Skip to content

Cover reveal for Magical Misfire: Mortals for Magic Book 1– contest

Would you like one of my short stories? Or maybe you want to have your name used in one of my up coming short stories/novellas or novels? Well just tell me what you think of the cover and excerpt of my next release Magical misfire! Leave a comment along with your email address. Contest ends Sunday 12/09/12.

Magical Misfire: Mortals for Magic Book 1 will be out on Feb 15, 2013 with Torrid books. It is the first in a series that will follow the employees at the Mortals For Magic law firm.

I would like the thank Harris Channing for once again making such a great cover for my book. She always seems to nail down exactly what I want. Please let me know what you think about the cover and if it sounds like a book you would like to read!




   Kayla Bradley is a witch and she has a problem. She is so attracted to her boss, Ryan Cooper, that she can not control her magic when she is around him. Kayla tries to stay away from him, but her best friend Samantha thinks the only way she can cure her problem is to sleep with Cooper.

   Ryan Cooper is a lawyer that helps magical people who have been discriminated against. After many disastrous encounters with Kayla, Cooper contacts his sister who tells him that witches sometimes misfire when sexually attracted to someone. Cooper takes matters into his own hands and seduces Kayla in his office after work one day.



Chapter 1


“Kayla, you have to come out.”

No! I may never come out again.”

“We have to be back in the meeting in five, come on. It wasn’t that bad. I’m sure they didn’t even notice,” Samantha said then quickly covered her mouth to muffle the giggle she let slip out.

“Sam, are you laughing at my humiliation? You’re supposed to be my best friend. I’m sure they all noticed, I mean, I set his tie on fire!”

“Well, it’s funny. Come out I’m tired of talking to the bathroom stall door. Stop acting like a kid.”

Kayla slowly opened the stall door and walked out; her cheeks were still blazing red with embarrassment.

“Kayla, why are you still having misfires? We’ve had our full powers for five years now. You should’ve out grown those years ago.”

“I know; it just seems that every time I’m around Cooper, I get all nervous and things just happen.”

“Ohmigawd! You like him! You’re getting all hot and worked up for him and that’s what’s causing the misfires.”

“Maybe, I mean yeah I’m very attracted to him, way more than I’ve ever been attracted to anyone ever!”

“How long has it been, ya know, since you were with a man? Maybe that is what’s wrong; you have all this pent up energy and it needs to be released…by Cooper.”

“Umm not too long, well maybe a little while.”

“How long Kayla?”

“Two and a half years.”

Wow! I would die”

“Samantha, stop being so overdramatic. You know that when Brad cheated on me it hurt me badly and I just haven’t been able to get close to another guy ever since.”

“Well if that’s what’s causing you to misfire, you need to get laid before you do some serious harm to the poor guy,” Sam said with a giggle. “You don’t have to jump into a relationship, just the sack. Now come on, we have to get back in the meeting.”

* * * *

The two women walked into the large conference room and sat at the end of the large table. On one side were two older witches and their lawyer. On the other side was Ryan Cooper, head litigator for the “Mortals For Magic” non profit. He specialized in witches and warlocks who had been treated unfairly only because of their magical abilities. Since the magical world let itself be known to the mortal world, there had been a backlash and a new type of discrimination had formed.

Cooper was the mortal son of a magical mother, so he was perfect to run the company even though his mother had long ago shunned her abilities in favor of a rich husband and privileged lifestyle. He was tall, with a dark complexion and short well kept dark blond hair and looked every bit the part of a lawyer. He knew the laws and understood that the magical people were like regular people, just with a little magic.

Cooper sat across from the two older witches, with the top two buttons on his shirt undone and his tie long gone; his collar showing only slight singe marks. He grinned his million dollar smile at the two older witches.

“Ladies, I am honored to give you this check that was sent to us today as severance from your job. The company would like to apologize for the misunderstanding. They are thankful for your years of service and wish you both the best in future endeavors.”

The older of the two ladies took the check, looked it over and said, “Well I’m still pissed they fired us just because we came out about our powers. We worked there twenty-five years. But to tell you the truth, I was getting tired of those idiots. And I’m sure this check will be enough for us to live on for the rest of out lives. Come on Louise, let’s hit the mall.”

The two older ladies stood up and almost sprinted out of the room. Cooper shook hands with their lawyer and walked him to the door then turned to face Sam and Kayla.

“Well that went well, all things considered.”

“Cooper I am so sorry, I guess I must be getting sick. I can pay for your tie and dry cleaning on your jacket.”

“No need to worry Kayla, my sister did worse when she was getting her powers. But she was much younger. I guess you should take the rest of the day off and go see if you can figure out what is causing the misfires. Sam if you could give us a moment alone I need to talk to Kayla.”

“Sure,” Sam said as she turned and walked out of the room, looking back over her shoulder giving Kayla a quick wink when she thought Cooper couldn’t see her.

Cooper walked over and placed a hand on Kayla’s shoulder, looking down at her with his crystal clear green eyes, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah Cooper, I’m okay.”

“We can’t have our best magical investigator sick; go take care of your self.”

As soon as he walked out the door a silver stream shot from her finger and caused a small clap of thunder and a rain cloud appeared over the table.

Sam rounded the corner and stood at the door, looking up at the rain cloud.

“Oh lord Kayla, go get laid,” she said as she quickly zapped the raincloud away.




Harris Channing giveaway closed and winners

Because Harris is awesome everyone is getting a copy! It may take a few days because she is out of town for Thanksgiving!

Cassidy Kingston!

Guest Post–Sherry Fulmer Moorer

Today my guest is fellow Whisky Creek Press author, Sherry Fulmer Moorer!


By: Sherri Fulmer Moorer

The end of the year is a mixed bag of emotions. We open it by remembering those who passed with All Saints Day, honor our Veterans mid-month, and then rush into the runaway train of the holidays. Add to that the shortening days, the falling leaves, and the added chill to the earth, and it’s no wonder that people often find themselves melancholy during these days. The world is winding down, but our activity level spikes with families, friends, homes and jobs to attend to. It’s no wonder people’s moods swing during the shortening days of autumn. The earth is going into dormancy, but the world is cranking up for the season of family, celebrations, and fun.  It can be confusing when the body says one thing and the mind says another.

It’s no coincidence that the holiday season is during the shortest days of the year – indeed, we celebrate the season of light during the darkest days to remind us that the darkness is temporary. Light never completely goes away, and the holiday celebrations remind us that the things truly giving us light are always a part of us no matter what time of year it is. We may focus more on family and friends this time of year, but the truth is that they are always a part of us.  

Yes, it can be difficult to stand at the crossroads between dormancy and celebration, but I believe it’s a conflict we shouldn’t try to resolve. In fact, I believe the conflict is good for us. It reminds us that in a world of mixed up messages, it’s up to us to create balance in our lives, and to recognize the things that are always a  light to our heart.

I wish you a safe and Happy Holiday season. May the lights of your blessings fill the darkness of dormancy with joy and peace, this season and always.

Jana Lanning battles the demon of depression –literally! Anywhere But Here is now available through Whiskey Creek Press. Please visit or for more on this book and other titles by Sherri Fulmer Moorer.


Guest Post–Harris Channing plus Giveaway!!!

Today I am sooo very happy to have Harris Channing as my guest. Not only is Harris an awesome writer…she also happens to be a great cover artist. She has done all of my covers!

There will be a giveaway of 1 copy of her book, In Sarah’s Shadow. The winner will recieve a coupon for a copy through Smashword! All you need to do to qualify is comment below and tell us what your favorite genre of Romance is and why. Also leave your email address please 😉 The winner will be picked by random on Wednesday 11/21/2012!


In Sarah’s Shadow, An American Historical Romance…available now!

Mother Nature plays matchmaker…

Frostbitten Roberta Shallcross is a woman in need of a hero. David Henderson is far from that. He’s a drunk who can’t get past the murder of his wife, Sarah.

When David grudgingly saves Bobbie’s life from the Rocky Mountain wilderness, she intends to return the favor. But will their burgeoning affection be powerful enough to overcome his grief?

How about a little excerpt?

His eyes flew open at the shrill, panicky sound that the wind offered. It almost sounded human. He pulled off his woolen cap and raked his fingers through his matted hair. He stared at the now empty flask. What had Henry put into the brew? Whatever it was had him hearing things.
“Please, help me!”
An ungodly chill raced through his body. Had Sarah come to take him with her? He welcomed death, for living had become unbearable. Rising from his chair, he waited, straining to hear the call, the call that would lead him home. If he heard it again, he would stumble out into the cold and lie down atop the snowy earth.
At the sound of banging upon the wooden door, he leapt forward and pulled it open, ready to see her, to welcome her.
The sight before him had him recoiling. There she was, dressed in rags, frozen blood leaching through a yellow scarf. Her hair hung in icicle laden strands. She lifted her eyes and his heart sank. It wasn’t a snow angel, but a human.
Gray, bloodshot eyes, not loving brown eyes, pleaded with him. “Let me in…p-please. I’m dying.”
He stared at the creature, his disappointment giving way to his duty. Pulling her inside, she fell into his body, leaning hard against him. She was alive and yet he’d never felt a live being that was so cold. Not one bit of warmth rose from her snow covered essence. He shoved the door shut, fighting the wind that pressed and fought to be allowed entrance.
She shivered against him, her arms remained at her side, and yet she clung to him without moving a muscle.
He knew he should say something, but no words came. How long had it been since he had spoken to anyone but himself? Yes, he saw Henry from time to time, but he drank and Henry spoke.
“I-I’m scared to die. Please don’t let me die.” Again the gray eyes searched his face for answers. He had none. Death was something that came whether or not you were scared.
Pulling her further into the room, he brought her nearer the fire. Taking action, he grabbed the blanket from the bed, shaking out the dust before wrapping it around her narrow shoulders.
She stood stock still, her face cast forward, her eyes suddenly unmoving. She would go into shock if he weren’t careful. Grabbing up his now lukewarm cup of coffee, he refreshed it from the pot that warmed by the fire and laced it with whiskey before offering it to her. She didn’t move, but looked at him.
“My hands. They don’t work. Nothing works.”
He set the cup down on the rugged makeshift mantle and slowly unwound the scarf from her face. He expected to see fiery red frostbite and feared she would lose her nose. To his surprise, a split lip seemed to be the worst damage done. In fact, his heart clenched at the youthful beauty before him. The large, honest eyes were but only part of the gloriousness that God had bestowed upon her. Her cheeks rosy with the cold, her nose pert and upturned, her lips…well once healed would be very suitable for kissing.
He stepped back. He hadn’t seen a woman in the five years since Sarah’s death. That was what attracted him. She could have been polecat ugly and his body would yearn for hers despite the fact that he would never be unfaithful to his wife.
He growled and took up the cup, bringing it to her. Her jaw trembled as she opened her mouth and allowed him to pour the liquid past her frozen lips. He carefully measured his pour and when she pulled back, she sputtered and coughed.
“What’s in that? Is there whiskey in there?”
He ignored her protests. “Drink it. It will warm you.”
“I-I’ve never had the drink.”
“It won’t hurt you in this minuscule amount.” He brought the cup up again and despite the uncertainty in her eyes, she did as directed and gingerly took in more of the coffee.
A visible shiver raced across her body and he took the cup away. He cleared his throat. “You’ll need to get out of those wet things.” He pushed the blanket from her shoulders and reached for the top button of her ragged and tattered coat.
What the hell was she doing on the mountain, dressed for late spring? But he didn’t ask, for he knew the answer. People never took the warnings seriously. Never believed how unbelievably fast a blizzard could rise up and whiten the world. Yes, it was only October, but sometimes winter came early. You always had to be ready because when it came, it overstayed its welcome.
He unfastened the top button and then another and she still just stood there, her eyes cast forward. She was a trusting soul, one that could be easily taken advantage of. Lucky for her she had found the only mountain man in Colorado who wouldn’t ravage her, iced over or not.

It’s available at AMAZON.COM
                       BARNES AND NOBLE
                       and SMASHWORDS

Thanks and happy reading!


Guest Post– Mary Webb

Today as my guest I am happy to have Mary Webb!

I realize this will make me seem like the devil or a hater or, worse, both. 

And yet, I’m going to go ahead and put this out there anyway: Jory has taken to praying. She has become a serious holy roller on wheels.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s cute. She looks like a little angel (that alone is worth the price of admission) with her eyes squeezed tight, hands clasped together and praying fervently.

And, she says some really beautiful prayers. “Jesus, my personal savior, I ask you to receive his heart. His heart is bad. His heart is hurting. Please help him Jesus. His family needs him, Jesus. I ask this from the Lord. Amen!” No, I’m not making any of this up. She picked up the language from going to a prayer service with Mama two weeks ago. Still, I marvel at how aptly she tailors the prayer to what circumstance she is praying about. So, not only have I expressed to her the strength and conviction she has, but just stood in awe of her. A four-year-old has put my prayers to shame.

And, I always felt like a really good prayer-er. (You know what I mean.)

So, you’re probably wondering what’s my issue with the prayers. Who wouldn’t want a miniature prayer warrior?

I love what she does. It’s just slightly, a wee, tiny bit…exhausting. Beautiful, but exhausting. She prays wwwwwaaaaaaayyyyyyyyy long. At any moment, I feel like she’s going to reach over, thump me on the forehead with the heel of her palm and slay me in the spirit like a TV evangelist. Who was that Marvin Gorman? Benny Hinn?

There’s been a couple of instances I was between going to sleep and tapping her on the shoulder and saying, Hey, Jory! I’m not getting any younger here. Wrap it up.

And, this is where, if you hadn’t been before, you’ve commenced calling me a devil.

I’m not. I love the praying. I just don’t like what I feel it represents for her, which is worrrying.

You see, the prayer I mentioned above concerns a really unfortunate event that occurred in my family’s life more than a year ago, but which I just shared with the children. My kids have always prayed, but it was the usual kid prayers, i.e., in the morning, at night, at meals, what they’re thankful for at my prompting, occasional Christmas toy pleas. But after learning about this situation, the praying began in full force. And, at every interval, i.e., on the way to school, on the way back from school, while I’m trying to brush her teeth, when I walked through her room to put away laundry in Quentin’s room, when I walked back through her room from putting away laundry in Quentin’s room, at 5 a.m. on a Saturday morning, when I was using the bathroom, etc. And while the situation is one I’m praying over ceaselessly, too, I’m just concerned that she has been filled with a spirit of anxiety.

Wednesday gave her cause for much alarm and many, many, many opportunities to beseech almighty God. That day the devil saw fit to attack me the whole day. It started when I woke up before 5 a.m. (intentionally) to do some school work I was too pooped to pop to do the night before on just the second day of the school year. Joke was on me because for the third time in as many weeks my Internet service was out…for no apparent reason. I just took a deep breath and tried to dial down the expletive-filled speech I was preparing in my head for my call to Cox later that day. Devil looked at me being all high and mighty and decided to take a better shot because a moment later, I walked into my room and noticed my iPod’s case and headphones laying on my bed, but no iPod. Generally, that means I’m charging it, or I left it in the car where I was using it. That morning, a sinking feeling registered in my stomach. Old as I’m getting, I couldn’t recall leaving it in the car, though I know I had used it there the night before. Old as I’m getting, I did vaguely remember pushing it back down in my pocket a few times the night before when, for the first time, I’d gone back to Quentin’s football practice a little early to watch him and to let Jory play on the gym set. Old as I’m getting, I realized the reason that is my last recollection of having it is because that’s the last time I did have it. My iPod had fallen from my pocket when I was sitting, and I didn’t hear it because it fell in the grass. Old as I’m getting, it never occurred to me that my iPod wasn’t in my pocket when I left the park.

I tried not to panic, but that’s what was creeping up inside of me. Then, I made a bargain with God. Hey, Lord! Remember that phone I found in Target Saturday and turned in? Well, hook my iPod up like that.

And then in desperation I added, C’mon, God! Don’t do me like this. You know I can’t live without my iPod.

Drove by the park that morning on the way to school with the extra time I had from rising early, but it wasn’t there.

Jory prayed the rest of the ride to school and all the way to her classroom door. Okay, baby. That’s enough, sweetheart! I said, as I shooed her into the door.

Should have asked her to pray I wouldn’t be late for work with her long-windedness. Well, I was late, but not because of her long-windedness. No, it was Quentin’s bus driver’s fault. He catches her one block up from my school. After I parked and dropped off my things, we walked to his stop. As we approached, I saw there were no other students, though it was about the time she normally arrives. Then, I realized, This chic came early and left my child.

Okay, so his school is a stone’s throw from mine, but I only had about nine minutes. Half of that was used trying to get Quentin’s turtle self to cross back over Esplanade Avenue and back to the parking lot quickly. No amount of C’mon, Quentin’s or Tell me when we get in the car, Quentin’s put any pep in his step or halted the full-blown conversation he was trying to engage me in.

So, late I was. (I won’t say that that next day after waiting in the rain because the driver was late dropping him off, the bus pulled up and there was no Quentin. He had decided not to take the bus because I “told him Lil’ Melvin was picking him up from school.” No, I told him Lil’ Melvin was keeping them later that day. In fact, when he started with his new favorite line of questioning “Why you just can’t…” as in “Why you just can’t let Lil’ Melvin pick me up?”, I shot it down with the response that it wasn’t Lil’ Melvin’s job to pick him, and it’s enough of a favor that he was keeping them for me later. Next time, Quentin puts words in my mouth about who I said was picking him up, he’s going to have a long time to recount that conversation in his head because he’ll be resting at school for the night.)

Sorry, I wasn’t supposed to say all that.

The main reason I’m anal about time and being prompt is because when I’m late, my day just unravels from there. I can never catch up. You saw how the day began. Now, the way the rest of the day unfolded had no bearing on me being tardy; it just serves to illustrate how crazy the day was.

After working like a Hebrew slave the first few days of the week, I got assigned a morning of student ID-picture-taking sessions. Easy breezy because all I had to do was watch them until the lady came to take their pictures in the hall. This afforded me a chance to work on lesson plans virtually uninterrupted for like four hours. If you’ve never written lesson plans, you need to know starting them off is like a real drag, but once you get started, you’re okay. I was rolling right along when all of a sudden, I hear desks falling over. I look up, expecting to see a fight, because what else causes that kind of ruckus? But nothing. So where is the noise coming from as more desks fall. Then, students just start getting up out of their desks and plastering themselves to the wall like they’re a pool of something is spreading on the floor and they don’t want it to get on their shoes. I look down, and there is a male student having a seizure on the floor.

To say this is the first time something like this happened in my class, I have to say I was efficient in getting medical supplies from my stash and getting the proper staff alerted. I was also pretty good about getting the kids out of the room without much fuss and allaying their fears. One kid wanted to know if he could catch it.

After the student was taken away by ambulance, all my earlier cool collectedness dissipated, and I realized I felt pretty shaken up by what happened, though I’m not really sure why. Maybe it was because I realized I had someone else’s life in my hands, in a way. Maybe I just discovered how Quentin’s first grade teacher Ms. Loupe must have felt when he seized in her class.

Whatever the case, I knew I wasn’t recovering the rest of the day.

My advisory students took full advantage of my not getting it together when they came back to me for afternoon sessions.

All I wanted to do was go home. Except at 3:30 when I got in my car, I couldn’t because it wouldn’t start. Are you freakin’ serious? I thought. On this day? With a practically new used car?

I called Mama to tell her I was going to be late getting the kids and why. She said I sounded nervous. No, I don’t get nervous. You’re mistaking what you hear for weariness.

Thankfully, a male teacher gave me a jump pretty quickly. Another one who came to my rescue pointed out that my front left tire needed to be replaced ASAP because the wires were showing. While I was grateful he called this to my attention (I’m usually oblivious to this sort of thing),  I was thinking how that was just one more thing. Certainly, I should have met my quota of mishaps for the day.

When I made it to pick up Quentin and Jory, the ride to the auto parts store to check my battery and used tire place to get a replacement was filled up with Jory’s intense prayers. Then, she kept expressing repeatedly how sorry she was about what happened to my car.

I decided then it was time to help her start cranking out a new type of prayer. They’re good about listing the things they’re thankful for when things are going well; it was time they learned how to offer thanksgiving when things weren’t going so well.

“Jory, I’m glad my car stopped on me today.”

“What?” she shrieked.

“It was better it happened today, even though it was raining, than it would have been if it had happened to us when we were coming home from camp two weeks ago that late at night and that far away from home. (Especially since Tee-Tee Linda’s journey knapsack didn’t include a flashlight or any real important emergency supplies, I wanted to add).”

I let her chew on that awhile before I added, “And, it was nice that my fellow teacher helped my car to get started. What if nobody had come out to help me?”

“That was nice of that man,” she conceded.

A few minutes later when we got to tire place and the man had actually just left, the man I assumed was the tire man (he was dressed in a service uniform) actually ran to the stop sign at Broad Street to flag the real tire merchant down. And, though he had been leaving early to fast (he was some sort of Middle Eastern), he came back to change my tire…in the rain.

I made sure to point all this out to Jory, adding that bad tires and the amount of rain we’d been experiencing in the city don’t mix.

When he told me he only took cash and I only had a debit card, he trusted me enough to go to the gas station next door to use the ATM. I shared that with Jory, too.

When we got to the parts store, the attendant told me that he’d have to charge my battery first so it had enough juice to run the diagnostic test. I told him I’d bring it back about 6 when I’d be in the area for Quentin’s practice. When I came back, he was enough of a gentleman to get us chairs to sit while we waited the 30 minutes for the battery to charge.

By now, Jory was getting the hang of it.

“It’s nice that man got us chairs, so we can be comfortable and not have to stand up and make our legs hurt.”

“You know what? You’re absolutely right.”

Then, he came back with bad news. Either I needed a new battery, or it could be something worse like the alternator. I would have to buy a new battery before he could tell which it was.

“Thank God today is payday,” I said as much for Jory’s edification as it was to lift my flagging spirit.

Then, he came back and showed me how, even with the new battery, something was causing a drain on it because something about the volts wasn’t high enough. (I may have this wrong. He showed me the numbers it was running and explained what they meant.)

Jory started in with the “worry” praying when we got back in the car.

“No, no, no,” I said. “We’re thankful for the new battery. And thankful that the man helped us, even though he had already clocked out when we came in and was working off the clock. And, we’re thankful that he told me the truth about the battery, even though it wasn’t his problem. And, we’re thankful that he’s going to check it again for us tomorrow to see if it’s okay or not.” (He did, and it was. Thank Jesus!)

When Jory laid down to sleep that night, she still said her prayers. They were still long. I would have fallen asleep next to her, but Quentin already had that spot. But that night, they weren’t as worry-filled. She had a lot to be thankful for. She’s a quick learner.

When I laid down to rest that night, I slept peacefully. I think it was because I remembered my blessings all day. It was pleasant to rest despite the day, especially when I know, in the past, mentally reliving hellish days have kept me wide awake.

Now speaking of Quentin sleeping with Jory, if there was a situation I wish she’d spend a good amount of time praying over it would be Quentin’s recent spate of nightmares brought on my some movie called Beyond the Grave my mother was wise enough to share with him and Jory that same day. Other than Jory’s praying, the other constant conversation was this movie where a boy came back to life, but his sister died, and another man was killed and several other things. When they were telling me about it, I had the passing thought: Why did Mama think this was appropriate for them?

Still, I didn’t connect his desire to bunk with Jory that night with the movie. Even over the course of the next two days, when he seemed obsessed about hell and going there because he was “bad” or coming in after 11 pm Thursday from my hairdresser appointment to find him sleeping in my bed was I savvy enough to draw the conclusion. It wasn’t until Friday after we were leaving his cancelled football game and with bedtime looming that he sputtered out the reason he was having nightmares and wouldn’t sleep in his bed anymore.

Oooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhh, I thought. I’ll be making a call tonight to my dear, sweet mother to ask her what she was thinking and to tell her if I spend one more night in Quentin’s room where he had been sleeping like a big boy in complete darkness since the moment we moved here, even though it was a new and strange place and even though it’s the last room of the how, she was going to lose her empty-nester status because she was going to inherit a 9-year-old tenant.

Her only response was that she didn’t mean to scare him. Well, hell, I hope not. Then, your grandparenting would have been called into serious question.

And, so I’m going to get Jory to pray for her as well.

Mary Webb

The Summer of Superheroes and the Making of Iron Boy

Guest Post–Sommer Marsden

Today I am so happy to Have the one and only Sommer Marsden as a guest!

Also check out the Cover and excerpt of her next novel “Lion Hearted”

That First Rough Kiss…

All the way to that first rough love scene. There’s something amazingly sexy to me about writing that very first charged encounter between two men. And Lion Hearted had a doozie:‘This is going to be a rough ride,’ he said. ‘I have zero patience and a ton of want right now.’

Of course, I’m the girl who always wanted Stephen Tyler to kiss Joe Perry when they’d hunker down on a mic together and sing. Their mouths were so close, and rumor has it they really do fight like cats and dogs so…kissing seems perfectly logical, right? Heh.

There’s a sharp charge in any first sexual experience between attracted people—but my goodness, I am a sucker for two sexy men who are kind of feeling their way around each other—until they just can’t stand it anymore and crash into each other. It’s like a salted caramel cupcake. A little salty, a little sweet and a whole lot of awesome.



Lion Hearted

Tryg Avondale is the muscle for his pride, and when he’s called upon to hunt down two missing teens, he sees the job for what it is – a chance to give his pride a break from him and his “nature”. Tryg is a gay lion and it’s not something his “family” seems to embrace.

He takes with him Luke Dorchester – an empath and the perfect travel companion. Luke can feel and soothe every emotion that coils deep inside Tryg, and the sex between them is the hottest Tryg has ever known. Tryg has no intention of letting his emotions go any further when it comes to this brand new man. But he also has zero intention of letting him go. What follows is a road trip from campground to campground, hot nights in hotel rooms and close encounters spent together as they follow the scent of the two abducted shifters. A scent that takes them to Divination Falls, a haven for shifters and associated magical folk; a place where an old evil will surface and Tryg will learn just how far his love for lion-hearted Luke must take him.

Amazon US buy link:

Amazon UK buy link:

Coming to all other vendors January 2013!



Lion Hearted

By Sommer Marsden

EXCERPT copyright 2012

‘Here’s your whisky, Tryg,’ Matthew said. He slid the shot glass across the scarred bar top.

‘What kind?’

‘Rot gut, what other kind do you drink?’

Tryg grunted, almost smiled, and tossed back the amber liquid. ‘How about another?’

‘You up for trouble tonight?’ Matthew looked wary, holding the whisky bottle but not pouring. What kind of bartender didn’t pour?

‘Me? Never.’ Tryg fingered the scar that bisected his eyebrow and barely avoided his left eyelid. He realised Matthew was watching, and quickly dropped his hand. ‘I’m fine, Matt. Just pour.’

‘Word is –’

‘Word is none of your business and it’s just hearsay so … Maybe you should just pour and not worry about rumours.’

Matthew pressed his lips together, nodded, poured. ‘Fine. But any problems from you, Bolo, and you’ll be banned from my bar.’

‘Got it,’ Tryg said. ‘And don’t call me Bolo.’

Matt shrugged. ‘It’s your name, as far as I heard until you started drinking here. Damn, Tryg, I thought it was your name.’

‘A bolo is a knife,’ Tryg said.

‘And you’re an enforcer.’

‘Go away.’

Matthew grinned and went to fill another order. That had been close. Tryg had been itching to clock him to teach him some manners. But he wouldn’t do that.

We thought it might be good for you to have a break from the pride …

He shook off the echoes in his head and downed the glass of whisky. About 600 more and he might feel better. He might even get his drunk on. Tryg set his glass down with a bang and Matt looked up. He was annoyed.

‘So let him be annoyed,’ he growled.

Someone bumped into him and he practically roared, the urge to shift rippling under his skin and along his spine. This was not the day to provoke him. When your pride wants to send you away for “a break” you’re pretty much over. Especially if you’re supposed to be the muscle. Again he touched his scar and it made him angrier when he realised he was doing it. Whoever was behind him had better be ready.

‘What the fuck is your problem? You can’t see where you’re –’

Something made him bite off his words. Maybe it was the flash of fear in the man’s bright blue eyes or the nervous duck of the head that caused sandy blond hair to fall across his brow. Tryg bit back another roar because he found himself even more annoyed that he found the kid attractive.

‘Move,’ he growled.

The kid moved. Tryg called him a kid because he might be 25 to Tryg’s 32. Might.

Their shoulders brushed as he tried to push past, and he felt a comingling of instincts. The urge to lash out and hurt immediately contradicted by the urge to protect. What the hell?

‘Sorry,’ the kid said.

Again, he wanted to hit him and kiss him. Tryg shook his head and moved away. He needed some air. Maybe he’d had too much to drink.

Or not enough brain cells in your damn head…

He forced his way through the small bar. As he passed the first booth he heard Ozric. ‘What the fuck? You’re still here?’

‘You’re not on the road yet, Bolo?’ someone else piped in.

Tryg tried to drown out the voices. These were the guys who’d gotten him to the point of being asked to take an indefinite road trip. Ozric and his crew had issues with Tryg. Issues about his ways, his job, and who he chose to fuck.

‘Just keep going. Just keep walking,’ he told himself. He wanted to return to his pride after his mission was complete and be welcome. Even if his pride included assholes like Ozric and Ronnie and Dane.

‘We don’t need your kind anyway.’ This time it was Ronnie who spoke. He was short and sort of out of shape. Were they forced to live in their animal forms, he’d be the first to succumb to starvation and die. He was a shit hunter and a worse person. ‘It’s not like you help expand our numbers.’ He snorted, hefted a beer, looking smug and amused.

That was when Tryg snapped, his body rippling from the surge of adrenaline and rage. The toxic soup of hormones that ushered in a shift boiled under his skin and he felt his feet turn to rush the group instead of keep on a steady course toward the door.

The roar ripped up and out of him, but he heard it more than felt it. His fingers clenched, then went warm from his joints softening to reconfigure. He felt a canine tooth slide against his tongue and tasted blood. It was fine. He wanted to taste blood.

‘Remember what I said, Bolo!’ Matt called from the bar. Tryg caught a flash of his wide eyes and his fingers delving under the bar where a dart gun was kept. One shot from that thing and almost any shifter in the bar went down like 50 pounds of shit in a 10-pound sack. The only creature to ever manage to stay conscious had been a visiting shifter –a Kodiak bear.

The Bolo reference only made him angrier and he moved fast. Faster than was normal even for him. His nails had just bitten into the soft wood of the table, ready to tear the top off and maybe use it to beat the fuck out of the morons sitting there – but then a hand settled on his shoulder.

Two things happened. His brain said “attack”. His body said “relax”.

What the hell?

He turned to find that boy. Those water blue eyes wide but intent. ‘Easy,’ the kid said.

Tryg considered taking a swing anyway. Attempted to tell his brain to raise his fist to clock this kid and teach him a lesson. His body betrayed him. Under all the confusion, that made him nervous.

‘Are you insane?’ Tryg rumbled, but felt his muscles relax further, his claws contract, his muzzle reform. He felt a loosening in his solar plexus and a syrupy kind of peace.

Maybe Matt had hit him with that tranq gun, after all.


Sommer Marsden’s been called “…one of the top storytellers in the erotica genre” (Violet Blue), “Unapologetic” (Alison Tyler), “…the whirling dervish of erotica” (Craig J. Sorensen),and “Erotica royalty…” (Lucy Felthouse).


Her erotic novels include Boys Next Door, Restless Spirit, Big Bad, Wanderlust and Learning to Drown. Sommer currently writes erotica and erotic romance for HarperCollins (Mischief Books), Xcite Books, eXcessica, Ellora’s Cave, Pretty Things Press, and Resplendence Publishing. The wine-swigging, dachshund-owning, wannabe runner author writes work that runs the gamut from bondage to zombies to humor.


Sommer’s short works can be found in well over one hundred (and counting) erotic anthologies. Her short stories have also been included numerous adult and romance magazines–both in print and online. Visit to see what’s up and drop her a line.



Guest Post–Robert Zimmermann

 Today I am super happy to have the cover/title reveal for my friend Robert Zimmermann’s poetry book!!!


            From Robert Zimmermann comes From Where I Stand, an emotional debut poetry collection.  Zimmermann explores strained parental relationships, loss of life, and the despair associated with grief.  Alongside these darker themes, he delves into the small areas of life that often go unnoticed but become the hope we are searching for.


Expected release November 2012



            Example’s of Robert’s poetry can be found in the poetry section on his blog. He also has poems published by Albany Poets.






            “Rob writes with an incredible sense of observation and feeling made all the more poignant by his struggles. Every verse is genuine and every poem is a journey toward understanding the soul of a poet.” – Ben Ditmars, author of Night Poems


            “Zimmermann has achieved something rarely seen in modern poetry. Each poem is a personal and detailed story that will strike the heart of the reader with a torrent of emotion.  Zimmermann balances the dark and light beautifully and without a hint of hesitation.” – Jessica Fortunato, author of The Sin Collector Trilogy


            “Rob’s poetry has a very real tone to it and in some ways creates a tragic yet poetic story.” – Paulina Ulrich, author of the Flightless Bird Series


            “Honest, heartfelt and moving” – Amber Jerome~Norrgard, author of In The Gloaming





            Robert has been writing poetry since the eleventh grade. His writing started as impulsive rambling, but soon became a passion. A few years later he attended SUNY Potsdam where he received a B.A. in Creative Writing.
            His main focus is poetry, but at times you can find him dabbling in short fiction. Robert has also created the blog A Life Among The Pages, where he posts his writing as well as book reviews.

            When he’s not reading or writing, Robert enjoys spending time with his dog, Deuc. Deuc ran out of the woods in August 2011 and they have been inseparable ever since.