Willa Okati (AKA Will) is here to tell us about Jazz Bang Boom, a gay cyberpunk adventure romance.
Read on for details...
___________________
Gay Cyberpunk Adventure Romance
Date Published: August 14, 2026
Riot’s attempt to teach his pretty lover to behave himself
doesn’t… quite… go as planned.
Jazz loves pretty things and things that go BOOM. Tyger, AKA Riot, is a man on
a mission, searching for the bits and pieces that’ll repair his damaged,
bio-constructed DNA. It only makes sense for the happily mismatched lovers to
turn airship pirates and sneak, snatch or con what they need, right?
Right. One problem. Occasionally Jazz gets a little too fond of explosives,
and Tyger gets a tad too focused on his quest. When that happens, they need to
vent a little steam. So to speak.
EXCERPT
T-minus sixty seconds. Really, it was bad manners to blow up a tea party, but
some society dames were just asking for it. Jazz landed in the ornamental rose
bushes outside his hostess's parlor window, gathered his heavy silk skirts
around his knees, and ran like hell.
Not that he was worried. Jazz knew his explosives like he knew his way around
the three-dimensional differential equations of a projected illusory field.
And wine. And perfume. What? Jazz prided himself on having layers.
He ticked off the seconds in his head, listening to an internal countdown.
Right about now the aforementioned queens of "polite" society (and those who
knew Jazz knew far better than to push a particular argument on behavior
becoming to a lady and the mind-boggling double-standards that -- oh, anyway).
Jazz did enjoy traveling to different worlds and sampling the finest wines,
velvets, songs and yes, incendiary devices from the thousands of cultures that
flourished around the galaxies, but the next time his honey, Riot, wanted to
spend time where good manners were forbidden in favor of good times? No
thanks.
Where had he been? Oh, right. Crap! Cue the fine ladies screeching, coughing
and sneezing, the last of a harmless fog floating out the window he'd
helpfully, er, opened by jumping through, and they might have regained enough
composure after the flash and bang that went with the smoke to have started
complaining and oh, right.
Five, four, three, two --
Jazz managed to free himself of the pannier hoops just in time to dive under
the cover of a cluster of almost-certainly-sacred ancient oak trees, before --
BOOM.
If a thing was worth doing, it was worth doing properly. "Proper." See what I
did there?
This time, however, the dainty device of detonation had not been hidden in
Jazz's decolletage (quite convincing cleavage, if he did say so himself). He'd
set the charges long before smiling politely and pretending to enjoy a
coin-sized cress sandwich in the ladies' salon.
BOOM.
There, that was the ticket! One for distraction, two to cause confusion to his
enemies, e.g. the people in possession of A Thing Jazz Wanted, and a third to
blow the ever-living fuck out of irritatingly secure locks that otherwise
prevented his honey from wholesale liberation of a few deliciously prized
goods.
POOF.
Oops. He'd forgotten the fourth bomb in the salon. Well, that one had been a
bit spur of the moment. And a leetle more powerful. Enough to, say, jar loose
some ripe pickings of his own, if he were lucky. All he needed to do was
circle back around, and --
The discreet two-way comms device concealed in the cunning shape of a rosebud
earring spoke to him. "Overkill, Jazz. Overkill."
"Spoilsport," Jazz said, and sneezed. "Let he who has never enjoyed the smell
of C4 in the morning cast the first stone in a glass house."
"Excuse me?" The voice on the comms sounded amused. "You're high on adrenaline
again, aren't you?"
"Pish, tosh, nonsense, and absolutely, yes. Perhaps that was overkill. Others
could say I was in the wrong, but I can't blame me."
"You are a ridiculous man," the speaker said fondly.
"I know." Jazz preened. He sneezed again. "Tch. Plastique is one thing. Debris
coated in dust is quite another. What about you, tick-tock man? Did you get
what you came here for?"
"Stop calling me that," Riot said, quite clear -- even over the comms -- that
he didn't mind in the least, and even had a soft spot in his heart for the
nickname. "Yeah, I got what I needed. And then some. Wasn't easy to find and I
had to pay a price, but it was worth it."
Jazz enjoyed a ripple's worth of goosebumps. He anticipated all sorts of good
things once back on board the Sarah-Jessica-No-Parking. A triumphant Riot made
for a feisty Riot with his blood running hot and his body all-systems-go. He
employed the same affectionate tone when he replied, "Tell that to the
watercress and unspiced kimchi I had to eat to make nice with my hostess."
"The one you just blew up?"
"Unspiced kimchi," Jazz repeated.
"The trials and tragedies you face, darlin'."
"Darn right. This piece of the puzzle you went after -- tell me about it," he
coaxed.
"Later. For the moment --"
"Yes, yes. Run and keep running until you swoop in to save the day, and clear
out of here before the smoke does?"
"You read my mind," Riot said, very dryly indeed but pleased. Almost purring.
Consider Jazz's curiosity piqued.
"I'm on my way." Such a tragedy, but the skirts had to go. Almost a full bolt
of silk! Still, a man had to do what a man had to do, even when he'd tricked
himself out in the finest of ladies' clothing.
Probably more so at such times. Hmm. He'd have to think about that more later.
In the meantime, business. Beautiful, sparkly, gloriously shiny business! Jazz
retrieved the pouches of more easily liftable and valuable trinketry from the
panniers and pushed them into his reticule.
"Jazz? When I said run, that wasn't a suggestion."
Oh! Right. "And what'll you be doing while I skedaddle? How will I know if I'm
being rescued by the right man?"
"I'll be the one dangling out of an airship with a rope and a half-cocked
plan."
"Easily recognizable," Jazz said happily. Wait. "How long a rope? How high do
the airships go?" Wouldn't exactly Be Done to whip off the 3-D fooler facade,
and on this steampunk aficionado's wet dream of a world the airships he'd seen
before had to go quite high indeed --"Riot? How high?"
"High enough I'll make it worth your while to man up and climb. And," Riot
purred, "when I say 'worth your while' I mean, 'I plan to punish you, then
fuck you three-quarters of the way through the nearest flat surface.'"
"I am so on my way now."
"Fast?"
"Darling, you have no idea." Jazz kicked off his heels. Not the shoes, mind,
those gorgeous soft-supple open-calf boots of fawn-soft suede. Just the heels
and pattens. "After all, who do you think you're talking to?"
Oh dear. Jazz heard a set of mastiffs on their way. Here I go again. Skirts,
knees, running feet, check. Go time.
Fast.
About the Author
Willa Okati (AKA Will) 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 and a lifelong
love of storytelling. Will's definitely one of the quiet ones you have to
watch out for, though he -- not she anymore -- is a lot less quiet these days.
Dulce Dennison is here to tell us about Claimed Without Mercy, a gay enemies-to-lovers romance.
Read on for details...
______________________
Gay Enemies to Lovers Romance
Date Published: April 24, 2026
Publisher: Changeling Press
Captive. Claimed. Protected by the devil himself.
I’m Tyson Hughes’ right hand. Collector. Enforcer. Executioner.
When a low-level idiot tries to clear his debt by offering up his own nephew,
I expect a clean transaction. A body to move. A message to send. Business.
I don’t expect Kellen. Bruised. Beautiful. Untouched by this world in
ways that make my jaw lock. He looks at me like I’m either the devil
come to claim him… or the only thing standing between him and worse.
Taking him wasn’t part of the plan. Delivering him to Tyson
would’ve been easier. Smarter. Safer. Instead, I claim him.
Now he’s living under my roof, breathing my air, learning the rules of a
world I don’t sugarcoat. I’m not a hero. I don’t rescue
people. I own what’s mine. I protect it. And I destroy anyone stupid
enough to threaten it. But the deeper I pull Kellen into my life—into
the violence, the loyalty, the blood that binds us—the harder it is to
tell where captivity ends… and desire begins.
When the debt comes due, I’ll have to choose. Tyson’s empire. Or
the young man I claimed without mercy—and refuse to let go.
WARNING: Intended for readers 18+. Dark MM mafia romance. Possessive
antihero. Captor/captive tension, dubious consent. High heat. Guaranteed HEA.
No cheating.
I watched the men work, arms folded across my chest. The dim lights of the
warehouse cast long shadows as they moved product from one crate to another,
their movements precise and mechanical. Nobody spoke much -- they knew better.
When I oversaw an operation, I expected efficiency, not conversation. The
tattoos on my forearms seemed to pulse in the half-light, a reminder to
everyone present of who I was and what I was capable of. The man who made
problems disappear.
“Faster,” I said, my voice echoing against the concrete walls.
“We need this shit loaded before sunrise.”
The men picked up their pace, sweat beading on their foreheads. This shipment
was worth seven figures -- premium grade heroin straight from our overseas
connections. The kind of product that kept Tyson’s empire running and
our pockets lined.
I paced between the rows of crates, watching each man’s hands, each
movement. Trust wasn’t something I gave easily, especially not to the
low-level soldiers Tyson assigned to these jobs. Most were competent enough,
but all it took was one fuck-up, one greedy asshole, and we’d have cops
swarming the place or, worse, a war with another organization.
Something caught my eye. A slight hesitation from one of the newer guys --
skinny fuck with a neck tattoo that screamed prison ink. He glanced over his
shoulder when he thought I wasn’t looking, then slipped his hand into
his jacket pocket just a little too casually.
I moved behind a stack of crates, circling around until I was positioned where
he couldn’t see me. Three years of working as Tyson’s enforcer had
taught me to spot a rat before they even knew they were one.
“Something interesting in your pocket, Alvarez?” I asked,
appearing beside him like a shadow.
He jumped, nearly dropping the bag he was holding. “No, Mr. Grant. Just
checking the time.”
“Really? Pull it out, then.”
His eyes darted to the exit, calculating the distance. I knew that look.
I’d seen it dozens of times before on the faces of men who thought they
could outsmart me.
“Now,” I said, not raising my voice. I never had to.
“It’s nothing, I swear --”
I grabbed his wrist, twisting until he gasped in pain, then reached into his
pocket myself. My fingers closed around a small plastic bag containing about
twenty grams of our product. The weight of it told me everything I needed to
know.
“Everyone stop,” I commanded, and the warehouse fell silent.
“Gather round. Seems we need to have a little lesson in loyalty.”
The men formed a circle, their faces grim. They knew what was coming.
They’d seen it before, or at least heard the stories.
I held up the bag. “Alvarez here thinks he deserves a bonus. Isn’t
that right?”
“Please, Mr. Grant, I wasn’t --”
My fist connected with his jaw before he could finish the sentence. He
stumbled backward but didn’t fall. Good. I wanted him conscious for what
came next.
“Tyson Hughes pays you well,” I said, addressing everyone now.
“He provides for your families. Keeps the cops off your backs. And in
return, he asks for one thing.” I grabbed Alvarez by the throat.
“Loyalty.”
I slammed him against a crate, my hand still tight around his neck. His eyes
bulged, face turning red, then purple.
“You know what happens to thieves in this organization?” I asked,
loosening my grip just enough for him to breathe.
He nodded frantically, gasping for air.
“Tell them,” I demanded, nodding toward the other men.
“They… they die,” he choked out.
I smiled. “Usually. But tonight, I’m feeling generous.”
Relief flooded his face for a brief moment before I slammed my knee into his
groin. As he doubled over, I caught him with an uppercut that sent him
sprawling across the concrete floor.
The men watched in silence as I approached Alvarez, who was now curled into a
ball, blood trickling from his split lip. I knelt beside him, keeping my voice
low enough that only he could hear.
“I’m going to let you live, but not out of mercy.” I pulled
a switchblade from my pocket and flicked it open. “You’re going to
be a message.”
What happened next filled the warehouse with screams that the thick walls
swallowed whole. The men watched, faces impassive but eyes wide with fear as I
made my point in blood. When I was done, Alvarez lay sobbing on the floor,
clutching what remained of his left hand.
“Get him patched up,” I told two of the men. “Then drop him
at the emergency room across town. Make sure he understands that if he says a
word about where he was or who did this, the next visit won’t be so
pleasant.”
They nodded and dragged Alvarez away, leaving a smear of crimson across the
floor. I turned to the remaining men, wiping my blade clean on a handkerchief.
“Finish loading the shipment. I want everything out of here in thirty
minutes.”
They scattered like cockroaches under a light, moving twice as fast as before.
The metallic smell of blood hung in the air, mixing with the dust and chemical
odors of the warehouse. I checked my watch. Almost 3 AM.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. A text from Tyson:
Need you at the house. 9 AM sharp. Important matter to discuss.
I stared at the message, feeling a familiar mix of pride and anxiety. A direct
summons from Tyson usually meant one of two things: I’d fucked up, or he
had a special job that only I could handle. Given that I’d been running
operations smoothly for months, I was betting on the latter.
I supervised the rest of the loading in silence, watching as the men carefully
avoided the bloodstain on the floor. By 4:15 AM, the warehouse was empty
except for me and the lingering evidence of what happened to those who
betrayed Tyson Hughes.
I locked up and climbed into my black Audi, the leather seat cool against my
back. The night had turned cold, but I barely noticed. My mind was already on
the meeting with Tyson, wondering what assignment awaited me. Whatever it was,
I’d handle it. I always did. That’s why, despite everything, I was
still alive when so many others weren’t.
I pulled out of the warehouse district, leaving behind the night’s
violence and heading toward my apartment for a few hours of sleep before
meeting with the only man I’d ever truly respected. The only man
who’d ever given me a chance when everyone else saw nothing but gutter
trash. The man who’d made me what I was.
For Tyson Hughes, I’d do anything. And he knew it.
I pulled up to Tyson’s estate at 8:55 AM, early as always. The gates
opened automatically -- security knew my car. As I drove up the long, winding
driveway, I caught glimpses of the sprawling mansion through the trees. Tyson
had built all this from nothing, clawing his way up from the streets to become
the most powerful man in the city’s underworld. And he’d picked
me. Even after all these years, that fact still hit me in the chest sometimes,
a mixture of pride and the constant fear of disappointing him.
I parked next to Tyson’s collection of luxury cars and straightened my
tie in the rearview mirror. Despite only three hours of sleep, I looked
presentable. The dark circles under my eyes were practically permanent
fixtures anyway.
The front door opened before I could knock. Nick, Tyson’s longtime
second-in-command, greeted me with a curt nod.
“He’s in his study,” he said, stepping aside.
I walked through the marble-floored foyer, past priceless artwork and antiques
that Tyson collected not because he gave a shit about art, but because they
signified his rise from poverty. Everything in this house was a trophy, a
reminder of victories and conquered enemies.
The study door stood ajar. I knocked anyway.
“Come in, Ian,” Tyson called.
He sat behind a massive oak desk, silver hair immaculately styled, wearing
what I knew was a hand-tailored suit that probably cost more than most people
made in a month. At fifty-three, Tyson Hughes carried himself with the ease of
a man who knew his own power and had no need to flaunt it. When he killed, he
did it with a phone call, not his hands. Those days were behind him.
“Right on time,” he said, looking up from his computer and
removing his reading glasses. “How’d the shipment go last
night?”
“Clean and quick. One minor issue that’s been handled.”
I nodded. “Missing some fingers, but alive. I figured he’d be more
useful as a warning than a corpse.”
A smile touched the corners of Tyson’s mouth. “Smart. That’s
why I trust you with these things.” He gestured to the chair across from
him. “Sit. Drink?”
“It’s not even ten.”
“Since when has that ever stopped either of us?”
I smiled despite myself and took the seat. Tyson poured two glasses of scotch
from a crystal decanter, sliding one across the desk to me.
“You look like shit,” he said casually. “Not
sleeping?”
“Sleep’s overrated.”
“Not when I need you sharp.” He leaned back in his chair, studying
me with those penetrating gray eyes that saw everything. “You’ve
been pushing yourself too hard lately.”
“Just doing my job.”
“Your job is to follow orders and stay alive. Can’t do either if
you’re running on fumes.”
I took a sip of the scotch, letting the burn distract me from the fact that
Tyson was the only person on earth who could talk to me like this without
ending up in pieces.
“I’m fine,” I said. “What’s this important
matter you wanted to discuss?”
Tyson’s expression shifted, his eyes hardening. “Sean
Collins.”
The name hung in the air between us.
“What about him?” I asked.
“He owes us three hundred grand. Has for almost six months now.”
Tyson took a long swallow of his drink. “I’ve been patient. Sent
Nick to have a chat with him twice. Sent messages through mutual associates.
Nothing.”
“You want me to collect.”
“I want you to make an example of him.” Tyson’s voice
dropped, became colder. “Collins thinks because he’s got
connections with the Irish that he’s untouchable. He’s been
spreading word that I’ve gone soft in my old age.”
My jaw clenched. “That’s a mistake.”
“A fatal one.” Tyson stood up and walked to the window, looking
out over his manicured gardens. “Sean Collins is a particular kind of
vermin. Beats the girls who work for him, sometimes kills them if they try to
leave. Has a taste for the young ones too.”
“Want me to take care of him permanently?” I asked, already
knowing the answer.
Tyson turned, his expression softer now, almost paternal. “Not yet.
First, get my money. Make him understand who he’s dealing with.”
He returned to his desk and pulled out a file, sliding it across to me.
“Here’s everything you need to know. Addresses, hangouts, known
associates. His nephew lives with him -- kid named Kellen Lin. Collins had
custody since the boy’s mother died. He’s an adult now but
hasn’t moved out.”
I flipped through the file. Photos, financial records, property deeds. Tyson
was nothing if not thorough.
“The nephew -- he involved in Collins’ business?” I asked.
“Not as far as we know. Works at a coffee shop. Keeps to himself.”
Tyson refilled his glass. “Use your judgment there.”
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Collateral damage was part of the
job.
“When?” I asked, closing the file.
“Yesterday would’ve been good. Today’s acceptable. By the
end of the week, non-negotiable.”
I nodded, downing the rest of my scotch in one swallow. “Consider it
done.”
“I always do when I give you an assignment.” Tyson smiled, the
kind of smile that had always made me feel like I belonged somewhere.
“That’s why I chose you, Ian. From the first day I pulled you out
of that shithole your father called a home, I knew you were different. You
understand loyalty.”
“You gave me a life,” I said simply. It wasn’t flattery. It
was fact. Before Tyson, I was nothing. A fifteen-year-old kid with a junkie
father and violence in my blood. Tyson had channeled that violence, given it
purpose and direction.
“And you’ve repaid that a thousand times over.” He walked
around the desk and put a hand on my shoulder. “Collins is just the
beginning. I’m getting older, Ian. Starting to think about the future of
this organization.”
My heart skipped a beat. We’d never discussed succession before, though
everyone in the hierarchy wondered who would take over when Tyson eventually
stepped aside. I’d always assumed it would be Nick, but at the same
time, Nick was also getting up there in years. Both men were close in age and
had worked side-by-side for as long as anyone could remember. But if I thought
about it, I was probably the next closest to Tyson, the most trusted after
Nick.
I left the study with the file tucked under my arm and a sense of purpose
burning in my chest. Tyson had called me “his boy.” It
wasn’t the first time, but it never failed to hit something deep inside
me -- that hungry, abandoned part that had never known a real father’s
approval.
For Tyson, I’d collect this debt and a thousand more. I’d tear
Sean Collins apart if necessary. Because when Tyson Hughes looked at me like
that -- with pride and expectation -- I felt like I was worth something. And
that feeling was more addictive than any drug I’d ever tried.
About the Author
Dulce Dennison is a pen name for gay and LGBTQA+ themed love stories from best
selling MC romance author Harley Wylde, AKA award-winning science
fiction/paranormal romance author Jessica Coulter Smith. From cowboys to
shapeshifters, Dulce/Harley/Jess believes in love in all shapes and sizes, and
that everyone deserves a happily-ever-after.
Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress
Save 15% off any order at ChangelingPress.com with code RABT15
Will Okati is here to tell us about All I Want for Christmas, a gay Christmas romance, featuring 2nd chances.
Read on for details...
________________________
Gay Christmas Romance, 2nd Chances
Date Published: December 19, 2025
All James wants for Christmas is his roommate Cillian. And he might just be
getting lucky this year.
Who doesn’t love the holidays? Sleigh bells racing down winding country
roads. Chestnuts, open fires, Yule logs. Homemade fruitcake that’s
soaked up a full bottle of brandy. James adores it all, but his long-concealed
desire for his roommate Cillian runs deeper than a river of holiday booze and
burns hotter than any crackling Christmas hearth. But since he’d rather
not risk losing a dear friend by making any unwanted moves, he’s kept
that to himself for years.
Until now. When a flight plan goes FUBAR and James doesn’t have a way
home for the holidays, Cillian suggests they keep Christmas in their own way.
Tree, lights, feasting, the works.
It’s tempting. Almost as tempting as Cillian himself. And when James
starts to get a clue that his interest might just be reciprocated…
well. That changes the entire game. Time to bring out the holly and the jolly
and maybe he’ll get his man under the tree this year.
EXCERPT
James bowed his head and thumped it gently against the windowpane. At first,
he thought the quiet rattle and bang was from the shitty, landlord special,
glass rattling in its frame. The much louder swearing, first frustrated and
then triumphant, told him Cillian was home.
His heart rate, already nice and high, spiked a jolt or two skyward.
Cillian. His roommate. Platonic, not permanently attached, but in high demand,
with a new pretty boy or big bear on his arm at least twice a month. He
rattled all the windows when he had company, and James had learned to take it
with a grain of salt, a snorted chuckle, and a really good pair of
noise-canceling headphones -- because honestly, Cillian was one of those guys
you couldn’t help but love. Some men had a gift for that. Half Irish and
leaning into it, using the accent he’d gotten from his Galway mother to
its full advantage. Full head of wild red curls and a day or so’s worth
of stubble. Surprisingly broad shoulders, built like a Viking bard, with a
cute little pillow belly when he sat down.
“Your call is very important to us. Please hold…”
James missed the rest of the robot spiel, too busy watching Cillian wander
into their living room, tossing his keys in the general direction of their
coffee table and his own knitted cap toward the back of the couch. No company
tonight, James noticed.
Cillian grinned broadly, his teeth white and even, and mimed “phone
call?” before putting his finger to his lips and plunking cheerfully
down onto their couch. Yep. There was the belly. During dry spells, which
happened far more often than James would like, he itched to drop down beside
Cillian and rest his head on that nice little cushion to see if it was as
comfortable as it looked.
“Won’t say a word,” Cillian mouthed to James. Then almost
immediately, out loud: “Problems? Weren’t you supposed to be on a
plane tonight?”
“Supposed to be, sure.” James gestured at his phone.
“Airline says otherwise.”
“You bought your ticket weeks ago.”
“Again, airline’s website says otherwise. Trying to get an actual
human on the line to convince them of that.”
Cillian winced in kind sympathy and idly rested his hand on his stomach where
his Aran sweater had ridden up an inch or two. “Sucks, my friend. Wish
you good luck.”
James’ fingers twitched. Their windows didn’t keep all the cold
out, but Cillian ran warm. He’d be toasty as a fireplace to cuddle up
with. James could rest his head or roll over to face him while they talked
about a little of everything and a lot of nothing. And while he was there,
possibly nose into the warm skin. Press a light kiss to Cillian’s navel.
Or flip completely onto his stomach, braced on his arms, all the better to
take care of the zipper on Cillian’s jeans and --
Okay, so he didn’t think about that kind of goings-on only during dry
spells. More like all the time, actually.
All I want for Christmas is youuuuuu…
Click. “Your call has been disconnected. Please hang up and try
again.”
James clapped a hand to his forehead and growled through gritted teeth,
wondering if Androids could actually accordion up and break across the middle
if you squeezed them hard enough. Either way, he was about to find out, either
from travel-induced rage or sexual frustration.
“Ah, now. I know that look.”
James had closed his eyes, but he heard Cillian lever himself off the couch
and clatter over before thumping a companionable hand to his back.
“It’s a few days till Christmas still. You’re not going to
get a human on the line during rush hour.”
“True so far.” James opened his eyes. “Suggestions?”
“Sure, easy. Call back tomorrow morning and yell at them then. Or not,
because they’re humans and they’re probably at least twice as
pissed at the system as you are, so be a kind fellow and go easy on the poor
bastards. Figure it all out with a cool head then.”
Cillian grinned at him from inches away. He smelled of bayberries and fir and
wool. “And in the meantime, I happen to know the perfect cure for a
raging temper fit.”
Despite himself, a matching smile tugged at James’ lips. Cillian was
just magic that way. “Don’t say drinks.”
“Drinks!” Cillian thumped him harder, then tossed an arm around
James’ shoulders. “Best idea I’ve heard today. Let’s
go.”
With a choice between that and listening to bubblegum caroling for another
hour -- well, it wasn’t really a choice at all.
All I want for Christmas is you. He tapped Cillian’s fist with his own.
“You’re on. Let’s go.”
About the Author
Willa Okati (AKA Will) 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 and a lifelong
love of storytelling. Will's definitely one of the quiet ones you have to
watch out for, though he -- not she anymore -- is a lot less quiet these days.
Kira Stone is here to tell us about Heart of a Lion, a gay dark fantasy romance.
Read on for details...
_________________
Gay Dark Fantasy Romance
Date Published: January 31, 2025
It takes a guardsman with the heart of a lion to love the hunt master and
survive the wrath of the duke.
A chance encounter lands young Curran a coveted position as Duke
Luthias’s personal guard, but his seeming good fortune soon sours as
the evil and deception woven into the castle walls takes its toll.
Tanis, the lover the duke makes Curran surrender as part of his oath of
loyalty, is the only man he can trust to help him stop the duke’s
ill-fated campaign to punish the northern marauders. But Tanis has secrets
of his own, and as much as he loves Curran, they could lose much more than
their lives if he gets involved now.
When the raiders retaliate for the duke’s acts of war by laying siege
to his castle, all three men are forced to take refuge within the fortified
walls. Who lives and who dies will depend on one man having the heart of a
lion.
EXCERPT
England 1446
The Foot of the Chevoit Hills
“This was a fine idea,” Curran Aurick announced to the world at
large. He arched his back until the rest of his naked body floated to the
surface of the steamy water. The natural hot spring formed a bathtub big
enough for ten large men, but this night Curran had it all to himself. Of
course, if one of the castle functionaries ever caught him here, his good
fortune would take a sharp turn for the worse.
“A member of the guard must not befoul the healing waters into which
His Grace’s lily-white bottom descends,” he mocked in the nasal
tone of the keep’s chatelaine. LikeLuthias’ arse shat
daisies.
Not that he had any personal knowledge of the arse belonging to Luthias,
the Fourth Duke of Otterburn. Yet. Duke Luthias hadn’t been home since
Curran took the post of guardsman. That in no way diminished the respect and
love which blossomed in Curran’s heart as he listened to the epic
tales spun about His Grace’s battle prowess, kind heart, and lusty
cock.
The great nobleman had beaten back the northern marauders time and time
again. His campaigns on the border separating his beautiful duchy from the
Scottish rocks prevented the butchering heathens from spilling stout English
blood throughout the peaceful countryside.
As his large family lived in one of the duke’s protected villages, it
was a cause Curran wholeheartedly supported. It was also one of the biggest
reasons he’d left home. Curran planned to spend his life chasing
adventure so his younger siblings back home never needed to run in fear from
the barbarians. What better way to accomplish that than by joining the
duke’s army and learning the art of making war from the man who did it
best?
Unfortunately, as a member of the duke’s home guard, Curran had no
opportunity to take an active role in the duchy’s defense. The only
time he’d had to draw his weapon was to fend off a playful attack by a
quartet of maids.
Thank you, ladies, but no thank you. It took something stouter than a
virgin’s plump breasts to make his cock sit up and take notice. Given
the dearth of male lovers in the area, every so often Curran became tempted
to take a bite of the sweet meat the ladies offered him. The notion never
lasted long, for he need only look at their powdered and perfumed bodies to
have his manhood bow down in defeat.
No, his body and soul belonged to men with a warrior’s heart. The
heart of a lion. Rare men like Luthias.
True, the duke was aging, but far from infirm if the stories told about him
contained a grain of truth. His corded thighs were laced with battle scars.
His hands were calloused from a strong grip on the hilt of his sword. No
doubt the man’s cock would stand as tall and proud as the duke
himself.
Curran longed to know what would please so great and worthy a man in the
privacy of his bedchamber. Yet, bedding the duke was a dream destined to
remain unfulfilled. His first three wives were fragile creatures, dying in
childbirth or soon thereafter according to common servant gossip. The fact
that he kept replacing those he’d lost even after procuring a male
heir spoke to his preference for feminine charms.
Did the duke require his wife to pleasure him with her mouth first? Or was
it her warm, wet channel that His Grace preferred? Would there be anything
Curran could do to entice the man to sample what pleasures could be found in
the arms -- and snug arsehole -- of another man?
Curran let his thoughts linger on the arousing topic, generating an
internal heat equal to the temperature of the mineral-laden water
surrounding him. His engorged cock bobbed against his flat stomach as he
imagined being impaled by the duke’s cock. Soon his cock swelled with
the need for release, even if it had to come from his own hand.
Under the water, his feet sought solid ground upon which to rest. The
irregularly shaped wall of the pool provided an alcove which cupped his body
perfectly. His fist encompassed his cock, stroking the hard cock in a steady
rhythm. He didn’t have much room to widen his stance, but he did what
he could with his other hand to bring his balls equal pleasure.
“More, faster,” he moaned encouragingly to the duke of his
erotic dreams.
His imaginary lover complied, taking care to rub a thumb over the head of
his cock on the upstroke, just as Curran preferred.
Sharp edges of the natural formation had been chipped away to provide a
surface that might abrade but not slice through tender flesh. Curran
relished the sensation of the rough texture against his skin as he flexed
his hips.
In and out, his cock thrust through his tight fist. No, not his, the
duke’s. And what was it Luthias was saying? Oh, yes. That Curran was a
brave and honorable man. A man who pleased the duke in so many
ways…
“Yes, yes. Take me fully into your mouth, sire,” Curran said
aloud. It was the last coherent phrase he could utter, for the power of his
release overtook his muscles and he cried out to the full moon in one long,
shuddering breath.
And in the brief silence that followed, Curran heard a shrill, avian cry
that chilled him to the bone.
About the Author
Kira Stone has been around the block…the writer’s block, that
is.
From vamps and witches to historical heroes, from futuristic scientists to
paranormal corporate executives, from Canadian werewolves to off-world
shifters, Kira has written about them all. Manlove has sparked hot and heavy
in many of her plots, but Kira also finds a lucky lady to keep the sexy
heroes company from time to time. While Scotland remains her favorite place
in the world, Kira is constantly in search of new adventures to add to the
creative primordial ooze where her best stories are born.
