Five Ways To Beat WB--By J.S. Wayne

Odds are, with a few seconds' thought, you can work out what WB is. No, it's NOT Warner Brothers! (Please don't sue me, mmm-kay? Thanks , , ,) It's the bane of every author out there, and statements I've made in the past to the contrary, in recent months I've actually had a couple of fairly nasty but mercifully brief interludes with it. But this whole Lesbians Vs. Zombies project got me to thinking about ways to take WB and make it work for you. After all, without the thoroughly outrageous premise and conditions our own Ruby Green attached to this project, "Dead Means Dead" wouldn't even exist . . . and it certainly wouldn't have been the sexy, scary romp it turned into! So, with that in mind, here are five ways to kick WB to the curb!

5) The jumble

When you're really stuck for something to write about, take a bunch of concepts and throw them into a hat or a bowl. Write down a list of possible twosomes, threesomes, or moresomes. Then do another list of occupations or mythical creatures. (Or do one list for each. Hey, go for broke!) Then do a list of times or places you'd like to visit. (Again, you can do this for each if you like.) If you want to get really deep into this (and completely surrender to the hand of Fate to create your plotline) you can also add lists of body characteristics, hair and length, eye color and shape, favorite kinds of clothing, and so on.

An example: I just did this for myself. I came up with an FFM pairing concerning a firefighter in Dublin, Ireland, who's fallen in love with a Siren marine biologist from Ancient Greece and now based out of Columbia University. The complication is her girlfriend, who's a mermaid stripper from Brooklyn. They all wind up going back in time to the Civil War and having to survive traveling the Underground Railroad to Canada. If they make it to Canada, there's a shaman waiting for them to send them back, with (moral lesson here) learned.

Would I actually attempt to write this story? Well . . . at some point, maybe. Right now, the idea of the sheer volume of research involved in learning everything I would need to about Dublin, the Civil War, the Underground Railroad, and marine biology is far too daunting for me to even consider. But, hey, one night I might get bored and find myself with a couple hours to kill, right?

4) Ask a friend

There's nothing saying you can't ask somebody to give you something to write about. In the writing world, we call that a "prompt." You may use any, all, or none of the ideas given, or their ideas may spark some of your own. "What if" followed by "what then?" at its finest. But if you do this, make sure they're not planning to use it in the future, and DO be sure to give them a nod in the acknowledgements! ;)

3) Go to the mall.

Yeah. A card-carrying member of the straight male persuasion just told you to go to the mall. Or the park. Or a busy downtown street. Anywhere you can sit with a pad of paper and a cold beer or a hot cup of coffee and watch the people go by. See that geeky, slightly balding businessman in the two-thousand-dollar suit and the wingtips that cost more than your last car payment? Watch his eyes and his face. What kind of woman does he react to? Or what kind of guy? How does he react? Or how about the woman who walks by him with an upturned nose and a look of disgust. Maybe she knows him. Maybe they had an affair at one point and she still loves him, but doesn't know how to try to get him back.
People-watching is a great way to get ideas, folks! If you're really, truly stuck, getting out of your comfort zone and finding an environment that serves your story while not putting you at personal risk is a good way to shake some of those words loose.

2) Just do it.

A lot of people use programs like "Write Or Die." The entire point of these programs is, you've got to be thinking ten to fifteen words ahead of the cursor. Especially if you use the sprint mode, which prevents you from going back and editing unless you want to watch a half page or more of fresh writing vanish into the Blue Nowhere because you realized you used "lippenschnitzen" fifteen times in three paragraphs and tried to fix it. Your first draft with Write or Die and its clones is likely to look like utter crap, no matter how polished you think you are. But if you can mine out the good stuff and fix the bad, you're going to find you've got a lot more usable material than you think!

1) The Internet

Of course, the Internet! Where else would you look for the entire sum of human knowledge? Find something that's trending on Twitter or blowing up Facebook and write about that!
When doing this, choose your topic carefully. I would suggest, if you're going to attempt something like this, you take your overarching inspiration story and mash up the elements as in #5. This will help you create a story that's uniquely your own, and offers an almost unlimited source of fresh material.

Because we all know truth is always stranger than fiction, right?

Until next time,

Best,

J.S. Wayne

364 Days Later . . . By J.S. Wayne

Twenty-four hours from now marks the one-year anniversary of the email that started this wild ride you and I have shared this year. It was from Rebecca Dampier, Noble's acquisitions editor, and started with the word "Congratulations!" Looking back, it's hard to believe that in just one short year, I've gone from a hopeful writer to a multi-published author with a small but fiercely loyal following.

Like most writers, I've had my moments of doubt about the wisdom of my chosen path. I've had stories I thought were sure things come to naught, and stories I didn't give a chance in Hell of doing anything receive amazing reviews and praise from all sides.

I've explored my boundaries, and so far, the only thing that has proven to be utterly beyond me is "sweet" romance. I have been fortunate to win fans, make some new and wonderful friends, and had many people entrust me with their secrets, fears, and confidences. For this, I am profoundly and deeply grateful.

So, let's talk about the year ahead, rather than the one just behind us.

First up: On February 13th, my entry for the Lesbians Vs. Zombies line, "Dead Means Dead," will be available from Noble. This dark, apocalyptic tale is an exploration of the resilience of the human heart and our need for love, perhaps most of all when all hope seems to be lost. I'm particularly excited about this because once again, I'm getting to share stage time with the infamous KevaD. Joining us on this jaunt are XCognito, Jadette Paige, Amber Green, Dana Dye, and a host of other great authors, so I hope you'll check them out!

Second: I'm currently putting the finishing touches on the second book in The Wildsworn series. I was shocked by the wonderful response "Dancing On Flames" achieved;" as I write this, "DOF" remains in the Top 10 Noble Romance offerings on All Romance Ebooks, making it by far the best-selling work I've ever written. Not bad for a work I honestly didn't expect to go anywhere at all! So I'm hoping to have Silver and Air, a full-length novel following the aftermath of Russell and Ion's forbidden passion, sent out to beta readers by the weekend and submitted by the end of next week. Cross your fingers, folks, and keep watching for updates!

Third: I'm very proud to say that one of my "side projects" is coming to fruition. Although I don't make a point of "plugging" those projects here, this is one I think my readers will be particularly interested in. As of this writing, three of a projected seven stories for a forthcoming anthology to benefit Writing Out Child Abuse have been completed, and I expect to have the last four shortly. Again, this is in no way associated or affiliated with Noble Romance, so I hope y'all don't mind me bragging this up a little. :)

If you like this button, PLEASE post it on your blog or website, and show that YOU believe children everywhere have the right to feel and be safe.

Amber Green, R. Renee Vickers, Gillian Colbert, and a couple of others (whose names I don't know yet or I'd shout them out too!) have all contributed tales to this anthology. ALL proceeds from this anthology are going to benefit charities to provide hope, aid, safety, and comfort to survivors of child abuse all over the world. So far, the stories are looking wonderful, and I'm both very proud and deeply humbled at the number and quality of the authors who've answered this call. If you'd like to know more about WOCA or our work, simply go to http://wix.com/writingoutchildabuse/intro, and PLEASE follow us on Twitter @WOCH2. And, just in case you didn't know: I'm donating 20% of all author profits from my ENTIRE backlist to the cause as well.

I've gotta say, folks, it's been a wild ride. I've done things I never expected to do, learned a lot about myself, and all in all, I'm looking at this coming year with a lot of hope and a very strong feeling it's going to be a great year. And I owe a lot of that to my friends at Noble and to you, my readers and fans.

Let's give 2012 Hell, y'all.

Until next time,

Best,

J.S. Wayne

Thank You!!! By J.S. Wayne

There are moments a writer lives for. 
I've become addicted to the adrenaline rush of fighting against impossible deadlines until all hours of the day and night, sending off a story and praying it would past muster. The consecutively bigger thrills of getting the contract, the advance check, release days, and the sweet joy of hearing from people who've enjoyed my writing enough to tell others about it. I've even come to enjoy the excitement of parlaying my romance writing career into other endeavors and causes, such as my contributing author status for the weekly arts and poetry blog http://theriverjournal.org and my work with Writing Out Child Abuse. For me, it all comes back to the sweet agony of never knowing whether you're going to sink or swim, and for someone who's always been a bit of a gambler, there is no greater rush.

Oh yeah. It's like THAT.

 But, as exciting as all this is, one thrill had always eluded me.
The highest any of my work has ever made it at Noble to date was #9. While I was proud of that achievement, I confess I had higher hopes for Angels Cry and "Ancient Magic." Neither of which, to date, has seen the Top 10.
I did mention I'm kind of an addict, right? Add to that, I'm also the competitive sort. Not the kind who'd run someone I was racing off the road, but when I commit myself to something, I refuse to settle for anything less than my absolute best effort. Ask anyone who's ever played chess with me more than once.

Anyway, I was taking a break from "Silver and Air," the next Wildsworn story, and a title-TBD story for the forthcoming Lesbians Versus Zombies line to take a swing at a comedy story about a ghost who's into BDSM and his new, sexy roommate. I'd gotten about two thousand words in when I noticed a flashing orange light in the bottom right of my screen. It was an email alert, and I clicked on it just to see what was going on.
"EEEEEEE You're #1!!!!!"

*What the hell?!?!?!*
So I bounced over and clicked on the message. It was from H.C. Brown.
I didn't get any further than "Hey, you're number 1 at Noble this week!" before I opened a new tab. I set a land speed record and probably did some permanent damage to my clicking hand getting over to see for myself. As soon as the page loaded, a lump rose in my throat, my jaw dropped, and a perfectly idiotic grin spread over my face. (Say what you will about impossible simultaneous actions, that's how it went down.)
I never learn. For some reason, it seems the less I expect from a story, the more it actually does. So it has gone with:
"Angels Would Fall" (No one's going to pay good money for a story this short. First Noble contract.);
"Espiritu Sancti," from Red Roses and Shattered Glass (Is this even really romance? Second contracted story; released ahead of "Angels Would Fall" by exactly two weeks.);
"Angel of the Morning" (Fun, throwaway story. #9 at Noble Romance. Twice, in two non-sequential months.);
and "Dancing On Flames" (What the hell do I bring to the gay romance table that H.C. Brown, Bryl Tyne, Amber Green, Margie Church, and KevaD haven't already done a LOT better? #1 at Noble Romance.)
The point is, maybe someday I'll learn. But I wouldn't put any serious money on it.
In the meantime, I owe some profound and heartfelt thank-yous:
To Bryl, Margie, KevaD, H.C., Renee Vickers, and everyone else who believed enough in Russell and Ion's story and my ability to tell it to put up with my, let's be honest, whining, and keep me going long enough to finish it.
To the people who've reviewed it, including H.C. Brown and Mandy Rosko, clamoring for MORE! More's on the way. Promise. :)
And, last but by no means least, to the readers, who took a chance on "Dancing On Flames," and in the process helped me achieve a dream I've cherished ever since I started writing for Noble. I'm so proud to see so many people reading and hopefully enjoying my work. If any of you are new readers, I hope you'll take a look at some of my other work!
Thank you all. From the bottom of my heart.
Now . . . to see what new worlds I can conquer!

Until next time,

Best,

J.S. Wayne

Come on, now. You didn't seriously think I was going to leave without breaking you off a taste, did you? ;)

~Blurb~

In the aftermath of a raid on a band of child slavers, Russell and Ion of the Chosen of Fenrir find themselves baring their hearts and souls—and their bodies—to one another. In doing so, they violate one of their clan's most sacred laws: Look not to your own kind for love.

Now, one will lay his life on the line on the Path of the Flame Dance, where the Earth Mother will judge whether the love they have is worthy—or a betrayal of their own blood. The other must watch as his lover walks the fire, or perishes in the attempt.

Stand or fall, the two warriors will never be the same . . . .

~Excerpt~

The camp was a tightly huddled affair, well concealed among the trees and hard against the leeward side of a hill. Around the fire echoed the coarse laughter of men and the weeping of children from inside the tents.

Guards stood at regular intervals around the camp's perimeter, holding torches to give light. From atop the hill, the outer ring of torches clearly defined the size and shape of the camp, which featured a blazing bonfire at its center. The men's voices rang out as they told vile jokes, each planning what he would do with his cut of the take from the latest group of child slaves they had "acquired."

As remote as the area was, well away from any roads or paths in the rugged foothills, the men thought themselves to be alone and safe from observation. Though as with so many other things humans believe, they were wrong.

Had any of them troubled to look up, they might have seen the sleek outlines of two immense wolves silhouetted against the three-quarter moon rising just over the top of the high hill. If the watcher had been particularly observant, he might have noticed that these wolves did not behave precisely as wolves should.

For now, however, the two wolves went unnoticed.

For now . . . .

* * * * *

  The silver wolf stole a glance at his larger, black cohort.   What do you think, Ion?

  The black wolf gave a low growl and shook his flanks, the hair along the ridge of his spine bristling with disgust. His posture and bearing spoke of barely-restrained fury, even as his blue eyes glinted with an intelligence far beyond that which might be observed in his smaller brethren.   Slaver scum, came the ominous mental retort. Looks like our information was right.

  When do you want to attack?

  The black wolf swiveled its muzzle up and studied the rising moon. After a long moment, he replied, No time like the present. You up for this?

  Russell chuffed, the canid equivalent of a mirthless laugh. Give me a moment, and then we can go.
He looked down on the camp and focused all his will on a plea to the Mighty Mother. Bring forth your breath, Mother, that it may shroud our attack. In his mind, he began a low chant that built quickly in power and volume.

Below, thin ribbons of mist crept into the camp. In moments more followed, until a billowing cloud of fog enveloped the tiny enclave. The merrymaking in the camp cut off, to be replaced by cries of consternation and alarm at the unnaturally fast-rolling fog.

  Russell looked at Ion, who stood proudly, head erect as he glowered down at the camp. No matter what form Ion wore, he looked every inch the warrior he was. Will that cover our entry adequately?

  Ion's jaw lolled open in a wolfish grin. Well done, Brings-The-Sign. Let's make an end of these fools.
  I thought you'd never ask. Let's dance.

  Silently, the two wolves stole down from the hilltop, picking their way cautiously. Russell placed his paws gingerly on the hard ground, feeling the textures and shapes beneath him and mentally cataloguing everything he touched. Granite here gave way to soil there, which in turn melted into soft grass and a blanket of tiny ferns. A field of pebbles about halfway down altered his course, for he feared dislodging one and sending it tumbling down the hill. Might as well bang a drum to let them know we're coming if we're going to be that clumsy, Russell grunted in his head.

  This was not Russell's first raid. Far from it. Back in the Caves of the Chosen, he had a belt festooned with trinkets and trophies of the many battles he'd fought since finding his way to the Chosen enclave a year earlier in the traumatic aftermath of his first transformation. He had earned his clan name honestly and early when he'd stolen two letters from a neon sign that advertised a massage parlor where many of the "employees" were children. After seeing them all safely out, he had set the place ablaze with cleansing fire. Although the moniker "Brings-The-Sign" was originally intended as a small mockery, he carried the name with sincere pride.

  Tonight was the first time that he'd ever gone out on patrol with Ion, though. The black wolf was a legend within the Chosen of Fenrir, frequently vanishing for weeks at a time from the borders of the Chosen lands. When he returned, he did so with fascinating tales to tell. But he always backed up his tales by the macabre souvenirs he carried in his pack; at any moment, he could pluck any item from a vampire fang to a crow's feather out of his collection and give a detailed accounting of how, when, where, and under what conditions he came by it.

  As a living legend, Ion was often predicted by the Elders not to return from whatever errand he'd been sent on. Legends among the Chosen tended to have longevity or glory, rarely both, and Ion had a talent for getting himself into scrapes that an average wolf could only hope to survive. Time and again, Ion had demonstrated his resourcefulness and cunning; thus far, these qualities had kept him alive where a lesser Scion of Fenrir would surely have fallen.

  Russell entertained a brief moment of pity for the men whose camp they were about to invade, earning him a hard, sidelong glare from Ion. He shook his head hastily. Don't make the mistake of thinking I have any sympathy for them. I'm just thinking that between you and me, this isn't even a fair fight.

  Ion snorted. Perhaps not. They are unlikely to carry silver ammo, but at least half of them have firearms.

  Russell almost missed a step in surprise. But you're immune to silver! It was a well-known part of Ion's myth. He had actually seen the Head Elder, Speaks-To-The-Wind, cut open Ion's palm with a silver blade. Where almost any other Chosen would have borne an angry scar for the rest of their days, Ion had healed from the without so much as a blemish.

  One blue eye rolled around to study him. You're not, came Ion's silent retort.

  There was more emotion in those two simple words than Russell would've expected from this grizzled veteran. You almost sound like you care.

  Without warning, the black wolf wheeled in front of him and barred Russell's way. His lips curled back in a snarl, and he revealed long, sharp, white teeth. I do care, you fool! I've had to bury more than my share of Chosen who got careless or cocky. It fell to me to sing their souls to the Moon. I was the one who had to tell their kin what had befallen them. I was the one who had to carve their names in the Glade of the Fallen. You cannot even imagine how that feels; I bear their loss with me with every step I take.

  Russell's stupid impulsiveness had inadvertently gained him invaluable insight into the warrior's mind, but at a terrible cost. Ion had always been one to keep his feelings close to the vest; it was one of many reasons most of the Chosen steered well clear of him. Ion had made a science of keeping people at arm's length. I'm sorry. I spoke without thinking. Is that why you go places that even other Chosen would think twice about treading without the full might of the Clan behind them?

  Ion stared at him for a long, brittle moment before nodding. It is. My way of atoning for failing my brothers and sisters.

  A very human lump rose in Russell's throat. I think I understand.

  With a derisive shake of his head, Ion turned away and flicked his tail angrily, heading back to the task of getting to the camp. No you don't, whelp. And I pray to the Mother and the Moon that you never do.

  There was nothing more to say, and the night was wearing on. Although the confrontation had occurred literally at the speed of thought, even thoughts takes time.

  Head in the game, Russell, Ion growled. We're almost there.

Where's this story going?

Not many people realize it, but I don’t unilaterally fall in love with my stories. Don’t believe me? My hard drive is riddled with fragments and false starts that have never seen daylight, simply because they weren’t up to my standards or something was inherently wrong with them.

Take, as a case in point, “Ancient Magic.” I started this story back in June, with pure intentions and what I thought was a good idea. The problem was — it involved vampires.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with vampires. Check out my backlist, both here at Noble and elsewhere, and you’ll see vampires are a big part of my writing. But that was part of the problem: I’ve already got an established vampire mythos I use. (No, they don’t sparkle.) To create a vampire who would work within the framework of the world I was in the process of constructing, I would have had to go back to the drawing board, so to speak. Besides, I’d already done vampires for the Red Roses and Shattered Glass anthology, so I wanted to try something unique. 

So what did that leave?

Angels? Nope. As much as I love them and exploring their erotic potential, I’ve already got plenty of those in my backlist, thanks just the same. Werewolves? Heh. I’m holding off on doing any more of those until I see how “Dancing On Flames” performs. Ghosts? Been there, done that, also in the Red Roses and Shattered Glass anthology.

I winced, cursed, swore, damned my absolute stupidity, questioned whether or not I was worth my keyboard, poked, prodded, and generally freaked out. Every combination I could come up with that seemed to fit with the “Timeless Desire” theme opened up whole new vistas of suckitude, and for the first time in my professional writing career I started to seriously consider the idea I might not be as immune to  writers’ block as I’d like to believe. For me, this simple statement is an admission tantamount to a deathbed conversion.

Then the answer occurred to me. So simple and laughably obvious that I’d managed to completely ignore it.

Why not make the main characters human?

*Gasp.*

Sure, in most of my stories, there’s a human or quasi-human protagonist. But they almost invariably have some special talent or capability that removes them from the average press of humanity. In the case of “Ancient Magic,” I decided to go a different route and make my characters fully human, devoid of special or unique talents. No telepathy, no fangs, no magic. Just two people who were intended to be something more than what fate made them, but nevertheless capable of amazing but not supernatural deeds.

In fact, the only things I kept from the original three and a half thousand words of what started as “Night Eternal” were the setting and Varath’s name. The setting was inspired by the image of a ruined Greek temple; antiquity has always fascinated me, so Hell or high water, that element of the story wasn’t to be touched. Varath had a perfectly good name, so why waste time seeking something better? 

While I was having my mental slugfest with my muse over the whys and wherefores of the story, my time to finish the story was inexorably running out. The contract had already been inked; the clock was ticking, and lost in the fog of battle with my recalcitrant plot, I didn’t notice until an email arrived in my inbox.

“When are you going to have the story done?”

Sometimes, you just need a good, sharp poke with a long stick. So I sat down and started to work. In two days, “Ancient Magic” was completed. I fired it off and anticipated a scathing email which boiled down to “WTF do you think you’re trying to pull?” 

You’d think I would’ve known better; after all, Bryl hasn’t kicked back one single story I’ve subbed for Noble yet, so it would stand to reason after five accepted submissions it probably wouldn’t happen now either. But the first few days after I put in a submission are always characterized with a slightly panicky air of “Oh, shit. This is where everyone’s finally going to realize I’m a living monument to ineptitude and shouldn’t be permitted anywhere near the company of real authors.”

It’s admittedly a little melodramatic, but it’s part of my mojo. The stress over whether or not my work will be judged worthy inspires me to work all the harder, and some of my best writing has come out of post-submission jitters. And frankly, I fear the day when I don’t get that gut-clenching shrieking fear when I send out a manuscript, because that will be the day I lose my edge altogether.

Did I succeed with “Ancient Magic?”

You tell me.

Until next time,

Best,

J.S. Wayne

Don’t forget to leave a comment for your chance to win some great prizes, and then click the Special Blogs button to continue on the “Timeless Desire” blog tour!

Timeless Desire Tour: Bryl R. Tyne

  

IMMORTAL by Bryl R. Tyne
Genre: paranormal/fantasy/m/m
Noble Romance Publishing
(c) 2011 Bryl R. Tyne

Blurb: Found abandoned as a child and taken in by the Nevsky clan, the man Ivis now feels the call of the water, the sea, but Sefton and his family, one of the most influential vampire bloodlines in Russia, isn’t about to let Ivis go. As Ivis’s powers grow stronger—powers unknown to him—Sefton’s instructed to detain Ivis at all costs to tilt in his clan’s favor the balance of power in an endless struggle between the Bogdanov water gods and Nevsky vampires. Sefton’s left with a choice: power or love. Which is the greater desire?

(unedited) Excerpt:
At the edge of the great forest, wild fields stretched to the south and to the east, ending as they tapered into a great sea. Though I could see only long grasses to the horizon, rumor spoke of such a place, the place where the Nevsky hunters had found me as a child of four seasons, with not a stitch of clothing or clan to lay claim and the letters IVIS scored across the point where my left collarbone met my shoulder. Few from the nearby village had dared venture out that far since, and those with a will to try had never returned. I dreamt of returning there someday. Though to what, or to whom, or precisely where, I had yet to learn.
“Again, I fear I am losing you, Ivis.” Sefton’s breaths cut cold and hard across the dampness between my shoulders.
Tepid skin graced my lips as I kissed the back of his hand. “Unfortunately, glimpses of my past remain with me to this day, as they should. Should they not?” I asked but got no reply at my back. “I can no more forget them than the sight of my own face in the water.”
But no matter how often I uttered those words, in truth, my past reached no farther than the tip of my nose, for how was it possible a child, no taller than waist high, should remember such places or events . . . or names? It was vain for me to try, but even now, as a young man, I continued to do so. More so, the closer Sefton drew to me for the power, though I knew not this power he claimed to seek . . . but his seeking me out for yet another romp in the forests happened more often than not of late.
“When I am with you, I am alive as never before.” Sefton tugged me against his chest, as he had done each night and many a carefree afternoon for as far back as I could recall. His lips found the juncture at my neck and shoulder, while he fondled me with the most skilled of touches. “You are the very air I breathe.” His words danced across my skin, graceful and confident. With his other hand, he found and teased my entrance, and pushed into me with a whisper, “You are mine, now and for always.”
“Yes.” I barely recognized my own voice under his assault. Yet, I wanted him as totally as he claimed to want me. “Always.”
He stroked my manhood and plowed into me relentlessly, over and again. “Tell me you are mine.”
By the goddess, I wanted to. I wanted nothing more than to accept his invitation to stay forever. But to do so would be a lie.
“Do not speak, my love,” he said, entering me again and again, working himself, faster and faster, until I could not tell where his body ended and mine began. “My love is enough to carry us both.” And he sank his sharp bite into my neck, took from me as much as he gave me elsewhere, and sending me into the bright abyss that only a lover can do.
“Sefton . . . .”
He withdrew his fangs, sealed the tiny wounds with a loving touch of his tongue. My body quivered in his embrace as he brought me back to earth with his sure caress. Yet, I lay there in his arms, fully aware of my plans to leave. How could I tell him that I could not stay, no matter how promising, how tempting . . . how pleasurable his touch.
“I am troubled, not understanding how each time can be better than the last, yet it is a truth I cannot deny,” he said and kissed the top of my head, then my shoulder; his hips pressed firmly to my backside. “Ivis? Promise me. Tell me that every day will be like today only better. Promise to never leave my side.”
His words were at once as a thick plume of smoke, suffocating, no matter how quickly I maneuvered through them. How could he promise me what was not his to give? I removed his less than reassuring arm and pulled myself up to stand. The rocky ground outside our grassy circle of body-warmed foliage stung the soles of my feet. “For the Lady’s sake, I am no Nevsky, and I belong to no one in your villages. To this day, I know not even my family name.” I leaned, one hand clinging, toying with a low-hanging branch. “Until I know who I am, I cannot make such promises. You know that I would die for you if I could.”
I turned and found the ever-present doubt his gaze increasingly held.
“I love you, Sefton Nevsky, like no other. Is knowing that not enough for you?”
For the briefest of seconds, his eyes flashed the color of fresh-spilled blood, and I looked away. He shot to his feet and with a firm grip, carried my face nose to nose with his own in a move that left me panting with fright. Yet I did not retreat, nor show the fear he had instigated and likely craved. Instead, I met his sternness with my own. “You are neither my keeper nor my brother.”
“I am a Nevsky and you—a bastard son found amongst the reeds. Do not push me, lower than low.” He pounded his chest with a knuckled fist. “You will not defy my wishes.”
Against my knotted gut, I stepped around him and retrieved my tunic and breeches. Oxen more stubborn, I had never witnessed in my supposed twenty-some years—I kept that knowledge loosely, also, for I had as much recollection of my true age as I had of the day I was born. Despite Sefton’s stance and his curses to the contrary, I dressed, slipping my tunic over my head. “Your proclaimed ‘two years’ on me makes you no wiser than I, though, with each passing day, you do resemble more and more a donkey’s behind.”
His reaction came swift and sure as he backed me against the nearest stone birch; Sefton tightened his grasp on my tunic with a shove surely meant to meld his fist to my chest. My still-naked buttocks encountered rough bark. His gaze remained locked with mine. “One day”—he wiped the spittle from his bottom lip—”one day I will make you know how infuriating a man you can be, Ivis Bogdanov.”
Sefton’s mouth covered mine, leaving me forgotten moments better used for breathing, but I could no more deny his needs for all the talk in the forest. He pulled away, as breathless as I. “Curse our lives,” he said, grimacing in obvious disgust. “Were I not born the ass that I am—were you . . . had we met under different circumstances—”
“But we have not. That is the hand the Fates have dealt us.”
Sefton pulled me into his arms. “Do not do this. No good can come of your curiosity. Are you so unhappy that I cannot expect you to share this life we have?”
“Life?” I wrenched free, backed out of his embrace. “You call this a life? I roam your fathers’ countryside by day and your castle by night as if in search of something, though I know not what.”
The look Sefton bore frustrated me further.
“You do not understand. I am a man. Do you not see that I have no need to be by your side both day and night? Can you not see your constant concern is smothering? I turn a corner; you are there. I close my eyes only to open them to your face. Is it I you do not trust, or is it yourself?”
Sefton’s steely eyes flared to deep crimson, and in that flash of color, he stood a hair’s breadth before me. “Rue the day I found you among the marshes bordering the eastern fields.” His nostrils flared as he turned away. “I need you beside me, or you would not remain . . . .” His stance turned aloof, and his stare grew cold. “You are no one special. No one would have you but I; no man is as accoutered as I to keep a—a man, such as yourself.”
Heat pooled in my chest, and a chill, the likes of which I had never experienced, consumed my shaking limbs. “A burden you claim, then I fear a burden I shall become.”
“Do not speak the words, Bogdanov”—he bore his elongated teeth in anger, a rarity in my presence—”or feel my wrath!”
In a move unseen, he was upon me, the sting of his bite upon my flesh, and I hardened instantly, despite my struggle.
“Damn you, son of Nevsky.”
But my words came on a fleeting breath, for my body could not mask my desire, and I pressed into his touch, his bite . . . his embrace, wanting him near with the same ferocity I wanted him to stay away, the same longing I had felt the first time we had coupled. And he reciprocated, penetrating my flesh deeper as he rolled his hips, revealing his desire, even as he assuaged his anger with the blood drawn from my shoulder.
“Damn you.”
He pulled away, withdrawing his fangs. His gaze, obscured by a haze of lust, met mine, and it was my blood that trickled from his lips as he said, “Too late.”
His expression told of his pain—decades, centuries, an eternity—for how long, I had no knowledge. So much had passed between us, years of growing—more, I’d grown from boy to man; Sefton had remained as youthful and handsome as ever—still, I knew few details of his life or circumstance. Uneasiness swallowed me whole with one look into his eyes. In spite of his protests to the contrary, I could never be what he desired. It hurt to love him as I did, but it hurt more to know not who I was, where I had come from, to whom I might belong.
“You belong with me, Ivis.” His voice was but a whisper as he wiped the blood from his chin.
“Get out of my head.”
“Your own thoughts betray you, for freely they gave themselves to me. I had no need to pry my way in.”
“You are an insatiable and arrogant man.”
“I’m no more a man than you—” He stopped abruptly and turned his back to me.
“What is this you once again allude to?” He removed himself from my reach. No man could keep one such as me . . . . Had he not meant riches, for admittedly, I had wants, and Sefton seemed always to have the need to fulfill each and every one of them? Before my next breath, Sefton had dressed.
“Son of Nevsky, what are you hiding from—?” But before I could finish my question, he was gone. And hence, so was I.

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Reading an excerpt from Angels Cry

Hey, folks!

To celebrate the release of Angels Cry, I did up a book trailer and actually read an excerpt from it! I hope y'all enjoy this. Angels Cry dropped last week, and I see that Angel Of The Morning is back up to #9 on the Noble Top 10, so thank you to everyone who made that possible!
I'm also hanging out at http://tabithablake.blogspot.com today, so come by and check that out as well.
Enjoy the excerpt, and don't forget to pick up your copy of Angels Cry!

Until next time,

Best,

J.S. Wayne

Interview With An Angel

I wanted to do something different today. So, just for fun, I thought I'd sit down with Moradiel, the main character in "Angels Would Fall" and the forthcoming Angels Cry, to get his take on what's going down in his world. He's a very literal sort of chap, so you'll have to excuse him sometimes; interviewing him was a bit like interviewing Data, the android from Star Trek, before he got his humor chip!

So, ladies and gentlemen, I give you:

Moradiel!

JS: Welcome, Moradiel. Uh, should I be kneeling or something?

M: That will not be necessary. As I am no longer a member of the Host, there is no need.

JS: Erm, er, thanks. So where do you come from?

M: The place would mean nothing to you.

JS: Ooo-kay. How old are you?

M: I am older than your earth by such an immense span of time that your mind would melt trying to comprehend it.

JS: *Coughs* What are some of the highlights of your career so far?

M: My proudest and most sorrowful moment was assisting with casting Lucifer and his minions out of the Otherplace. It was that act that earned me my place as Azrael's lieutenant. I was the angel who collected the souls of Moses, Methuselah, and many of the most celebrated names of your culture and delivered them to the Otherplace.

JS: You didn't have anything to do with that business with Sodom and Gomorrah, right?

M: No. Azrael undertook that personally, along with Michael. I also was forbidden to move against Egypt; Azrael said he was getting bored and needed to "stretch" himself.

JS: Backing up a little, the Otherplace is what you call Heaven, right?

M: Heaven is what you call the Otherplace.

JS: Hoo boy. *mutters something about how this is going to be a LONG interview* So, Azrael sounds like kind of a jerk.

M: Azrael is what he is. And I am what I am. I would not say that Azrael is a jerk; he performs a needed function in your universe.

JS: Yeah, talking about that: What's the deal with Ariel? I've seen pictures, and she's nine kinds of hot, but what was it about her that inspired you to walk away from Heaven?

M: I cannot explain what has passed between Ariel and me. She is a good, honest, kind woman who did not deserve such an arbitrary demise. The fact that she is quite lovely physically is of less import to me than the nature of her soul.

JS: She must be something else on a stick if you gave up Heaven for her.

M: Change the subject. Now.

JS: *holds up hands* Changing, changing. So tell me about Lucifer; I hear that he's been awfully unhappy with Azrael for borrowing Benoth for consultation on how to find you.

M: Benoth knows the way I think well. His advent on the scene would be the most alarming development to date, if it were not for the fact that I know how much he loves Aurora and how much it pains him to have to be away from her. As such, Benoth may well prove one of my greatest allies in keeping Ariel safe and out of Azrael's grasp.
With regard to Lucifer, he is exquisitely angry about Azrael's blithe borrowing of his minions. Unfortunately, Lucifer owes Azrael a very great service, one which appropriating even a legion of his servants will not answer for.

JS: Why?

M: Azrael had a chance to destroy Lucifer utterly and failed to avail himself of the opportunity. Why he did not finish Lucifer then and there is known only to the two of them, and perhaps Adonai. I was otherwise engaged at the time and did not learn that Lucifer had survived the encounter with Azrael until he had already been cast down into Infernos.

JS: It sounds like you've got some very powerful enemies. What are you doing about keeping Ariel safe?

M: Right now, my best hope lies in laying false trails for Azrael. We are somewhat hampered by the effect that angelic travel has upon Ariel's body; for some reason, her nervous system does not cope properly with stepping outside of time. So we lie in wait, hoping that Azrael will not . . . excuse me.

*Moradiel vanishes and reappears*

M: I must go. Ariel is in danger.

JS: How did Azrael find her?

M: I do not know.

*Moradiel vanishes and doesn't come back.*

JS: Hmm. Well, folks, there you have it.

Even though Moradiel had to go, I'm over at http://tabithablake.blogspot.com today too. Come on by and say hi!

Until next time,

Best,

J.S. Wayne

Want to know why Moradiel had to leave so suddenly? Check out Angels Cry, scheduled for release September 12th from Noble Romance Publishing!

Celebrating Hard as Teak!

Hard as Teak is Kevin Marks' coming out story. As I was creating Kevin, I kept envisioning this man who was really twisting and turning inside. He'd followed his professional dreams to the point of alienating his father, yet, he'd ignored his true self. Some of his successes as a nature photographer have made the failures of his personal life less painful, but he's reached that point, and all of us do, where what used to fire him up, and get him out of bed eager to face the day has lost its appeal. Something has to give. He can't deny that once he lays eyes and hands on Teak Hildalgo.

Teak is a sexy beast. Confident, soft-spoken, beautiful. Teak recognizes what Kevin doesn't. He picks up on Kevin's inner turmoil and desires right away because he's been through it. Teak gives Kevin a taste of what he knows he desires, and then backs off, letting Kevin make the choice. They play a sensual game until Kevin comes to grips with what he's feeling. When they come together, it's erotic and powerful. Teak is totally at ease with himself, has a wry sense of humor, and brings calmness to Kevin when his world is blasting apart.

You didn't think there wouldn't be trouble, did you? That would be boring and predictable. And my books never are. 

 With Sincere Thanks

 It's always exciting and terrifying to try something new. Hard as Teak is one of those books for me. It is my first m/m romance, and I didn't write it or get it to market without help from the following people.

Jill Noble, thanks for contracting another unconventional romance by Margie Church. I'm proud to be a Noble author.

A.B. Gayle, thanks for your detailed observations and insights. I have so enjoyed getting to know you and the collaborative efforts we have since forged.

Paul Hoffman, thanks for being a beta reader and for your encouragement. You are a wonderful friend and I wish you well always.

Kate Richards, you're always first to say yes when I need a page or two read (or more) and always so succinct and clear with edits. You were one of my first Internet friends and I know we'll always be pals.

Margie Hall, you are one of my best friends and biggest supporters. MOTS, your generosity humbles me.

Bryl Tyne. My friend, my editor. You nabbed this book the second you got your hands on it. You helped me navigate some of the final tricky spots. I've enjoyed having you work on all my Noble books, and I've learned so much from you. I will always treasure some of our late-night chats. Yeah, I love you.

Now let's enjoy the blurb and a sexy excerpt. Be the first to win a copy of this book, too. Answer the question at the end.

Hard as Teak by Margie Church

Kevin Marks escapes to the north woods to reignite his passion for photography and women. But the only flame he seems able to spark is for his latest photography subject, Teak Hildalgo. Kevin's never been in a man's arms before.

Teak, the raven-haired, photographer's dream come true, is hell bent on capturing Kevin's heart. He takes Kevin, body and soul, on a romantic, sexual journey previously lived only in Kevin's fantasies. And no dream was ever this good, no truth this undeniable.

How will Kevin react? When the camera's put away, will Teak live up to his name?

EXCERPT:

Teak rocked back in his chair, studying his new friend. Kevin had that all-American-boy look. Blond hair and blue-grey eyes the color of the sky just before sunset. His coloration fit right in with almost every Scandinavian person living in the area. Except for that all-over tan. Great shape, tall, clean-shaven—everywhere from what Teak had seen—and a dick that could definitely get someone's attention. He's certainly got mine.

His body had reacted strongly when he'd come upon Kevin lying naked on the dock. The cold-water bath took the edge off the throbbing in his cock this afternoon, but what about now? When Kevin smiled, his whole face lit up. Great lips. Thinking of Kevin going down on him made his balls tense. Wonder what he'd do if I made a move?

Teak got back to the subject of having his photo taken. "You know what? It's cool. No offense taken. I'm flattered, I guess. The chicks are always on me, but it's nice to . . . ."

"To what?"

"To know they're not entirely full of shit just because they wanna get laid." Teak slid his chair back and picked up his plate. He set it on the sink. "Thanks for dinner."

"You're not leaving are you? You probably shouldn't drive."

Teak leaned against the counter. Kevin's interest in him was apparent, but he wasn't sure Kevin was tuned into his own feelings. Kevin's behavior reminded him of a first date. Does he realize it? I'll take it slow. If it's a mistake, I'll say it's the beer talking. "If you don't mind, I'll stay. I'd hate to spend the night in jail. Even the DNR guys are a pain in the ass this time of year."

* * * * *

While Teak used the bathroom, Kevin grabbed his camera and went outside. The half-moon provided perfect illumination on the frost clinging to the wildflowers. Careful not to breathe on the tender crystals, he knelt next to his subject and adjusted the camera to capture the perfect moonlit conditions.

Kevin glanced over his shoulder when the front door opened and shut with a heavy thud. Teak rubbed his hands together and then shoved them under his arms. "What are you doing? It's freezing out here."

Kevin clicked the shutter one last time and rose. The effects of his last beer made him stumble back a step; Teak grabbed his arm. Kevin broke into an alcohol-induced fit of laughter. "Just what I need—to drop this camera—and break it—or my shutter finger." Kevin wiggled his index finger a few times while laughing at his own joke.

"I suppose that thing is pretty expensive."

"Very. Let's go inside before I die of thirst, too."

"We've probably both had enough beer for one night, but I won't argue about going inside. There'll definitely be a hard frost tonight."

Opening the cabin door let out a blast of warm air. The sharp temperature contrast hit Kevin in the face, making him woozy. "Shit, it's hot in here." He peeled off his jacket and shirt and tossed them one at a time onto a nearby chair. "Do you want a bottle of water or some coffee or something?"

"I'll take the water. Wouldn't hurt to sober up a bit," Teak said. "I hate hangovers."

"You and me both." He retrieved two bottles of water from the fridge and handed one to Teak. "And if the night's still young, we can get drunk again later." Kevin laughed with his half-smashed friend and took a swig of water. "I'm going to make up the guest bed." He couldn't resist making another wisecrack. "The maid service sucks around this joint."

"You probably look stupid as hell in an apron anyway. Go make the bed."

"You're not helping? Shit, the assistant to the maid service sucks too." Chuckling, he walked to the closet to dig out some bed linens.

Kevin turned on the light. He'd used this bedroom countless times growing up and even got laid in here a couple of nights. The fitted sheet snapped as he shook it open. He made his way to the headboard to tuck in the corners.

He couldn't believe what a turn-on Teak was. The realization startled him. He'd never been sexually attracted to any man he'd met. At least not this strongly. He didn't mind watching a couple guys getting frisky with each other while they were messing with a woman in videos. But, I never really wanted to touch another guy's junk. He'd tasted his own cum many times. But from a cum-soaked pussy. He'd fantasized about sucking dick—countless times. But never thought I'd want it if I could actually get it. He unfolded the flat sheet.

With the sheets tucked in, he reached for the comforter and spread it on the bed. Lost in his lusty thoughts, he didn't hear Teak arrive and Kevin stumbled against him. Teak's arms wove around his ribs, preventing him from falling. Like the proverbial deer in the headlights, Kevin froze and didn't say a word. Pleasure whip corded his dick. His heart hammered. Resting his head rested against Teak's bare shoulder, he wondered when Teak had taken off his shirt. The trimmed hair felt stiff and foreign against his skin. No other man had ever held him this way. Kevin noticed rough calluses between softer patches of skin on Teak's hands. He soaked in the new sensations, enjoying them.

Silence thundered in Kevin's ears as he turned and met Teak's gaze. The intensity he saw nearly choked the breath right out of his lungs. What little air remained ran for cover when Teak's lips met his. The feelings reminded him of his very first kiss, heady and surreal. His lips twisted with Teak's. He'd never experienced the force of a man's tongue in his mouth or the scrape of another man's beard on his face. Not this way. Guttural sounds filled Kevin's throat. His breath hissed through his nostrils. These were the sounds of an aroused man. Except another man is turning me on.

Teak kept a loose hold on Kevin's waist. The non-threatening hold gave Kevin free reign to accept or deny him. For a long minute, he participated in the kiss as though moving with a partner in a choreographed dance. He knew what to do and how to do it, but his brain and his dick were going in opposite directions. Kevin's cock was so hard he wanted to take it out and come. His brain kept screaming at him to slow down. Confusion filled him. He broke from the kiss and focused on Teak's tattoo, glad for the distraction.

"Aren't you going to say something?" Teak asked in a soft voice.

"This is the most amazing tattoo." How fucking lame was that?

"Touch it."

With nervous hesitation, Kevin traced the pronounced veins on the dragon's side, and higher to its curved neck. Continuing to follow the dragon's neck with his index finger led to Teak's nipple. The hardened nub looked ready to be clenched in the dragon's sharp teeth. Or mine.

"Taste me," Teak said, his voice hoarse and hushed.

CONTEST: To celebrate the release of Hard as Teak, I'm giving away a copy. Tell me what appeals to you about Kevin and Teak and you could win. Don't forget your email address! 

Buy Hard as Teak 

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