Tag Archives: Romantic Comedy

Throwback Thursday: How Not to Date a Fae by Stephanie Burke #urbanfantasy #TBT #LGBTQ @FlashyCat

Deception and betrayal have driven Ario from the only home he’s ever known, but he’s determined to never look back, and never use magic again — until he gets hit with pixies, fate, and an irresistible red-headed Fae.

Cailte was one of the Finnian army, Finn mac Cool’s right hand. Waking from his centuries-long sleep, the large warrior finds himself at the mercies of a different time — and a man unlike any other.

If they’re to survive, they must forge a bond strong enough to defy the gods. And Ario may discover dating a Fae isn’t so bad, after all.

EXCERPT

All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2020 Stephanie Burke

“You will do this!”

“I refuse,” Ario snarled at his laptop screen. “I have done everything that you have asked of me, and I have slowly felt my soul die.” Oddly enough, the words uttered in pain and in pleasure the night before were once again fitting. “No more!”

“You would deny us, the Komiko of the Tagata Jinja?”

“What have I ever denied the priests of the Tagata Jinja shrine, Grandfather? But this time you ask too much!”

“How can we ask too much of the half-breed mongrel who owes us his life?”

“I know what I owe you, Grandfather.” Ario closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Have you not reminded me of this every day of my miserable existence?”

“You are a Komiko, and as such you have a duty to the bloodline –”

“That is not my responsibility, Grandfather. As you have told me my entire life, that job falls to Tama as the respected first son of the first son.”

And then there was blessed silence. For a moment, Ario relished it, for he knew that it would not last. “There is a problem with Tama,” Grandfather finally said.

“What happened?” Fear sent adrenaline zinging through Ario’s blood.

He might not be Tama’s biggest fan — in fact, he could say that he spent more time hating his bastard of an older first cousin than anyone else at the shrine. Tama was a liar, a braggart, and the golden child of the temple. It was always assumed that the full force of the Komiko power flowed through legitimate veins.

In legend, the Komiko was the one granted the ability to deliver true love and fertility through means of sexual contact. And the one with the fullest amount of that power was pampered, his or her virginity guarded until such time as a patron could come up with a large enough offering for the privilege of taking it. Ario, as the bastard half-breed, would never find himself in such an exalted position.

His grandfather sighed. “The power inherent in the family bloodline may not be as strong as we thought. He is… having some difficulties.”

“What difficulties?” Ario finally snapped, growing impatient with this conversation. “His silk underwear too tight? The gold around his neck is not pure enough?”

“Your disrespect is not welcome.”

“Well, excuse me, Grandfather.” He rolled his eyes as he glared at the man. “News of my cousin is not welcome. I have been banished to the other side of the country at his words, and now that I have made a life for myself, I find it hard to have any feelings for the great Komiko of our bloodline.”

“He is impotent!” Grandfather suddenly shouted, losing his calm for a moment before he resettled into his cold, stern visage. “He is impotent.”

“And is he blaming that one on me, too?” Ario felt no pity.

“That is not why I am on this cursed machine calling for you, Ario,” his grandfather shouted.

“Then why?”

“The family needs you. Tama needs you.”

“For what?” Green eyes narrowed in suspicion as they stared at the old man in the computer screen.

“To take his place and carry the family reputation until such a time that we can discover the cause of his curse.”

“No.” Ario’s answer was direct and to the point.

“No?” Again his grandfather was raising his voice.

“No,” Ario repeated.

“You have a responsibility to this family –”

“I have no family!” Ario roared, jumping to his feet and leaning onto his desk so that he could be closer to the computer camera. “That is what you shouted at me as you cast me from your home. You disowned me, disavowed any knowledge of me, and told me that if I were to show my face again, my life would be forfeit.”

“Perhaps I was hasty,” his grandfather allowed, trying to hide the trembling that shook his thin form.

“Perhaps now it is too late,” Ario returned.

“Tama has relented,” Grandfather spoke slowly, as if each word were a painful knife stab as it exited his mouth. “He has admitted that he was possibly mistaken about his claims that you assaulted him…”

“He told you that I attempted to destroy his prized virginity.” Ario’s breathing was growing harder with every word. “And you believed every word.”

“He — his room was destroyed…”

“He claimed that he fought me off, yet I had not a bruise or a blemish upon my face or body.”

“He had never lied…”

“He claimed that I waited in the night to harm him, yet that was the night I was with Akio.”

His grandfather fell silent.

“Akio heard and believed those lies, Grandfather. And my lover of three years beat me to teach me the punishment to those who flout the rules. After all this, do you actually think I would lift one finger to assist Tama or you with anything?”

“Family honor –”

Ario sneered. “Between Tama and you, I have nothing but what I earned with my two hands. There is nothing more that you can do to me, can threaten me with.”

“To think I placed my trust in a mongrel like you.” His grandfather finally broke. “You are not my grandson!”

“I learned that fifteen years ago,” Ario shot back. “And if there is nothing more, O-Tagata Jinja of the Kato line?”

He gave an insultingly short bow as his grandfather huffed and broke their connection.

“Fuck you, too.” Ario sighed, running his hands over his face and scrubbing them through his hair.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Stephanie is a USA Today Best Selling, multi published, multi award-winning author, Master Costumer, handicapped, wife and mother of two.

From sex-shifting, shape-shifting dragons to undersea worlds, sexually confused elemental Fey and homo-erotic mysteries, all the way to pastel-challenged urban sprites, Stephanie has done it all, and hopes to do more.

Stephanie is an orator on her favorite subjects of writing and world-building, a sometime teacher when you feed her enough tea and donuts, an anime nut, a costumer, and a frequent guest of various sci-fi and writing cons where she can be found leading panel discussions or researching varied legends and theories to improve her writing skills.

Stephanie is known for her love of the outrageous, strong female characters, believable worlds, male characters filled with depth, and multi-cultural stories that make the reader sit up and take notice.

Throwback Thursday: Peck of Pickles by Lena Austin #RomCom #LGBTQ #TBThursday @Lena_Austin

Linc Halberg needed to get his cucumbers preserved using the county extension office facilities. The agent Pol Backstrom and the new scientist Marc O’Neil have had their eye on Linc and his farm for some time. Suddenly, there’s more going on in the back room than making a peck of pickles, and Linc’s in a pickle of a different kind. Summer in their tiny town may never be the same.

Praise for Peck of Pickles

“This story is purely about sex and sexuality.”— Hayley, Fallen Angel Reviews

Peck of Pickles is a comical and fun read, and not to mention very hot. Linc’s sweetness and the hot chemistry between Linc, Pol and Marc made Peck of Pickles a great read.”— Ley, Joyfully Reviewed


“If you like your romances hot and spicy, if you enjoy watching three men go at it… and if you’re looking for a read that is amusing, sweet, and very, very hot, then you will probably like this short story.”— Serena Yates, Rainbow Book Reviews

EXCERPT

All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2008 Lena Austin

The light finally changed, and Linc took a deep breath before continuing to the tiny County Extension office. He’d called the agent, Pol Backstrom, yesterday to reserve a table in the dilapidated preservation room where as a kid he’d helped his mother and the other women of the church preserve everything from jellies to pickles, and pickles were the reason he went today. He had more cucumbers to turn into dill pickles than his home equipment could handle. There weren’t enough women who needed to use the giant pots and tables anymore, but the equipment still languished in the preservation room ready for use. Today, Linc would probably have the whole building to himself. He parked the battered old F150 in one of the ten possible parking spots and waved at the agent.

Pol lounged on a bench outside the office, sipping on a big mug of steaming coffee. At church breakfasts, Pol was the first in line for the big urn and joked he could drink it dry by himself. The agent had a fancy agricultural degree from the university, and the county paid him well to keep the office running despite the lack of visitors. Pol was as handsome as sin and had the devil’s own smiling charm. Blond curls and big, ice crystal eyes made the wiry Pol look like a living version of Michelangelo’s carving of David.

Linc took his peck of cucumbers from the back of the truck and hefted the load to the waiting agent. Normally, a little old basket of eight quarts of cukes and ice would hardly strain a muscle of Linc’s six-foot, three-inch frame, but nerves made his hands slick with sweat. Just as he reached the sidewalk, the plastic bin slipped from his hands, and he dumped the entire contents at Pol’s feet.

“Timber!” Pol jumped back to avoid the icy green avalanche, spilling his coffee all over his county employee T-shirt. He brushed at his wet chest and laughed. “Oops. Good thing I have a pile of these.”

Linc seriously considered burrowing right under the cement sidewalk and tunneling like a gopher all the way back home. “Durn it. I’m sorry, Pol. Here, let me get these picked up.” He knelt on the hard sidewalk and grabbed up cucumbers as fast as he could. The ice he abandoned. It had done its job to make the cukes crisp when he pickled them.

Amazingly, Pol knelt right across from him and grinned. “Big ol’ strapping fellow like you should have no trouble carrying a peck of future pickles, Linc.”

Ever since Linc got his growth going, he’d been worse than a bull in a china shop. Most folks equated brawn with no brains, so he’d been treated like a big, dumb ox since adolescence, to his constant embarrassment. Now he’d just proven the fact. His face heated up hotter than the sun would be in a few hours.

Pol glanced up and his eyes widened. “Hey, now. No need to match the stoplight. Someone will think we put an aircraft beacon on the ground here, and we’ll have planes landing on Main Street. I was just teasing.”

Linc’s hand closed on top of Pol’s when they grabbed the last cucumber simultaneously. For a few seconds, Linc thrilled to the touch of another human being before he realized what he’d done and snatched his hand away as if Pol’s warm hand was scorching. He hung his head like a kid caught with his hand in a cookie jar. “Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Someone cursed Lena Austin with “may you have a life so full you’ll have many tales to tell your grandchildren.” Lena’s a “fallen” society wench with a checkered past. She’s been a licensed minister, hairdresser, Realtor, radio DJ, exotic dancer, telephone service tech, live-steel medievalist swordswoman, BDSM Mistress, and investment property manager. Not necessarily in that order. She never finished that degree in marine archaeology, but did learn to scuba — she’s got a lifetime of “Research material!”

Hey, why waste these stories on kids who won’t listen anyway? Writing them down is a nice way to spend her retirement. What? You expected an ex-BDSM Mistress to take up crocheting or something?

Throwback Thursday: How Not to Date an Alien by Stephanie Burke #SciFiRomance #TBThursday #RomCom @flashycat

Kilana knows what her eyes are telling her can’t be true.

There’s a naked man in her bed and he’s glowing. And then there are the solid black eyes, the floating several feet above the bed, and the most damning of all… he has antennas.

The newly divorced Kilana thinks she’s seeing things, but when he opens his mouth and tells her he’s hunting humans and his intentions are to devour her, Kilana knows she has an alien problem.

But who will help her get away from the admittedly sexy creature that wants her pleasured and fattened until her flavor is perfect? Maybe her hair-brained friends Se and Lena can help her avoid the big suppertime cut…

Or maybe she’s on her own with the drooling, leering, orgasm-delivering fiend. And maybe dating an alien won’t turn out to be as big a problem as she thinks.

Get it at Changeling Press

Praise for How Not To Date An Alien

“Stephanie Burke takes you on a fascinating ride…After reading this book everyone will be lining up to be hunted by their very own alien.”5 Cherries! — Buttercup, Whipped Cream Reviews


“I’m glad I had the opportunity to review this unique and well-written book. I thoroughly enjoyed the ride!”4.5 Hearts! — Shalanda, The Romance Studio

EXCERPT

All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2020 Stephanie Burke


“You have antennas.” Kilana peered closely at the man who was resting rather comfortably beside her on her bed. Somehow, he made the huge California King feel like a college dorm twin.

“And you do not,” he helpfully pointed out, with a black-lipped grin that made his spiky white teeth look all the more deadly.

And, of all things, his long black hair was tied back into a braid that seemed to snake around his firm, pale body. His eyes were a solid black, too, and she was sure if she weren’t so hung over, she would probably be screaming bloody murder right about now.

And the man was naked.

There was only one explanation for this phenomenon. She was still drunk.

“I’m going to close my eyes and count to ten,” she whispered, her head not willing to take even the shock of her own voice raised to a normal conversational tone. “And when I open them, you are not going to be here. Do you understand?”

He nodded his head sadly, pouting a bit. But she hardened her heart. She didn’t have time for imaginary beings in her bed. She was a newly divorced woman, and she had things to do.

Like maybe wake up sober and get her divorce papers framed and gilded.

She peered at him again and had to blink fast and swallow hard. He had the biggest eyes she had ever seen. Those large, liquid eyes were solid black; there was no white at all.

It appeared that all the white seemed to have leaked out into his pale skin. It was kind of a molten silver, rather uncommon but certainly not too abnormal for a figment.

But his head nodding was making her dizzy.

“Don’t nod.” She swallowed again, holding onto a moan with the persistence of a clinging vine of ivy. “You’re making me seasick. God, you’d think that my own figment wouldn’t be so monochromatic as to cause seasickness. I thought I had more imagination.”

So she closed her eyes, inhaled softly, exhaled long, and started counting.

One figment two many. Three reasons to never drink again four any reason. Five senses going crazy, and six is the devil’s number to remind me to stick to seven, heaven’s number, unless it is the number of tequila shots. I should not have eight the worm thing last night and nine martinis are more than enough, especially at ten dollars a glass.”

She opened her eyes, but the very pale and very monochromatic creature was still lying next to her in bed.

“You’re still here,” she moaned, dropping her head back onto the pillows.

“Yes, I am,” he replied, before reaching out with one finger — one finger with the longest black fingernail she had ever seen. “And I will be here for a while.”

He tapped her on the nose, and she knew her eyes were crossing as she stared at his finger, but that was one awesomely sharp-looking talon.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Stephanie is a USA Today Best Selling, multi published, multi award-winning author, Master Costumer, handicapped, wife and mother of two.

From sex-shifting, shape-shifting dragons to undersea worlds, sexually confused elemental Fey and homo-erotic mysteries, all the way to pastel-challenged urban sprites, Stephanie has done it all, and hopes to do more.

Stephanie is an orator on her favorite subjects of writing and world-building, a sometime teacher when you feed her enough tea and donuts, an anime nut, a costumer, and a frequent guest of various sci-fi and writing cons where she can be found leading panel discussions or researching varied legends and theories to improve her writing skills.

Stephanie is known for her love of the outrageous, strong female characters, believable worlds, male characters filled with depth, and multi-cultural stories that make the reader sit up and take notice.

Throwback Thursday: The Hunter’s Bride by Alexa Piper #RomCom #vampires @prowlingpiper

Maxim, tall, whimsical, and a vampire, wants to hire a curator for his art collection. Robyn, a newly minted art historian looking for a job, loves fine art and old stuff, and Maxim soon realizes she is not just perfect for the job, but also for him.

Robyn never liked prejudices against vampires, werewolves, or Fae, but the moment she starts working for a vampire, things appear less black and white, especially when she begins to fall for her new boss.

Robyn and Maxim’s young love will have to overcome odds and odd vampires who take issue with the fact that Maxim happens to be a vampire hunter who doesn’t shy away from decapitating his own kind.

Available at Changeling Press

EXCERPT

All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2020 Alexa Piper

Brian seemed to be slipping. He’d called up to tell Maxim of the interviewee’s arrival only about twenty seconds before the elevator had dinged, which barely gave Maxim the time to refresh his memory in regard to her name.

Heath had left a file on his desk titled Interviews, and Maxim had complained at the sheer lack of imagination that was obvious in that title. Heath had used magic marker to write it, though, and Maxim had wondered, out loud, if Heath had missed the developmental stage crayons were clearly meant for. Upon which Heath had broken into verbiage that came odorously dripping from the verbiage gutter. Heath had informed him that he, Maxim, best not pull any of this bodily refuse with the artsy people. They were, after all, artsy people and not likely to enjoy such shenanigans, at least if Heath’s soliloquy was to be believed. It was a shame the creativity he had displayed in his colorful speech had not translated into the simplistic title of the file that had sparked it.

“Robyn with a y,” Maxim mumbled to himself as he walked toward the elevators. “Y, y, y… Why would whiskey-vending witches want vigor with their witchy wits?” He pushed a strand of his hair back behind his shoulder and put on a smile. He could smell the interviewee even before he saw her, some perfume he didn’t know, light and floral, forgettable as Valentine’s Days spent alone. The scent underneath that was sunshine-warmed skin, a slight note of crushed cardamom pods. A shame to hide that with such perfume.

When Maxim laid eyes on the interviewee, he could feel his pupils spill black, and he immediately understood why Brian had taken so long to pick up the phone. Robyn with a y Somerton was gorgeous, though very much on the skinny side, always something that made Maxim’s memories of hunger float back to the surface of his mind, no matter how long ago that had been. Her hair was dark and wonderful, lush ebony, and her gray eyes and pale skin made her deep purple dress look even better on her. But damn it, he had promised Heath.

“Miss Somerton, thanks for coming in for the interview. My name is Maxim Vallois. I believe you talked to my assistant over the phone?” Now, there’s some perfect manners for you right there, Heath. If only that dhampire brat were here to see it.

The shock on her face at seeing Maxim and realizing what he was would have been amusing, should have been amusing, but for the first time in decades, Maxim felt futile fury at the reaction rise inside of him. She did go a shade paler, though, which was pretty.

“Y-yes. About the curator position?” she said, catching herself rather quickly and reining her expression back into normal. Maxim liked her voice. It was calm, not shrill. Heath sometimes brought home shrill, and that was usually headache inducing, rhetorically speaking. Maxim did not actually get headaches.

“Certainly. Please, come in.” Part of him wondered whether she would run. She was wearing terrible heels for that, and because he cared and paid attention, Maxim was pretty sure she was already headed for at least one blister on her left heel. Maxim had never understood heels, nor foot binding. He had understood what it said about having power over women, but he’d loathed that, loathed that society made it necessary for women to give that power.

Not the time to wax philosophical, Maxim reminded himself. Heath, if he were here and not away doing something that had to do with banks and money, would have been seething in the acid of his own glaring stares already. Stares glare glistening staffs of seeping solace. Not my best one, Maxim thought.

Robyn with a y came forward. Clearly she had decided running would be stupid. Mmh, Heath. Did you get me a final girl? Maxim filed that as a nice line for later. When he would tell Heath he wanted Robyn with a y. He wasn’t even sure why. It sure as bodily refuse wasn’t the cheap perfume, and it wasn’t the mildly scrawny look that Maxim found mildly headache inducing. Perhaps it was that stare of not quite fear but close enough to fear. Or lust at first sight? Who knows. Whatever the why, Maxim wanted her.

Of course Maxim couldn’t just spring this on Y Robyn. It would sound as if he were planning to make her a plaything, something Maxim knew good and well vampires did. He could go off on a whole other tangent about that nasty habit. He had to at least give Y Robyn the impression she had won the job, and of course he needed to be able to tell Heath as well, so he led her to the cluttered table he had lovingly prepared for the magic marker interview.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Y Robyn said when he shook her hand. “You know how fickle the subway can be.”

“I don’t, actually. But it’s no trouble. This way.” He made a mental note of checking out the subway. It might be fun, ethnologically speaking.

When Y Robyn saw his table, she summed it up wonderfully concisely. “Wow,” she said, and Maxim glanced at her saucer wide eyes and at the appealing slackness of her drooping jaw.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Alexa Piper writes steamy romance that ranges from light to dark, from straight to queer. She’s also a coffee addict. Alexa loves writing stories that make her readers laugh and fall in love with the characters in them. Connect with Alexa on Facebook or Instagram, follow her on Twitter, and subscribe to her newsletter!

Throwback Thursday: How Not to Date A… Vol 1 by Stephanie Burke #TBThursday #RomCom @FlashyCat

How Not To Date Vol. 1 (Box Set) (How Not To 12)

Nothing about dating is easy — especially when humans, shifters, vampires, Fae and aliens are involved. When did life get so complicated?

How Not to Date an Alien: There’s a naked man in Kilana’s bed and he’s glowing… When he tells her he’s hunting humans and his intention is to devour her, she knows she’s on her own with the drooling, leering, orgasm-delivering fiend. Maybe dating an alien won’t turn out to be as big a problem as she thinks.

How Not to Date a Fae: Deception and betrayal have driven Ario from the only home he’s ever known, but he’s determined to never look back, and never use magic again — until he meets an irresistible red-headed Fae. If they’re to survive, they must forge a bond strong enough to defy the gods. And Ario may discover dating a Fae isn’t so bad after all.

How Not To Date a Skunk: Photographer Bilana thinks she can beat the heat and her migraine by taking her meds and getting out of the sun. But she wakes up to find a shape shifting mate invading her peace and quiet. She has to learn to accept change as it comes, but that’s what happens when you learn how not to date a skunk.

How Not to Date a Vamp: What do you get when your greatest strength lies in not dying easy? If you are lucky and no one confuses you with a pop culture vampire, and if you diet and exercise to keep your weight down, you just might get the girl. Only if he overcomes these obstacles will Virgil spend the better part of his afterlife with Barb. If he can survive dating.

How Not to Date a Bear: Cosmetologist Gillian Leekey is a woman on a mission. She loves big, muscular, hairy guys, and Declan is a bear of a man. But after one night of passion, the Bear Shifter Mafia is declaring war at her front door! But that’s what happens when you decide to date a bear.

Publisher’s Note: How Not To Date… Vol. 1 (Box Set) contains the previously published novellas How Not to Date an Alien, How Not to Date a Fae, How Not To Date a Skunk, How Not to Date a Vamp, and How Not to Date a Bear.

Get it at Changeling Press

EXCERPT

All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2018 Stephanie Burke
Excerpt from How Not to Date an Alien


“You have antennas.”

Kilana peered closely at the man who was resting rather comfortably beside her on her bed. Somehow, he made the huge California King feel like a college dorm twin.

“And you do not,” he helpfully pointed out, with a black-lipped grin that made his spiky white teeth look all the more deadly.

And, of all things, his long black hair was tied back into a braid that seemed to snake around his firm, pale body. His eyes were a solid black, too, and she was sure if she weren’t so hung over, she would probably be screaming bloody murder right about now.

And the man was naked.

There was only one explanation for this phenomenon. She was still drunk.

“I’m going to close my eyes and count to ten,” she whispered, her head not willing to take even the shock of her own voice raised to a normal conversational tone. “And when I open them, you are not going to be here. Do you understand?”

He nodded his head sadly, pouting a bit. But she hardened her heart. She didn’t have time for imaginary beings in her bed. She was a newly divorced woman, and she had things to do.

Like maybe wake up sober and get her divorce papers framed and gilded.

She peered at him again and had to blink fast and swallow hard. He had the biggest eyes she had ever seen. Those large, liquid eyes were solid black; there was no white at all.

It appeared that all the white seemed to have leaked out into his pale skin. It was kind of a molten silver, rather uncommon but certainly not too abnormal for a figment.

But his head nodding was making her dizzy.

“Don’t nod.” She swallowed again, holding onto a moan with the persistence of a clinging vine of ivy. “You’re making me seasick. God, you’d think that my own figment wouldn’t be so monochromatic as to cause seasickness. I thought I had more imagination.”

So she closed her eyes, inhaled softly, exhaled long, and started counting.

One figment two many. Three reasons to never drink again four any reason. Five senses going crazy, and six is the devil’s number to remind me to stick to seven, heaven’s number, unless it is the number of tequila shots. I should not have eight the worm thing last night and nine martinis are more than enough, especially at ten dollars a glass.”

She opened her eyes, but the very pale and very monochromatic creature was still lying next to her in bed.

“You’re still here,” she moaned, dropping her head back onto the pillows.

“Yes, I am,” he replied, before reaching out with one finger — one finger with the longest black fingernail she had ever seen. “And I will be here for a while.”

He tapped her on the nose, and she knew her eyes were crossing as she stared at his finger, but that was one awesomely sharp-looking talon.

“Doing what?” she asked, wondering if it was insanity to talk to an obviously drug-induced creature from her boring imagination.

Maybe someone had slipped her Special K. Ketamine was said to produce very believable hallucinations in users. Maybe someone had slipped her some and had their wicked way with her prone, helpless body.

Then again, maybe not.

She thought about it for a second, and none of her girl parts seemed particularly sore. Her va-jay-jay felt normal and unused as usual. No odd taste in her mouth, other than stale beer and regret —

“I am hunting.”

“Yeah.” She scrunched her nose and thought for a moment. “That makes sense. Hunting, in my bed, while totally naked. Yes, that makes perfect sense.”

He remained silent and smiling, showing off that mouth filled with fangs.

“Okay, no, it doesn’t.” She winced at the lancing pain in her head. “What exactly are you supposed to be hunting in my bed at –” She glanced out the window, noting it was still night. “–o-dark-thirty? Tell me that, Mr. Monochromatic Figment of My Imagination.”

“I am not a figment.” He stopped smiling. “And my coloring is very nice for my people. It is considered very attractive.”

“I’ve hurt my figment’s feelings.” She groaned, rolled over and closed her eyes again in an attempt to make him go away. But when she opened her eyes, he was still there and waiting to speak.

“I don’t have feelings in the way that you mean.” He pouted prettily.

“Of course not,” she allowed, wondering when she had actually slipped around the bend into insanity.

“And I am not a figment. I am a Scrimtat from Veta Belga.”

“Scrimtat, sure,” she spoke around a yawn. “I can tell by your very black lips and your very black hair.”

“My tongue is black, too. See?” And he stuck out the longest black, forked tongue this side of a freak show.

“I can see why I dreamed you up.” Her voice went thready. “Each fork in your tongue operates individually?”

She had to know. There were so many things she could imagine him doing with that…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Stephanie is a USA Today Best Selling, multi published, multi award-winning author, Master Costumer, handicapped, wife and mother of two.

From sex-shifting, shape-shifting dragons to undersea worlds, sexually confused elemental Fey and homo-erotic mysteries, all the way to pastel-challenged urban sprites, Stephanie has done it all, and hopes to do more.

Stephanie is an orator on her favorite subjects of writing and world-building, a sometime teacher when you feed her enough tea and donuts, an anime nut, a costumer, and a frequent guest of various sci-fi and writing cons where she can be found leading panel discussions or researching varied legends and theories to improve her writing skills.

Stephanie is known for her love of the outrageous, strong female characters, believable worlds, male characters filled with depth, and multi-cultural stories that make the reader sit up and take notice.

Throwback Thursday: Audit This! by Anne Kane #TBThursday #RomCom @AnneKane

Audit This!

When government tax auditor Nick finds himself obsessed with the work of erotic romance author Khloe Matters, there’s only one thing to do. Audit her! But getting a closer look at the sexy author in her own home just makes him switch his obsession from the writing to the writer.

When he accompanies her to a writers’ festival, things heat up in a hurry. Neither of them is being entirely honest, and as the weekend progresses so does the hilariously tangled webs of deceit as each of them seeks to further their own agenda.

Get it at Changeling Press

EXCERPT

All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2013 Anne Kane

“What do you mean you’re disallowing ninety percent of the expenses I claimed?” Khloe tried not to scream at the smug smile on the auditor’s face. Hard to believe her libido had jumped to attention when he’d first showed up at her door. Just went to show how bad a judge of character she was. “You can’t do that. They are all legitimate business deductions.”

“Really?” The man raised one of those perfect brows. “Care to explain how a trip to Spain qualifies as a business expense? You’re a writer. You don’t have to leave the house. You don’t even have to get dressed.”

Khloe gritted her teeth, taking a deep breath to calm herself down before she answered. She knew his name. Nicholas Carver. She just didn’t think a government auditor deserved such an impressive name. Calling him a dumb-assed bean counter probably wouldn’t help her situation, though.

“Although I have not claimed any clothing expenses, I assure you I do have to get dressed. My neighbours are a conservative bunch. I do have to leave the house occasionally, and I generally make a point of putting some clothes on before I do. That trip was for research.” Well, duh, what else would it be? Maybe this guy got all the looks and none of the brains. “My last mystery novel was set in Madrid during the running of the bulls. I needed to be there to get the feel of the place and understand the atmosphere, how the crowd reacted. I wouldn’t stay in business long if I didn’t pay attention to the little details. Readers can smell a mistake a mile away, and if I lose their trust I’ll be working at the grocery store for a fraction of what I make writing.”

The auditor snorted. “Quite the drama queen, aren’t you? I might accept the research excuse if the tone came through in your work, assuming we’re talking about a published manuscript. Do you have a copy of that alleged book?”

The sceptical tone of his voice, not to mention his use of the word “alleged,” set Khloe’s teeth on edge. How dare he sit there in his perfectly pressed suit and make her justify every item on her tax return? Oh right. He was the almighty tax department auditor! Maybe it would help if she curtseyed or kissed his ring or something.

She smiled sweetly. “Of course.” Turning, she ran her fingers along the spines of the books on the shelf. Plucking Bullfighter’s Downfall out, she handed it to him. It took quite some effort to keep her smile from turning into a snarl. “I hope you enjoy it. It spent two months on the New York Times Best Sellers list.”

He took the book, his brows rising at the cover picturing a couple in a passionate embrace against a backdrop of the famous bull run. Turning the book over, he read the back cover before looking up at her. “Romantic suspense? You’re one of those kinds of authors?”

Okay, he might be the big-shot auditor, and he had the ability to make her life, not to mention her finances, a living hell, but he had no right to use that tone of voice when describing the genre she loved.

“Exactly what do you mean by that?” She straightened up to her full five feet five inches and glared down at him. “If you mean one of those authors who can take two characters, introduce them to each other and make them fall passionately and fervently in love while they dodge bullets, murder, mayhem and other nasty plot points, then yes. I’m one of these kinds of authors. And in case you don’t believe me, you might want to ask the thousands of readers whose buying habits have put me on the New York Times Best Sellers list time and again.”

“No need to get defensive. It’s hardly War and Peace but I’m sure it’s a very nice story.”

It took all of her willpower not to grab the heaviest book on the shelf and smack him over the head with it. War and Peace indeed! “Have you ever tried to read War and Peace?” She took a step forward, gratified at his flinch. “My books are meant to entertain people and take them away from their everyday lives, not bore them to death.”

He had the grace to look uncomfortable. “Well, no, I haven’t actually read it. I’m more of a John Grisham fan. Lots of war but not much peace.”

She felt the tension in her gut relaxing a bit. He wasn’t quite the pretentious prig he looked like. Actually, if she took an honest look at him, he resembled the cover models for some of her steamier books.

And that gave her an idea.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Anne Kane lives in the beautiful Okanagan Valley with a bouncy little rescue dog whose breed defies description, a cantankerous Himalayan cat, and too many fish to count. She spent many years trying to fit in and act normal, but finally gave up the effort. She started writing romance in 2008, and her fate was sealed when she won a publishing contract with Red Sage Publishing and just a month later Changeling Press accepted her first submission. Since then she has published more than thirty stories in a variety of sub-genres, all with a happily ever after.

She has two handsome sons and six adorable grandchildren and enjoys spending time with them whenever she can. Her hobbies, when she’s not playing with the characters in her head, include kayaking, hiking, swimming, playing guitar, singing and of course, reading.

TGIF Changeling — New from Marteeka Karland, Alexa Piper, Stephanie Burke, Harley Wylde, Emily Carrington, Shelby Morgen

It’s time for our 17th Annual A Very Changeling Christmas Celebration — Win Free Books For A Year!

All New Releases 15% off at ChangelingPress.com

Blood (Salvation's Bane MC 5)Blood (Salvation’s Bane MC 5)
by Marteeka Karland
$3.99
Sale Price: $3.39
She thinks she’s leaving when she’s done with me, but I’ve got other plans for my angel.

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Holiday Magic (Elvenswood Tales 1)Holiday Magic (Elvenswood Tales 1)
by Alexa Piper
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A hot vampire or a hot Elf? Charlie could choose… unless she makes both of them her lovers.
How Not To Date A Snowman (How Not To 11)How Not To Date A Snowman (How Not To 11)
by Stephanie Burke
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Wishes can come true at Christmas, even for naughty little girls and snowmen!
A Changeling For All Seasons 1 (Changeling Seasons 1)Spotlight:
A Changeling For All Seasons Volume 6, 7, 8, 9, 10

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Filled with the unexpected, this paranormal anthology offers something to savor for every season.

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Patriot (Hades Abyss MC 6)Patriot (Hades Abyss MC 6)
by Harley Wylde
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All I want for Christmas is MaryAnne… even if she’s off limits.

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A Dragon for Christmas (Dragon Schooled 4)A Dragon for Christmas (Dragon Schooled 4)
by Emily Carrington
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For a human, marriage to an immortal means facing mortality. Henry’s solution? Become a werewolf.

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Imminent Danger (Wrench & Spanner 2)Imminent Danger (Wrench & Spanner 2)
by Shelby Morgen
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He looked like trouble. Exactly the kind of trouble she needed right now. Merry Friggin’ Christmas.

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Throwback Thursday: The Game by Willa Okati #RomCom #TBThursday @willaokati

The Game (Print Edition)

The Name of The Game: Clay’s desperately trying to find a way to stop thinking about Seth — a gorgeous hunk, but totally off limits. Not only is Seth straight, but he’s also dating Sophie, the bitchy, possessive girlfriend from hell.

Seth is a good guy, a clean cop, and a good friend. But when it comes to the girlfriend, he’s not sure how to get her out of the picture. When Seth decides to dump Sophie by pretending to be gay, Clay’s more than happy to help. Together, they break all the rules.

How You Play The Game: Anthony catering Seth and Clay’s wedding would be the perfect gift, but there’s one small problem. He can’t cook. So he signs up for lessons — and gets more than he bargained for. Roan’s more edible than anything on the class menu, and Roan thinks Anthony’s quite a dish, too. Anthony’s happy to play around and allow himself to be seduced, but Roan wants something more. Can they find a way to be as happy as Seth and Clay?

Get it at Changeling Press

EXCERPT

All rights reserved.
Copyright (c) 2018 Willa Okati
Excerpt from The Name of the Game

“Welcome to Fairyland,” Clay read out loud. “A place where gentlemen can be pretty, witty, and gay. Copyright pending.” He gave his friend a dark look. “Anthony…”

“Just give it a chance,” Anthony insisted. “Go ahead, pull up a few profiles. See what’s out there.”

“You really want to see? Fine.” Clay clicked. “Okay, here’s Gerald, age thirty-nine. Gerald, as you will notice, loves to work out, go on five-mile runs, and cook nouvelle cuisine.”

“And? What’s the problem?”

“Gerald, as you will also notice, is pictured as sitting behind a desk so we can’t see the results of all that exercise or, quite possibly, the potbelly from eating at diners. The man has arms like a limp spaghetti noodle in a baggy shirt. Please interest yourself in the fact that Gerald is also bald except for a creative attempt at a comb-over, and if he’s thirty-nine, I’ll eat the hard drive on this thing.”

“You don’t think?”

“Anthony, come on. The way he’s grinning, his dentures are about to fall out.”

“Okay!” Anthony raised his hands in temporary surrender. “So Gerald’s a bust. Try someone else.”

“Somebody say bust?” The front door opened into Clay’s small kitchen. His housemate, Seth, stepped through, popping a motorcycle helmet off his head, then wriggling out of a leather jacket. Clay glanced from Gerald to Seth, from Seth to Gerald, then back at Seth, and felt the familiar wobbliness in his gut that heralded: honey, he’s home.

Seth. All six feet two of him, well-packed into it with hard, lean muscles and an ass that wouldn’t quit. Arms powerful enough to wrench off the most stubborn of pickle jar lids. A scent of smoke and the outdoors clung to his skin. As he headed for the fridge to pluck out a bottle of water, Clay watched and felt his own mouth go dry.

Seth, he thought wistfully. The man he lusted after, and the one he’d have tried to grab up a long time ago except for one little problem: the man happened to be straight. Not just straight, but arrow-like. Ruler-like. Whereas Clay was straight as a Slinky. Seth wasn’t homophobic, but Clay wasn’t stupid. There could never be anything between them.

If wishes were horses, though, he thought, returning to his computer screen with a glum sigh.

“There had better not be anything in this house worth running a bust over.” Seth pressed the cold bottle of water to his forehead. “I just spent the night doing an undercover prostitute sting. Let me tell you, I have seen more T & A than I would have watching the scrambled porn, and every last bit of it illegal.” He grinned — that heart-stopping smile that made Clay’s heart stutter — and dropped loosely into the spare seat. “So, what are we doing?”

“Nothing,” Clay said at the same time that Anthony helpfully chipped in, “Hunting online personals.”

Clay covered his face with one hand as Seth, predictably, cracked up. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.” Anthony gave Seth a cheery smile. “You know how long it’s been since Clay was on a date. I’m giving him a helping hand. Never give up and all that. Seems to me that if he can’t find someone on the street — okay, not on the street, Mister Cop, but in real life — why not try the virtual world?”

He patted Clay’s laptop. “I found a great site, too. Except someone won’t give it a chance.” A sharp nudge to Clay’s hip reminded him again as to who wasn’t playing fair.

“No kidding. Huh.” Seth played the bottle across cheeks that had to be warm from the rising beachfront heat he’d ridden through when the sun came up, then opened the bottle and took a long sip. Watching the man’s throat work, Clay thought, hosanna and hallelujah. “What’s up with those sites, anyway? I thought they were all Spam wizards or something.”

“They are.” Clay aimed at a random listing and clicked. “Now, here we have Frank.”
Seth angled his neck to look. “Frank isn’t too bad — from a straight standpoint.”

“I grant you that he seems to be a fine, upstanding sort of character,” Clay allowed. “However, read his profile.”

Anthony leaned his cheek on Clay’s shoulder. “Thirty-five, athletic, enjoys fine dining and long walks along the beach at sunset. Click here to send him an expression of interest.” When Clay and Seth burst into laughter, he looked up, honestly confused. “What?”

“For one thing,” Seth pointed out, “Have you ever actually walked on a beach after it’s dark? Hello, jellyfish heaven.”

“And don’t forget shells.”

“Plus the fact that it’s about the biggest dating ad cliché on the market.” Seth rose out of his chair and clapped Anthony on the back. “I think you might have to figure out some other way to give Clay a hand.”

ABOUT WILLA OKATI

Willa Okati is made of many things: imagination, coffee, stray cat hairs, daydreams, more coffee, kitchen experimentation, a passion for winter weather, a little more coffee, a whole lot of flowering plants, genderfluidity, and a lifelong love of storytelling. She is definitely one of the quiet ones you have to watch out for. Favorite story types include: friends to lovers, reunited lovers, enemies to lovers, mpreg, polyamory, medical romances, Regency/Edwardian/WWII historical romances, and romantic comedies.

Find Willa online: Instagram | Facebook | Twitter

Throwback Thursday: Don’t Need a Hero by Lena Austin #TBThursday #RomCom @Lena_Austin

Don't Need a Hero (Protect and Serve Multi-Author 11)

When cat shifter Petra (aka Pete) becomes the victim of “friendly fire” during the apprehension of a bank robber, panther shifter cop Apollo Jones feels obligated to make sure she’s okay. Pete’s positive she doesn’t need another hero in her life, and Apollo’s out to prove her wrong.

Get it at Changeling Press

Praise for Don’t Need a Hero (Protect and Serve)

“I was all set to be entertained with some sizzling sheet action and witty dialogue between the characters and I certainly got all of that, but the last revelation truly made this book shine. It made me care, gave me the chills and I wanted to hug someone.”— Xeranthemum, Long and Short Reviews


“I liked how these two played off each other… friendly banter and sexual chemistry. I liked them together. It is just right on the sex; I love stories with good plots and likeable characters, and this one is that kind of story.”— 4 Stars from Redz, Redz World Reviews

ABOUT LENA AUSTIN

Someone cursed Lena Austin with “may you have a life so full you’ll have many tales to tell your grandchildren.” Lena’s a “fallen” society wench with a checkered past. She’s been a licensed minister, hairdresser, Realtor, radio DJ, exotic dancer, telephone service tech, live-steel medievalist swordswoman, BDSM Mistress, and investment property manager. Not necessarily in that order. She never finished that degree in marine archaeology, but did learn to scuba — she’s got a lifetime of “Research material!”

Hey, why waste these stories on kids who won’t listen anyway? Writing them down is a nice way to spend her retirement. What? You expected an ex-BDSM Mistress to take up crocheting or something?

Throwback Thursday: The Witching Hour by Marteeka Karland #TBThursday #RomCom @marteekakarland

The Witching Hour (Mount Bell 2)

Hazel really wants to fulfill her potential and be the witch her Grandma always said she could be. Unfortunately, though her spells always work, they never quite work the way they’re supposed to.

Drake, the hunky werewolf next door, has been dutifully watching over Hazel for the local coven. He’s not convinced she’s a witch, until she accidentally turns him into a dog. Of all the indignities.

Now she’s got his undivided attention, and my oh my how she’s grown up. Man, has Drake got an appetite for a certain witch… and it’s all for her own good. After all, who ever heard of a virgin witch?

Get it at Changeling Press

EXCERPT

Second Edition
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2014 Marteeka Karland
An Authorized Excerpt

“Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble –“

“What the fuck is that, Hazel? That’s never worked!”

The bent aluminum pot on Hazel’s rickety stove rattled as its contents boiled. The bright afternoon sun managed to peek through the drapes of both her apartment windows, shining on the old mayonnaise jars resting in her windowsill. She’d never been able to afford the expensive glass flagons she should have been using to store her potions.

Grasping the metal handle with a potholder to stop the rattling, Hazel took a tentative sniff of her brew. She wrinkled her nose, but gritted her teeth in determination, wanting only to complete this spell even if it did stink.

Horribly.

Hazel gave her best friend, Irene, an exasperated look. “Nothing else has, either. Do you have a better idea?”

Irene snorted. “Just don’t pull out the eye of newt or I’m outta here.”

“Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble…” Hazel paused. “What comes next?”

Irene threw up her hands. “It’s no wonder your spells don’t work.”

“Hey, they work. Just not like they’re supposed to.” Hazel wanted to be indignant, but couldn’t manage the effort. Irene was right, to a point. “Now, are you going to make fun of me, or help me?”

“As much as I’d love to help you, Hazel, I don’t know anything about witchcraft.”

Hazel sighed. “That’s okay, Irene. Neither do I.”

They looked at each other a moment, then both started to giggle.

“Oh, well.” Irene hugged her life-long friend with one arm as she picked up her coat from a nearby chair with the other. “At least you didn’t turn Mrs. Johnson into a goat again. It’s a damn good thing she didn’t remember what happened or she’d have you locked up.”

“Don’t I know it! That woman already thinks they should kick me out of this apartment building simply because I’m forty years younger than everyone here.”

“Well.” Irene grinned wickedly. “Not everyone.”

Hazel groaned. “You could have gone all day without mentioning him.”

“You’re the one who said he was a hunk.”

“Sure. But you didn’t have to tell him I said it.”

Irene held up her hands in mock defense. “I only stated the facts as they pertained to the moment.”

“But that wasn’t all you told him. Was it.” Hazel made that last a statement. They both knew she had told the tall, dark, and oh-my-God handsome Drake Cole more about Hazel than she should have. At least, from Hazel’s point of view. She’d met Drake at the wedding of her friends, Laura and Jake, and he’d taken a permanent residence in her fantasies from that point on.

“He seemed to take it in stride.”

Irene’s innocent look didn’t fool Hazel for a moment. “He thinks I’m a blooming idiot, thanks to you.” Hazel pouted. “And I really wanted to jump his bones. Now –” She sighed dramatically. “I guess I’ll just have to slip him this love potion I was making for your hamsters.”

“Why not just cast a spell that makes him forget I told him you were a witch?” Irene deadpanned. They both knew Hazel couldn’t “cast” her way out of a paper bag.

“I would, if I wasn’t afraid I’d completely erase his memory.” Hazel sighed. They joked about it, but it was a very real concern to her. Her spells always worked. But sometimes what she got and what she intended weren’t in the same ballpark. Or the same universe, for that matter.

Irene hugged her sympathetically. “Oh, honey. I would never have said anything to hurt you on purpose. It was Laura’s wedding reception and she’d filled me up with champagne. I suppose my tongue ran away from my brain.”

“Now, there’s a mental image.”

They both laughed.

“I have to go.” Irene picked up her purse, slung it over her shoulder, and opened the door. “I’ll try to make things right with Drake. He knows I was tipsy. It shouldn’t be hard.”

“Thanks, but no.” Hazel held the door for her friend. “If he can’t accept me being a witch, then I didn’t need him to begin with.”

Irene winked at her. “It would be fun to have a romp in the hay with him, though. Admit it, Hazel. The man’s hot!”

Hazel fanned herself. “Oh, he’s definitely that!”

“See you later. Are we still on for the Halloween party?”

“I guess. As long as I’m back by midnight. I’m going to try a spell that’s supposed to draw its power from the Witching Hour on Halloween night. That way, maybe I won’t mess it up with my weird energy.”

“Okie dokie. I’ll pick you up at six.”

“See you tonight.”

Hazel Montgomery closed the door and walked to the kitchen of her small, but homey, apartment. Okay, homey was probably too kind a word. Maybe it was just crowded. It consisted of two rooms: one that tripled as a kitchen/living room/bedroom, and one bathroom. Her sofa pulled out into a bed, and there was one recliner. She didn’t have room for anything else other than a coffee table, but it was still hers.

Sort of. She paid three fifty a month for the tiny thing, but it was hers as long as she paid the rent. As long as she had her own place, she could explore the magic she was trying so hard to master.

So far, she was failing miserably at it.

Taking a deep breath, Hazel closed her eyes and cleared her mind. When she opened them, she stared intently at the aluminum pot of boiling herb mixture on her stove.

“Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble…” She sprinkled a pinch of red pepper into the mixture and tried to add a few drops of peanut oil, only she sneezed and missed the pot. The hot burner flamed when the oil splattered onto the coil and singed her arm. She pulled back with a yelp. Oh, well. If it hadn’t exploded now, it probably would have later. She muttered under her breath as she ran cold water over her arm.

Being a witch wasn’t supposed to be this hard!

Hazel filled a goblet with the liquid and looked at her “witch’s brew” before setting it on the coffee table. She wrinkled her nose. It stank. Okay, so it was positively rank. She pulled a tendril of her jet-black hair to her nose. Pee euw!

She needed a bath. Desperately.

After cleaning up the mess in her kitchen, Hazel headed to the bathroom. Stretching as she went, she didn’t watch where she was going and tripped over her shoe — which she had kicked off and left in the middle of the floor — and hit the little table with her knee before she fell. Grabbing at anything she could to try to break her fall, she knocked the foul-smelling stuff off into her lap. She gave another sharp yelp and pulled her white dress away from her body. Thank goodness there wasn’t much of it, and it had cooled somewhat.

Oh, God! That smelled awful!

She had just gotten to her feet when someone knocked on the door. Thinking it was Irene — the woman always forgot something — Hazel simply flung open the door as she picked up the goblet from the floor. When she stood, she got the surprise of her life.

ABOUT MARTEEKA KARLAND

Erotic romance author by night, emergency room tech/clerk by day, Marteeka Karland works really hard to drive everyone in her life completely and totally nuts. She has been creating stories from her warped imagination since she was in the third grade. Her love of writing blossomed throughout her teenage years until it developed into the totally unorthodox and irreverent style her English teachers tried so hard to rid her of.

Find her online: Facebook | BookBub