Oh dear Jesus. “Emory Joe….”

I’d come to fish only to have the fish leap straight out of the water and into my hands, and it had set my brain spinning off-kilter.
“Shush.” He touched his finger to his lips.

Soon the straps fell from his shoulders and the bib unfolded, falling away. He pulled his shirt over his head to expose his pale chest with its glorious rosy nipples, then bent to carefully drape the shirt over a tree stump.
I wanted so badly to see the rest of him—naked, buck naked—but I was also afraid of that very thing. The desiring of something so bad you feared it might stop your heart.

But not heeding my silent terror, Emory Joe slowly tugged the overalls until they hugged his narrow hips to show me his flat belly and the tease of golden hair at his crotch.

“Emory Joe,” I whispered.

Had that been a protest or a plea?

With a soft curl of the lips, his eyes holding me in some beautiful suspension like a man leaping from a cliff but not falling, he gave one last pull of the overalls to send them and his underpants to a blue pile at his bare ankles.

In that sunlight filtering through the trees stood a man too comely and heavenly to be tucked out here in the middle of nowhere.

A beautiful erection nestled in a light patch of hair. The tip of his cock, pink as his nipples.

Gone were my thoughts of not being able to take him. I had to have him. Jesus Christ, that proverbial team of wild horses couldn’t stop me now, not with this delicate, naked beauty wanting what I wanted.

Emory Joe lifted a hand to pluck the rose from my pocket. Drawing even closer, he tucked it into the hair at my ear then began to unbutton my shirt.
My breath caught while his fingers fumbled at each buttonhole, the light pressure like the delicate fluttering of a baby chick’s wings. And, then—oh, goddamn, then—when he unfastened my trousers and tugged them along my hips. The tiny gasp he issued when my dick, so hard and aching, sprang free of the denim folds.

After placing our clothes over the tree stump, there we both stood. Nothing between our naked bodies but warm spring air and need.

Emory Joe sank to his knees in the sand, arched his chest and palmed his nipples. “Glory.”

To hear my name loaded with such want, spoken in such an unbearably gentle caress.

I followed suit and dropped to my knees, taking his hands in mine. His hands. Shaking, holding tight.

“Yeah?” I turned up his palms and pressed them to my lips.

The taste of his skin—a delicate mix of faded shaving lotion and roses.
Oh, the wonderful pain in my groin.

“Do something to me.” He turned the request into a soft little moan.

“What do you want me to do?” Grasping his wrists, I pulled him against me. His body, unbearably soft and writhing, the satiny hardness of his dick pressing into mine. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

“I don’t know.” With his lips breathing the words onto my neck, he twined his fingers in the hair of my nape and squeezed. “It feels so good, I have to… to….” A whimper. “Please.”

Drawing back, I cupped my palm to his cheek, thumbed the downy stubble. “Have you really ever kissed a boy before, Emory Joe?”

“No.” He glanced away to the creek. “Surely not because I haven’t wanted to. There’s just no boys like… me… to kiss in these parts.”

“Then let me see what I can do for a fella who’s never kissed a boy before.” A wispy, quick meeting of the lips. “Lie down, Emory Joe.”

His gaze fixed with mine, Emory Joe let his arms slide from my neck, and he slowly lowered himself onto his back in the sand. “Kiss me again.”
I lay beside him. “You liked kissing, then?”

He didn’t reply, just nodded, parted his lips, and lifted his head a bit.

“How much did you like it?” I sighed the words close to his mouth, reveling in the pleasure of the almost-touch of his lips.

Resting his head on the ground again, he traced his forefinger along my chin. “Very much.” 

About the Author:

I’m Texas born and raised, an old fashioned, bling-loving girly girl. I love to read and write stories of men and women and the sizzling chemistry that draws them together. Passion. My heart is helplessly bound to romance of a time long gone- gritty, sexy stories of men in fedoras and overcoats. Old Spice Aftershave, Lucky Strike cigarettes, fancy cuff links, hair pomade, mobsters. Clandestine whispers on Bakelite telephones from the shadows of cheesy restaurant phone booths. Stories of a time when sex was all the more sexy because it wasn’t plastered on every billboard—no naked Joes and dames in every ad in every magazine. Lovemaking—hot, sweet-and-naughty, a secret between lovers. My make believe world is sex and danger, hotter than Hades but wrapped up in a deceptive package—gals with soft skin, pretty lace slips, seamed stockings, satin peignoirs, powder puffs and Chanel No. 5. And the tough guys in dress shirts and suspenders who lust to get their hands on the garters they know tease just beneath those kick pleats. I’m a goner for the dynamics of testosterone meets sugar and spice.

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