Unicorn Valley Collection by Lena Austin

Unicorn Valley (Collection)
by Lena Austin

Cover art by Angela Knight
ISBN: 978-1-59596-897-5
Genre(s): Urban Fantasy
Theme(s): Ménage, Bisexual and More, Vampires, Werewolves, Shapeshifters, Magic and Mayhem, Elves, Dragons & Magical Creatures
Length: Collection

http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1172

Blurb:

Lionel, one of the last Unicorn Valley Gryphons, is forced to choose his mate from among other shifters. What he doesn't count on is falling in love with the Werebitch Teema, who has a few needs and demands of her own. Lionel's foster brother Brolly falls for a shape -- and gender -- shifting Immortal, and Shadow, the future Unicorn herd stallion, loves an Elf. As if things couldn't get any stranger, their mercenary Unicorn uncle Jamir is falling in love with both Moontyger and the Dragon Li Chin -- at the same time.

Not everyone loves everybody in Unicorn Valley, but they try.

This collection includes the previously released novellas Gryphon's Heart, Stallion's Heart, Healer's Heart, and Moontyger's Quest.

This collection is also available in print. Visit our Books in Print page for more information.

Excerpt:

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

There would be no mate for him.

Lionel brooded on that ugly fact from the ledge outside his nesting cave. It was good to be home where the air was clean and the pulse of magic strong, but that didn’t change the fact that he would die, alone.He folded his long, bare legs until he achieved the meditative pose his foster mother taught him. However, instead of meditating, he put his elbows on his knees and rested his chin in his hands. The loneliness threatened to overwhelm him.

“Now there’s a dejected fellow!” The familiar voice eased the ache of loneliness.

Lionel turned to see his foster brothers Brolly and Shadow make the final few feet of climb to the ledge where he sat. After a lot of masculine back pounding, Lionel invited his brothers inside. They sat on great cushions made dusty by the long months of disuse, but no one cared.

“No luck in finding a Gryphoness, old pal?” Brolly’s human form was of a brawny young man with brown hair and twinkling brown eyes full of mischief.

Lionel shook his head, and felt his shoulders droop with despair.

Brolly put a comforting hand on his arm.

Shadow looked on sympathetically, his horn knob flashing silver in the morning light.

Lionel shook his golden brown hair out of his eyes. “No, no luck. It was horrible outside our magical home! You’d think in the sky, and as high as I fly, I’d be safe.” He pointed to a wound on his shoulder. “They’ve become more proficient with their arrows than your father estimated. Everywhere, the evidence exists Gryphons once were Outside, in statues and artwork on cloth they hang from their homes.” He pounded his fist into his hand in frustration. “But no real, live Gryphons anywhere!”

Brolly put his hand on Lionel’s clenched fist. “Will you let me look at the wound?” As a healer, Brolly was always courteous enough to ask if his help would be accepted. It was perhaps the sole serious thing about him.

“If you insist. I packed it with the herbs you gave me. It shouldn’t need healing.” Lionel forced himself to stillness. “I did miss the familiar tingle of a decent healer, I must say. The arrow came out of nowhere. I swear it! Humans are everywhere! Like ants! I almost was a pretty Gryphon trophy or rug for the wall!” He shuddered and remembered how close the arrow came to his vulnerable chest.

Brolly’s brown hand was over the arrow wound in a flash. “Now, that’s a vile thought!” Brolly’s distracted voice still held a measure of disgust. “I’m sorry you’d no luck, brother mine.”

The warm tingle of Brolly’s healing gift ceased, and Lionel breathed a sigh of relief. The constant ache was gone.“Why must I be one of the last of my kind?” Lionel complained. He studied the talons on the end of his hand. “I need a mate, damn it. Not only just to ease a lusty moment, but I’m one of the last Gryphons here in the Valley. I must make cubs if Gryphons are to survive.” He looked around his shabby nest cave. A female made all the difference between a place to sleep and a home. In his mind’s eye, he could almost see it. A nesting Gryphoness purring, games of Pounce and Tumble with the whistling laughter of Gryphlets, and the proud joy of flight lessons.

“You’re handsome enough to get a Gryphoness, too, if there were one available,” put in Shad, in the low tones of his kind. All Unicorns were soft-spoken, but vicious fighters when need arose. “The fact is, Lionel, you must choose a mate from outside your own race,” Shad pointed out, his voice earnest. “A filly or Vampire bitch won’t suit. Fillies produce single offspring, and Vamps tend to throw too many females.”

“I don’t want a filly, old friend. You can keep them. I don’t want an herbivore cluttering up my nest growing plants to eat. The very thought makes me shudder!”

Shad chuckled. “In truth, a Werewolf bitch is best since they’re prolific enough to produce litters.”

“But I want a real Gryphoness! The purity of my line…”

“Won’t continue without a mate, Feather Wit,” Shadow interrupted sternly. “As you well know, what form you are, you become in all ways.”

Brolly jumped in. “All she’d need to do is stay in Gryphoness form until she gave birth, Lionel. You know that.”

Lionel grumbled, then sighed. “You’re right. I’m stooping at shadows. I must find a female willing to give up her form for me. That is difficult enough.” He grinned at Shadow. “I will look among the Werewolves first. I would prefer a carnivore.”

Shadow manifested three glasses of wine that floated near the hands of his brothers. Brolly and Lionel grabbed up their wine glasses.

The sparkling pink stuff slid down Lionel’s throat like liquid gold. He toasted his elegant brother in appreciation. “May I find a bitch, queen, or flirtatious filly who can love me enough to fill my cave with joy."

http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1172

Executive Decisions: Research Only by Marteeka Karland

Executive Decisions: Research Only
by Marteeka Karland

Cover art by Marteeka Karland
ISBN: 978-1-60521-162-6
Genre(s): Paranormal
Theme(s): Ménage
Series: Executive Decisions
Length: Novella

http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1169

Blurb:

Aimee has a promising career ahead of her as a science fiction author. Her editor thinks she'd make an even bigger sensation if she sexed her work up a bit. There's only one small problem. Aimee's a virgin.
Darius, owner of Executive Decisions, is completely out of his element when trying to match Aimee with an escort. Not just any man will do, and he wants to make sure he gets it right. The only person he truly trusts with the delicate flower is his best friend and business partner Yusuf Abudallah. Yusuf agrees, but he has reservations. Not about Aimee, but about Darius.
It seems the untouchable Darius Faeman has met his match. But will he realize it before it's too late?

Excerpt:

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

"What's the matter with you, Darius? You're wearing out a path in the lovely carpet."
Darius merely growled. He had never been this agitated in Executive Decisions' long history. "Nothing."
His long-time friend and partner, Yusuf Abudallah, pressed on, like he always did when Darius refused to tell him something. "Oh, really? Is that why you look like a cornered jungle cat? You're ready to string someone up, and I just want to make sure I don't need to find another line of work."
"Don't be absurd." Darius knew he sounded harsher than necessary, but he had a problem he couldn't figure out. He'd never been in this position before.
Yusuf placed both palms on Darius's hand-carved mahogany desk. "Then tell me what's wrong."
Darius stopped his pacing and turned to Yusuf. For possibly the first time since they'd met, the Middle Eastern man looked supremely annoyed with him.
"Sorry, I guess I am a bit out of sorts."
"A bit?" Yusuf snorted and pushed away from the desk. He sat in a nearby chair and crossed his legs, his expression one of annoyance. "You're not acting like yourself at all. You're acting like a man in danger of losing something important to him."
"It's not that." Darius waved him off. "I have a client I can't match."
Yusuf narrowed his eyes. "This wouldn't happen to be the writer you mentioned last month, would it?"
"Of course it's the damned writer," Darius snapped. "Who the hell else would it be? I've been obsessing about what to do with her for a fucking month now!" Yusuf raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Immediately, Darius was sorry he'd let his irritation get the better of him. In all these years he'd been matching people with their true mates, he'd never come across someone he couldn't find another person for.
Until Aimee McAllister.
"I'm sorry, Yusuf." Darius collapsed in the chair behind his desk and thumped his head twice on the pristine top. This was infuriating. "She's expecting to arrive in two days on an island paradise to meet with -- and I quote -- 'one, possibly two, attractive, open-minded men who would be willing to help me research my latest novel.'"
"That doesn't sound too hard." Yusuf narrowed his eyes. "I can think of at least six men I'd consider for that job."
"And you'd be dead wrong. There's a wealth of information she doesn't list on her information sheet that could ruin any chance she has for happiness. All she's thinking about is researching a book. I'm trying to see the bigger picture."
"I've never understood your secret formula, Darius. If another woman came to you with the same info sheet, you'd give her a man -- or couple of men or eight -- to sex her up, put a smile on her face, and send her on her way with exactly what she asked for. Same with the men. What is it about this woman that makes you want to save her soul and help her live her ultimate fantasy?"
"I just know, Yusuf." He sat back and made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "There are times when a man or a woman just needs more than a one-night stand. This is one of those times. I can feel it in my very being as surely as I can feel the changing weather of Mother Nature. This girl needs more than a research partner. She needs a life partner."
"OK. So what are we going to do? We've got two days to figure it out."
"I'll be damned if I know, Yusuf. I simply can't find even one man I'd trust with her. There's no one I trust not to break her heart, or her spirit."
"You make her sound like she's fragile. What is it she didn't tell you that's got you so worked up, Darius?"
"She's a virgin. And I don't mean simply she's never had sex with a man. I mean she's a virgin virgin. Even to the point of she's never been kissed. I don't think she's ever even held hands with a man before."
"Wait a minute. Back up." Yusuf leaned forward, hands on his knees, obviously interested in the problem at hand, but confused. "What kind of book is she researching?"
"Apparently --" Darius crossed his hands over his chest. Even he couldn't believe the situation. "-- she's a science fiction writer trying to turn to something a little more... explicit. She's planning on using Executive Decisions to teach her the physical sensations associated with sex while keeping an emotional detachment."
Yusuf snorted. "Good plan. If she wants to write for a men's magazine. Is she wanting to write pure erotica?"
"I think it's more like erotic romance."
"Without the romance? I guess she doesn't realize the emotional attachment that goes with sex and all things physical."
"I'm guessing not. You see my predicament."
"Absolutely. Tell me something. Is she a good writer?" It was Yusuf's turn to pace now. This was why Darius loved working with the Middle Eastern man. He took this job as seriously as Darius himself.
"I'd say better than average. She has brilliant ideas and her stories and characters are all wonderfully written, but her agent thinks she needs to add some 'spice' to the plot. She thinks a little sex is just what Aimee needs for her books to make the leap from good to fan-fucking-tastic."
"You sound like you agree, but I'm sensing you don't really give a damn."
"I don't."
Darius and Yusuf stared at each other a very long time. They both knew who would be accompanying Aimee to her research retreat.
"I'll pack my bags," Yusuf said without even pretending Darius might mean someone else, "though I'm not sure I agree with you on this one."
That surprised Darius. Few things did that. "What do you mean?"
"I think you've picked the wrong man," Yusuf continued when Darius would have argued with him. "Or at least, I think there is someone better suited for her than I." The younger man stood and left the room before Darius could question him.
Having set his best friend to meet the woman who had haunted his dreams since he'd met her, Darius expected relief from his burden of care. Instead, his stomach gnawed at him. This still wasn't right. He was missing something. Something important.
Something that could very well change someone's life forever.
But whose?

http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1169

Last Call Europe: Irish Creme by Leila Brown

Last Call Europe: Irish Crème
by Leila Brown

Cover art by Bryan Keller
ISBN: 978-1-60521-235-7
Genre(s): Paranormal, BDSM
Theme(s): Ménage, Magic and Mayhem
Series: Last Call Europe
Length: Novella

http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1170

Blurb:

Ciarran, an Irish traditional witch, has had her luck stolen by a vindictive leprechaun. Without her luck, everyday life has become a trial. And her spells are more like mis-spells. There's only one thing to do. Go to the Last Call Bar and order up the right drink.
Irish Crème: Only the extremely lucky need apply. A double!
Decllan and Niall came to Last Call to relax on the one night a year they get together. Neither of them expected they'd end up spending the night with an out-of-luck witch who needs their help. Luckily they're up for the job.

Excerpt:

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

There were a ton of little, and surprisingly not so little, green men in the bar. Well, not truly green but dressed in an abundance of green. This was crazy. Honestly, Ciarran needed to do something to regain her luck, but going into a bar just outside London on St. Patrick's Day didn't seem like such a bright idea.
"I know that look, Ciarran." Her sister, Aslinn, grabbed her arm and dragged her through the door. "Come on, I see a couple seats at the bar."
She took a steadying breath and followed her sister inside. She stepped up over the slight step just inside the bar but somehow the left heel of her shoe got caught on something. She tripped and fell into her sister, who crashed into the waitress in front of them. They fell forward in a tangled heap of flailing arms and legs.
Stupid, stupid shoes. She knew she should have worn flats. But no, Aslinn wouldn't let her out of the house without putting on something with killer high heels. Normally, she could've danced in circles with these bad boys, but with her luck stolen she was glad she hadn't broken her neck.
"Need a hand?" A deep brogue sounded near her ear.
She looked up into the sexiest whiskey-brown eyes she'd ever seen. His fingers wrapped around hers and pulled her up into a standing position. Warmth spread from his fingers into her hand and sent a lightning bolt straight to her cunt.
Hell. She wasn't here to hook up with the first man she saw. She needed help, and not the kind of help this six-foot hottie could give her.
"Thank you," Ciarran mumbled, then pulled away from him and followed her sister to the bar. Aslinn passed up the bar closest to the door, the one with the most people lounging in front of it. Instead, she weaved her way to the bar at the back that sat a step up from the floor. Ciarran grabbed a seat, focusing on the garish green decorations all around the place.
"I can't believe you just did that," Aslinn practically snarled at her, not breaking the smile she had plastered to her face. Her sister was a master at hiding her emotions.
"It wasn't on purpose," Ciarran whispered back. They both knew Ciarran had no control over it. Right now, everything that could go wrong in her life was going wrong. From the mice infestation of her apartment building, to the cement truck crash that walled up the front of her aromatherapy shop, to her misfiring magick and beyond. She was living in a perpetual state of embarrassment. She looked out over the room where most of the men openly stared at her and her sister. "Besides, you made me wear these shoes."
"What will you ladies have?" The bartender smiled and wiped the bar in front of them, setting down two coasters with "Last Call" imprinted on them.
"Can we see a drink list?" Aslinn batted her eyelashes at him. He pulled out a laminated list and handed it to her. She handed it to Ciarran without even looking at it. "What do you recommend?"
Flirting with him was all fine and dandy for Aslinn, but Ciarran needed something special. Something she was most likely only going to find here and only on St. Patrick's Day. She skimmed the menu until her eyes hit on what she needed.
Irish Crème, only the extremely lucky need apply.
That was perfect. Since she had no luck the best thing to do was get some from someone with luck to spare. She looked up and shook her head at Aslinn and the bartender. They touched hands when he handed her sister a drink and their gazes locked like lusty teenagers.
"Excuse me?" Ciarran cleared her throat. "Can I get an Irish Crème?" When the bartender moved to grab some bottles, she added, "Make it a double."
Aslinn choked on her drink, sputtering for a few seconds and coughing until her senses cleared. She slammed her hand down on the bar, and turned toward Ciarran. "Shit, Ciarran. Do you know what you've done?"
"I ordered a drink, a strong drink. And hopefully a really lucky leprechaun," she replied matter-of-factly. The bartender set her drink and a key down in front of her. She picked up the drink and swallowed a throat-burning mouthful.
"Actually, you just ordered up two lucky leprechauns... at the same time." Aslinn stared around the bar. "Have you ever been double teamed?"
Ciarran's heart dropped into her stomach, and heat spread through her cheeks in a mad rush. Her luck was as bad as ever. Any other place, a double would have been an innocent thing. "Maybe nobody heard."
Ciarran turned away from her sister and looked around. There were at least two dozen men forming a semi-circle around them. Ah hell!

http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1170

Nights in Pink Satin by Sharon Marie Bidwell

Nights in Pink Satin
by Sharon Maria Bidwell

Cover art by Reneé George
ISBN: 978-1-60521-237-1
Genre(s): Paranormal
Theme(s): Vampires, Gay and Lesbian
Length: Novella

http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1171

Blurb:

Vincent is a vampire of world renown, even if most people believe his story is a fable, but with age comes boredom. Seeking out new silk to line his coffin for his annual Halloween ball, he comes across a bolt of pink fabric. Curiosity leads him to a mistake that is about to change his existence.
Martin is a newly turned vampire and a lonely gay man. When he finds an extremely good looking and famous vampire in his humble abode, he's glad of the company even though he's afraid.
When a simple mistake leads to explosive passion, what's a vampire to do but look forward to a future of gay nights between sheets of pink satin?

Excerpt:

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

One push broke the lock. Vincent walked into the ground floor flat, shaking his head. So easy to get in, so much cover, a closed-in garden with no back exit. He grinned. He always enjoyed rescuing a maiden in distress, even modern day ones. He could sense no one inside, vampire or otherwise, so he'd taken the liberty of gaining entrance.
Vincent set the bolt of pink fabric to one side although he had plans for it later. He wanted to familiarise himself with the layout, see if the bed was... sturdy enough. Visions of spreading that pink satin out over the bed and rolling around on it filled his mind. The satin wasn't the only pink thing he wanted to spread. He never understood some women's penchant for pink but it didn't take much to get a grip on this woman's moods. He anticipated someone delicate and very feminine. Someone who wore sandals and carried a very small handbag. Maybe soft curls surrounded her face. Yes, as he turned in a tight circle and took in the details of the flat, he could well imagine the woman who lived here.
For the first time in a long while, his body responded to the images that assaulted his mind. His cock twitched though failed to harden. To attain that level of arousal he needed blood, to drink. He fully expected to hunt with the female vampire who lived here. They could share prey, their mutual act of fulfilment bringing them closer. Flushed with blood, they could fulfill... other needs. Maybe she would know somewhere suitable, and they could search close by, or maybe she had a donor. He had no intention of harming this young vampire's neighbours, or harming anyone. He didn't see the point in bestowing pain or instilling fear unless it was necessary. If he went about this right, humans didn't even have to know vamps drank from them, not if one got the seduction right. One thing you could say for older vampires was that most of them could teach the younger ones a thing or two about temptation, whether it was the luring of humans or each other. Vincent was looking forward to this seduction as much as the outcome.
Impatience welled up in him, and although initially he'd been pleased to find the flat empty so he could assess the situation, now he wished for the female to return home. Such eagerness surprised him.
His gaze wandered across to the bolt of pink cloth, leaning so innocently against the wall. Pink for innocence; red for sex. Ha! That pink was so vibrant it positively glowed. It certainly screamed sex.
Vincent paced, not taking in details of the room at all. His mind was awash with images. Even so, right now his... desires mingled. His sudden ache for sex spurred his craving to drink.
Pink.
His mind jolted back to that bright, vibrant colour as it flashed in the corner of his vision. At once, thoughts consumed his mind. Pink cloth, pink skin, pink folds, pink lips parted on a breath, a sigh... Vincent closed his eyes. In his mind, his fingers slid up the inner heated curve of bare thighs. His head descended; his teeth penetrated. Moans resounded, his and his victim's; they both trembled. His prey pleaded, though for what type of release it was difficult to tell. In the vision, his cock rose. It always did when his captive whimpered. A small smile teased his lips. It wasn't cruelty on his mind but an exchange of desires. Hell, this was his fantasy. He let the scene take his mind and body both. In the fantasy, he couldn't see the face of the person beneath him. He could only touch, taste, smell, and hear.
In his mind, they drank from a willing human. He would drink from either sex tonight to have that longing satisfied. One desire fulfilled gave Vincent room to consider another. He could put his teeth to other uses. He nipped, drew skin and flesh into his mouth and sucked. This time when his cock nudged willing flesh, it wasn't a hard brick surface he thrust against. He and his imaginary partner rolled in satin... pink satin, the colour of flushed skin, the glow of a sunset at dusk when he opened his eyes, the beginnings of a blush. The satin stroked, caressed him, like skin brushing against skin but more than that, more intimate than that somehow. As he touched his unseen lover, the satin stroked him, embraced him, moulded to his form, as if it were a third lover in bed with them. The cloth dipped into hollows, creases of his skin, folds of his body, tickled him like the stroke of a tongue. He rolled, entangled in pink satin, in soft caresses, in longing, desire, and ultimately frustration.
As good as it felt, these images weren't real. Frowning, Vincent struggled to remain with the fantasy. He hoped to make them real, but he didn't want the vision to end. Just a little... longer... Ah. There. Just there...
On his back, he let the pink satin play over his body. It waved and shimmered, undulated as though stirred by a giant breath. Everywhere it touched, it coaxed. His body shifted, floundered, wounded by desire, want, need, greed... Unable to hold back, he grasped the pink fabric, wrapping up his cock and balls, forming a tunnel with his hands to plough and furrow into, somewhere tight. This penetration had no form. Sexuality had nothing to do with his need for release, to scatter, shatter, to attain that heady peak that only blood and sex could help him reach. Climax...
Vincent opened his eyes. If vampires could sweat, he'd be sweating. He didn't know if he should be grateful or annoyed that it wasn't possible. His body felt overheated and there was nothing he could do to cool down. Nothing he could do... alone.

http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1171

Cavern Dancer Collection by Kate Hill

Cavern Dancer (Collection)
by Kate Hill
Cover art by Angela Knight
ISBN: 978-1-60521-153-4
Genre(s): Paranormal, Action/Adventure, Dark Fantasy
Length: Collection
http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1167

Blurb:

Cavern Dancers... Handsome, athletic, and powerful, their name speaks of mystery and magic.

Gilana knows she cannot afford to marry for love. Yet in her secret dreams she longs for one of the exotic divers she's glimpsed from the safety of her carriage. Still, she clings to her dreams.
Two men fated to love women who will never be theirs...

The Cavern Dancer... Jehf, half brother to King Tabor, must do what the king cannot -- get the new queen, Gilana, with child. By day, Gilana despises the man she has married, yet every night he fulfills her deepest desires. Just when Gilana realizes she is dealing with two different men, Tabor orders Jehf's execution. Only with the help of the mysterious Soothsayer can the couple hope to survive the king's evil plan.

The Soothsayer... Vlas Sascha Evgenyl sold his soul to free his brother from an existence far worse than death. For sixteen years the powerful Soothsayer has served an evil master, trapped by the power of a spell whose very use has exiled him from his own people. Free at last, he seeks the only solace his tortured soul has ever known -- the love of a woman he can never have.
Publisher's Note: This collection contains the previously released novellas Fantasy Flames: Cavern Dancer and Fantasy Flames: Soothsayer.

Excerpt:

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

"I suppose you're wondering why I've sent for you?" King Tabor of Julius fixed his squinty gaze on his bejeweled hand rather than on his half brother, Jehf, who knelt directly in front of him.
"I admit I am curious."
"How is your injury?" asked the king, the disinterest in his voice at war with his question.
Jehf's insides twisted with anger. Drafted into the war between Julius and the neighboring kingdom of Sun Isle, he had been taken prisoner, sustaining a severe leg injury that had nearly cost him his life and his ability to dive. "It's almost healed."
"Good. Very good. I imagine such an injury caused your love life to suffer."
The question took Jehf aback. He stared at his brother, who finally met his gaze. "Excuse me, Your Majesty?"
"It couldn't have been easy pleasuring women while you were in such condition."
"What does this have to do with --"
"Are you healed enough now to perform?"
"Perform?"
"Come, come, Jehf. A strapping male such as yourself mustn't be shy about such things. And, after all, this conversation is between brothers."
Jehf's curiosity suddenly turned to suspicion. Tabor hated recognizing his peasant relations. Other than the king's rare public appearances, Jehf hadn't seen his brother since they were children. Even then Tabor had hated their physical resemblance to one another, one of the reasons Tabor had ordered Jehf, unlike the rest of the old king's illegitimate children, banished from the palace.
Not that Jehf minded. He preferred the life of his mother's people, Cavern Dancers who had settled on Julius's southern coast. From his mother's race he'd inherited the "water magic." Although the Cavern Dancers were little more than slaves to Julius's Royal House, their aquatic gifts were revered by many. Cavern Dancers were able to hold their breath for up to an hour, diving to depths which would kill ordinary humans.
The Cavern Dancers were used to dive for the world's most precious jewels, Hell's Eyes. One of the world's biggest supplies of Hell's Eyes was located in the deepest, darkest ocean caverns just off the coast of Julius. The Cavern Dancers' underwater mining supported Tabor's kingdom well, even if the divers saw little of the rewards from their work.
"I need to know if you are fit to sleep with a woman, Jehf."
Jehf flinched. "Why?"
"You have served your country well, but I have one last duty for you to perform for the sake of Julius."
He didn't like the sound of this. "In what way?"
"As you know, next month I am to marry the princess of Minor Ives."
"Yes."
"I have no desire to consummate the marriage, but it is necessary that I secure an heir."
Tabor's reply didn't surprise Jehf. Though no one dared speak of it openly, it was rumored that the king preferred men in his bed. "With all due respect, what does that have to do with me?"
"You and I are so similar in appearance that we could be twins." Though Tabor offered a frozen smile, his distaste shone in his eyes. "I will marry Princess Gilana, but you will spend the wedding night with her, and every night thereafter until she conceives."
If the plan hadn't disgusted Jehf, he might have laughed in his brother's face, king or no. "I refuse."
"To refuse me is to risk imprisonment."
"Then have your guards take me away."
An evil smile spread across Tabor's face. "I had a feeling you would say that. You're brave to the point of being stupid. I also know your savings from diving for merchants in addition to diving for Julius itself have been depleted. Your mother is ill and the medical care she requires is expensive."
Jehf's teeth ground. It seemed Tabor had been keeping close watch on him. With each passing moment, Jehf hated his brother more.
"Do what I command, and I will see that your mother is given the care she requires directly from the royal healers. If you refuse, you will be jailed. And then who will look after your mother and young sister?"
"You're a damn tyrant."
"If I didn't need your flesh all in one piece, I'd have you whipped for that comment. What is your answer?"
"All right." The words left a bitter taste in Jehf's mouth.
Tabor smiled. "Don't look so upset. After all, your child will inherit the crown of Julius, something that you never could have hoped for."
"Something that never mattered to me."
"My servants will arrange your training."
"Training?"
"Though you are to avoid conversation with the princess, we must make sure you will pass for a king, should you be forced to speak with her. Of course no one must ever know about this, including your family."
Of course. Jehf nodded.
Glancing away, the king waved his hand. "Leave me now. My guards will take you to your chamber. From now until your task is complete, you will live at the palace."
"But my family --"
"Will be informed that you are serving your king. Remember, as long as you cooperate, your mother will be cared for. Should you cause any problems, you and your family will be executed. Do you understand?"
Jehf gritted his teeth and nodded. Two guards approached. One prodded him with the flat of his sword and guided him out of Tabor's chamber.
* * *Princess Gilana, dressed in her wedding finery, walked through the public garden in the center of Julius's capital city. Hundreds of guests gathered around, anxious to witness her marriage to King Tabor. It seemed they were far more excited about it than she was. Still, part of her duty was to ensure prosperity for her kingdom. Marriage to a man as powerful as Tabor would do just that. Not that her land of Minor Ives wasn't a force to be reckoned with, but once she inherited the throne, Minor Ives and Julius would unite. Under the joint rule of her and her husband, their lands would become one of the largest, strongest forces in the world.
Gazing toward the fountain of the chief god and goddess where Tabor stood with the priest, she wished she felt differently about the king. It would have been nice to at least like her husband. She knew better than to ask for love. Love was reserved for those without political responsibilities.
Tall and slim, with thick chestnut hair, Tabor was considered attractive by most women. Gilana found him a bit too arrogant and his gestures almost effeminate. Not that effeminate men offended her; she simply didn't relish the idea of marrying one.
When she reached the fountain, the priest smiled slightly in greeting while Tabor examined the delicate lace decorating his shirtsleeve. He squinted badly, making his rather small, close-set eyes appear unattractive. If not for his eyes, he might have been handsome.
Gilana was thankful that wedding ceremonies in Julius were short.
The crowd fell silent when the priest held up a small silver bowl and began speaking. "On this day, Tabor Bradley Garrad and Gilana Francine Kees will join for life. Under the protection of the all-seeing god and goddess, they will love one another. Honesty and respect will prevail over any temptation which may threaten their happiness."
Gilana tried to catch Tabor's gaze, but he was staring blankly across the garden, so she turned her full attention to the priest.
"To purify themselves and begin a fresh life together, they will drink from the sacred fountain."
The priest offered the bowl to Tabor who filled it and drank. As ritual demanded, he then held the bowl to her lips.
As she sipped, she glanced at him again, thinking how beautiful the ceremony could have been, had they actually shared the love the priest had spoken of.
The priest took back the bowl and said, "Do you, Gilana, accept Tabor as your husband, to love as purely as the goddess loves the god?"
"I do."
"Do you, Tabor, accept Gilana as your wife, to love as purely as the god loves the goddess?"
Tabor covered his lips with a delicate hand to stifle his yawn before he replied, "I do."
"You are now wed."
Gilana tried to smile at her new husband as she stepped forward, expecting the traditional wedding kiss. Turning abruptly, Tabor, followed by two of his guards, exited down the pathway leading out of the garden.
Drawing a deep breath, Gilana glanced around, noticing that many of the guests looked as surprised as she felt. His insult enraged her. One of Gilana's flaws was her horrible temper. In her youth, her instructors had tried to curb it, but when something angered her, Gilana's wrath was almost uncontrollable.
If Tabor thought he could snub her like this, she would make him pay. She wouldn't say a word to him at the wedding banquet.
* * *An hour later, Gilana's anger had reached a dangerous peak. Her plan to ignore Tabor throughout the meal failed because he didn't so much as glance at her. The man looked thoroughly bored with the entire feast, especially with his bride.
Finally he stood and turned to one of his guards. "I've had enough of this. I require time alone."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Tabor turned to Gilana. "I will see you in your chamber in half an hour."
"You think so, Your Majesty?" she said through clenched teeth. "After you ignore me you believe I will crawl obediently into your bed?"
He curled his lip, then leaned close to her ear and whispered, "Yes, unless you want this marriage declared null and void."
Gilana's teeth ground. She longed to fling her goblet of wine in his face, but she couldn't. Her mother and her kingdom expected this marriage to succeed.
"Well?" Tabor stood, squinting down at her.
"In half an hour."
He turned on his heel and swept out of the hall, followed by his guards.

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Soul Familiar 3: Fated by Kate Steele

Soul Familiar 3: Fated
by Kate Steele

Cover art by Bryan Keller
ISBN: 978-1-60521-117-6
Genre(s): Paranormal
Theme(s): Magic and Mayhem, Gay and Lesbian
Series: Soul Familiar
Length: Novella

http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1164

Blurb:

"Fate is not an eagle, it creeps like a rat." In other words it's a sneaky, hairy little bast... um, son-of-a-gun and you have two options on how to handle it. You let it walk all over you, or you wrestle it into submission. Not that I'm into rat wrestling, but I for one do not intend to have tiny footprints all over whatever part of my life fate chooses to use as a doormat.
My name is Alex Layton and enough with the metaphors already. My lover, wizard-partner and soul mate Tyler Montgomery and I have run out of time. As decreed by the Council of Elders that governs the affairs of soul familiars, Tyler and I must now face a trial of magical combat. If we win, our bond becomes permanent. If we lose, we are separated forever.
With options like those, fate had better watch her ass.

Excerpt:

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Screwed by J. Hali Steele

Screwed
by J. Hali Steele

Cover art by Bryan Keller
ISBN: 978-1-60521-234-0
Genre(s): Paranormal, Humor & Satire, Dark Fantasy
Theme(s): Ménage, Bisexual and More, Vampires
Length: Novella

http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1165

Blurb:

Purple P. Rose is a brash private investigator. Her latest case has her visiting the city's seediest nightspot, the Mons Venus, with partner and boyfriend, Richard E. Rection. Their new case is full of surprises. Dick discovers he's bisexual and is worried Purp won't like it.
They are both unaware there's a new and sinister being in town -- Peter Hard, a vampyre who enjoys the taste of women and men alike. He's chosen Purple to be his. Ready to claim her, he uses his powers to coerce Dick to bring him in as a partner.
Their lives will never be the same again.

Excerpt:

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

It was the crack of dawn. Purple P. Rose woke up with a hairy one in her face -- Boyd's ass. Shit, had she had too much to drink? She couldn't think straight. Everything was askew -- even the view out of her ritzy loft's window. The trees appeared to bow and wave at her as she listened to the shower run in her bathroom.
What the hell had happened last night? Something about the new guy. She looked back at Boyd, who still slept peacefully. Purp gazed across the park and tried to remember. She did have some memories intact -- the worst being her partner Dick. She thought he'd gone soft. Maybe not. She shook her head to clear the clouds of confusion.
Richard E. Rection was a real son of a bitch known as Dick to his friends. Purp found she'd rather have no one else back her up in a tight spot. He'd done that last night. Warmth crept down her thighs as she turned over the pictures in her mind of what she could remember. She'd seen a new side of Dick. Flashes came to her in living color.
They'd checked out the club Mons Venus, a cheap strip joint on the Westside, as planned. The girls there were known to go all the way with customers. So, needless to say, the place stayed full.
Every nut-sac in town turned up at Mons Venus. Purp and Dick had met there last night to interview a bartender involved in their latest case. It wasn't their usual type of job, but she'd taken it for the money. Car repairs had left her flat broke, and it was the first of the month, which came too fast lately.
Her real problem -- so did Dick.
Now she remembered. He'd been the first to interview the bartender in question. Dick then disappeared with him to a room behind the stage.
After he'd left, Purp ordered her second gin and tonic. She'd decided to enjoy the show. The girl on stage had hair the color of a magnificent western sunset. The bush between her thighs carried the same flaming color. Red knew the pole she used intimately. Purp's panties were soon full of morning dew. But it was nighttime and she wanted to be full of something else. A hefty dick, a sliver of tongue, it didn't matter. Anything would do the job right now.
A tremor of premonition lanced through her. She studied the other patrons. As she looked around, her eyes lit on a dark corner table. Someone stared back at her from the table there. She could make out the outline of a body. Male. Smoke wafted around him, obscuring his face. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach, and her pussy clenched on itself. Who was he and why was he watching her? It wasn't the first time she'd had the feeling lately. Shit, just what she needed -- the witchy stuff following her around.
Purp shook it off and felt her side for the gun holstered there. The wave of raw lust that slammed into her left her weak. Between her thighs, her cunt pulsed. She went through life horny, but what hit her now was hell.
Dick hadn't returned, so Purp went to find him. What she found didn't shock her. Not much did nowadays. She'd opened the door to the room where she heard thumping and bumping inside, and found him in a big wingback chair with his pants around his ankles and the bartender's face buried between his muscular Adonis-like thighs. Purp had never seen Dick in this light. Hmm.
"Purp --"
"Don't worry, Dick. I like what I see." Did she like it?
Dick's joy stick, as she called it, was huge. A broadsword. He knew how to wield it, too. Most of the time. Purple spent many nights with it stuffed in her goody basket. There, at least something brought a smile to her face.
They'd shared women before, but this was something different. Excitement blossomed in her chest. She watched the jubilation written on Dick's face, and processed this new information about him.

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Spaceport: The Cannis Affair by Mikala Ash

Spaceport: The Cannis Affair
by Mikala Ash

Cover art by Reneé George
ISBN: 978-1-60521-239-5
Genre(s): Futuristic, Action/Adventure, Sci-Fi
Theme(s): Ménage, Spaceport
Series: Spaceport Multi-Author
Length: Novella






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Blurb:


When Peri Barberossa, award-winning sex reporter for the sealed section of the immensely popular guide The Galactic Tourist, flees in order to avoid becoming the newest addition to General R’nok’s harem she encounters two military fighters in the intergalactic void. Peri watches in horror as the two duke it out with quantum torpedoes, and she rescues the unconscious pilots as their ships disintegrate.
What can a dedicated sex reporter do with two gorgeous hunks in her power? The fact that Laz and Rendido are sworn enemies bent on each other's destruction only adds spice to the heady mix, and Peri studies their sexual mores in an atmosphere brimming with tension... sexual and otherwise.



Excerpt:

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

Naked and at ease in the feather soft bed, I was completely at one with the universe, when reality slapped me across the face.
At first I thought I simply misheard General R'nok's solemn commitment to have me locked up in his harem. He'd said something about customary law and me being his property for life. Experience has often shown me that post coital bliss can play havoc with one's perception, so I sought clarification. I propped myself up on trembling elbows, acutely aware of my erratically beating heart, the result of five gut-wrenching orgasms in ten minutes.
"What, darling?" I asked.
The general paused, balanced on one leg, the other tangled up inside the kilt of his kaleidoscopic uniform. "You are now mine."
"I'm sorry?"
He cast a steely Etile glance toward me, his dark eye ridges folding slightly. "Are you deaf?"
Uh-oh. His gruff manner was so different from the smooth wooing of last night. "No, I just didn't understand what you said."
"You have had both orifices filled by my flesh," he said.
"And you filled them so well," I purred, trying to recapture the moment, remembering his two cocks driving into my pussy and ass at the same time, but I should have known that when it comes to men, there's always a catch.
"When you give both holes to an Etile warrior you have given your soul," he said as if he were explaining to me the intricacies of a paperclip. "You belong to me now, my concubine. We are bound for life."
"I didn't realize that was the custom," I explained, attempting to keep my voice level, though inside I was in an acute state of panic.
"It is not a custom. It is the law."
"Oh."
"Wait here. My aide will show you to your cot in the harem."
Cot? Harem?
He turned away from me and stretched an arm out to grasp the bedpost while he untangled his foot. The thing that jumped into my field of vision, apart from the erratically bobbing dual phalluses, both cocks still erect despite our recent exertions, was the stainless steel codpiece which had given me so much amusement at the embassy ball.
I remembered how heavy it felt in my palm when I'd disrobed him prior to our session of athletic passion and as I contemplated a lifetime spent in his harem, instinct took over.
The codpiece made a satisfying clunk as it impacted the side of his head. I use the passive voice when I describe the assault on the general's high-ranking skull. It seemed like I'd been possessed and not in conscious control of my actions.
Had this been a consciously deliberate attack, I would have said the codpiece felt heavy and cold in my hand as I raised it shoulder high and, after taking careful aim and with all my might, swung at his right temple, feeling the skin split as I struck.
You'll note the difference between acting instinctually, out of fear, versus deliberately striking the most powerful man on the planet. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
In any case, the general grunted appropriately and toppled over onto the floor. I jumped off the bed, pulled on my evening gown, transparent silken web from the Spider House on Gaskolin IX, slipped into my pumps, the latest Jess Boscolon creations, and raced to the door to listen for any activity.
From what I remembered of last night, when the general had so smoothly extricated me from the boring embassy party and lustily thrown me onto his bed, his chambers were in the east wing of the sprawling palace and conveniently close to the spaceport.
I found my handbag, a snappy little sequined number from the exclusive Balinese Collection, and rummaged about until I found my diamond encrusted Joclyn communicator. I called Fyche, my ship's AI, and asked him to order a spaceport taxi to meet me outside the general's door in five minutes flat.
"Oh, and power up Jalapeño's converters," I added somewhat breathlessly. "We need to leave."
"Again?"
I didn't have time to respond to his petulant whine because behind me the general gave a long, burbling groan. That wouldn't do. I needed more time. I returned to his prostrate body and tied him up with the exquisitely fine deshlen bed sheets. The silky fabric, soiled by our sweat and his copious spending, was super strong and made a good binding. Once I had him secured I stuffed his mouth with my Gaskolin Haute Couture scarf and rolled him under the bed.
Then I fled the chamber, immediately tripping over a startled aide who was inconveniently sitting on the threshold. I stopped midstride to explain that the general was resting and didn't want to be disturbed. The aide nodded sleepily and resumed his position on the tiny stool. Had he been there all night listening to my moans of passion and screams of ecstasy? I suppressed the moment of embarrassment and calmly asked for directions to the palace's front gate.
A dull thud sounded from inside the room signifying the general had regained consciousness and was no doubt surprised to find himself under the bed with what I hoped was an enormous headache. The aide reacted, and to distract him, I expressed confusion at his surprisingly clear and succinct directions and asked him to show me out himself. A smile, a wink and a flash of my right boob did the trick.
I endured his roving hand for fifty-two floors during the elevator's lazy descent and was very grateful when I found the taxi waiting at the palace gate; Fung knows what Fyche had paid to have it there so quickly. I gave the aide a peck on the cheek and a quick rub of his erect and very impressive dual phalluses. He was rewarded with a messy ejaculation inside his dress kilt and I left him swooning against the granite pillars. That good deed, I hoped, would buy me another chunk of precious time.
Twenty minutes later, Fyche had us in orbit and we were away.





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Send 'Em Packing Collection by Hannah Beckham

Send 'em Packing (Collection)
by Hannah Beckham

Cover art by Reneé George
ISBN: 978-1-60521-175-6
Genre(s): Paranormal, Action/Adventure, Humor, Collections
Theme(s): Ménage, Werewolves
Length: Collection


http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1162









Blurb:



Maya Eddings is six feet tall, a black belt in tae kwon do, proficient with handguns, and an empath who runs her own private security firm in Kansas City. Her life couldn't be better, with the exception of two men who each want her to be exclusively theirs.
Matt Brewer, legal investigator and werewolf, wants Maya to be his life mate, but while she likes a little tail, actually growing one isn't all that appealing to her. Stephen Daniels, architect and part incubus demon, wants Maya too -- body and soul. But he's willing to settle on her body -- for now.
With two hunkalicous men fighting for her attention, mysteries to solve, bad guys to shoot, and a secret past that will rock her world, Maya's beginning to feel she's bitten off more than she can shoot.
Publisher's Note: This collection contains the three previously released novellas Packing Heat, Packing for Three, and Packing Up.









Excerpt:

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

Maya Eddings patted her 9mm pistol while she stood outside the elevator doors, waiting for what seemed like minutes, but actually only seconds had passed. Nervous habit, really. It helped her to concentrate on the job. Her client, Milo Bach, a minor rock star with a major ego, fidgeted with a hand-held video game, making grunting noises every time he pushed a button.
Glancing in his direction, she rolled her eyes. He wore too long jeans and a seventies’ style, wide collared silk shirt. He was good-looking enough -- if you liked the David Cassidy meets Twisted Sister type. Milo had come to Kansas City to play Kemper Arena and it was Maya’s job to make sure he survived his press conference and autograph session.
His manager, Kit Stan, had hired Maya to get him safely from his room on the seventh floor of the Adam’s Mark hotel to the lower lobby. Apparently he’d been getting death threats from a rabid fan, and it wasn’t hard to see why. A little less than thirty minutes with the rock star, and Maya was ready to kill him.
She waited as the elevator door opened then peeked around the corners. No passengers. Good. Maya ushered Milo and his manager swiftly into the car and pushed the button for the first floor.
“Hold the elevator,” a deep masculine voice yelled from the hallway.
Maya leaned her head out of the opening and wet her lips. Mmm. Nice.
He was tall, at least 6’4”, medium blond hair, and under the tight black pants and a cobalt Nehru jacket, she could see he had broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and long muscular legs. Tempting, but uh-uh. She was off men, even if they happened to be unbelievably beautiful.
He arrived at the doors, just as they were closing. His arm shot out in between them, making them bounce open. Maya stepped forward with cat-like quickness, placing her hand on the man’s chest. Incredible heat poured down her arm, not burning hot, just strong sensual warmth. Her nipples went rigid under her black leather jumper.
Shit.
His mouth -- upper lip slightly fuller than the lower -- curved upward in a gorgeous smile. His remarkable bright green eyes were accented with gold rings around his pupils. Her breath caught in a short gasp and her tongue went tingly.
Even though his arms stayed at his sides, Maya felt hands brush against her breasts, caress her ass, rub down her mound to her wet folds. It’s all in your mind, Maya, she told herself. He’s just standing there. Nothing else. Just standing there… Exuding some major mojo.
Heat and desire rolled off the stranger and she fought the impulse to close the distance between them and kiss his luscious mouth. Instead, Maya shook her head and nudged him back one step into the corridor. “Sorry, Stud, you’ll have to take the next elevator.”
He tilted his head to the side, raised an eyebrow, and backed away. “No problem, hot stuff.”
Yikes! His smooth low voice sent goose bumps over her body. He winked as the doors closed between them. “Oh, jeez, I need to get laid,” she mumbled, then turned her attention back to the client.
The rocker must have heard her, because he leaned against the elevator rail and whispered to her, “Hey, Maya, you gorgeous Amazon, what say we blow this joint and take a little me and you time?”
Usually she didn’t mind the Amazon reference -- being six feet tall, she was used to it -- but the rock star was getting on her last nerve. Besides, his smarmy lust-filled emotions were dripping all over her. As a bodyguard, Maya’s empathic abilities came in handy, but certain men and women could be overwhelming.
“You and me,” she corrected and mentally added, asshole.
He snuggled his body in closer to hers. “Exactly. Me and you.” His long hair brushed against Maya’s shoulder. If he kept up the touching, he might not survive the trip to the lobby.
Rolling her eyes, she put out a hand to push him off. She patted the handgun in her hip holster. “No, the correct way to say that is ‘you and me’ and the answer is no.” She wanted to add that big hair bands died in the 80’s, but held her tongue. Besides, she hadn’t been paid yet.
Milo put up his hands defensively. “Hey, baby, what’s with the ’tude? Most chicks dig me. After all, I’m going to be a legend.” He smiled -- very self-assured.
Maya shook her head and held down the button on the two-way radio that clipped to her belt then spoke into the headset. “Jack, everything set?”
A voice came back over, “Yeah, boss, good to go.”
“Tyler, you set?”
“Yeah, no problem,” came a new voice.
The elevator slowed to a stop. “Have you ever heard of Michael Damian?” she asked Milo.
“Who?”
The doors opened to the lobby. “My point exactly. Rock on, dude. Your fans are waiting.” Maya stepped out between him and a mob of screaming teenage girls chanting “Milo.” She needed aspirin -- and quickly.

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Shunga Chronicles: Flight of Heron by Lizzie Lynn Lee

Shunga Chronicles: Flight of Heron
by Lizzie Lynn Lee

Cover art by Reneé George
ISBN: 978-1-60521-202-9
Genre(s): Action/Adventure, The Fetish Club, BDSM
Theme(s): Shunga
Series: Shunga Chronicles
Length: Novella

http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1168

Blurb:

It's hard to kill your enemy when you fall in love with him...
Haunted by the shameful death of her older sister Sadae, Lady Kinshiro Yukiko goes undercover as a tayū in Yoshiwara pleasure quarter to ensnare patronage of daimyo Tsunemoto Matsushita, the man who is responsible for Sadae's death.
When Yukiko finally meets the handsome lord up close and personal, she finds out that he isn't the man she believed him to be. And what makes the matter more complicated, Lord Matsushita is also smitten with Yukiko. Head over heels in love, he purchases Yukiko's contract and elevates her status to his concubine.
Torn between her newfound love and her sacred oath to restore her family honor, Yukiko is unwillingly swept into a tangled web of deceit, betrayal, and intricate political schemes in Tokugawa's exotic shogunate court, where one wrong move can cost her life and the life she holds most dear.

Excerpt:

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

Her plan was simple: bed Lord Tsunemoto Matsushita, and when he was in his most vulnerable state, she would avenge the death of her beloved sister, Sadae, and collect a confession from his dying mouth.
She'd plotted for years since she'd learned the truth behind her sister's tragic demise. But now, Yukiko found herself shrouded in doubt when she finally met him. Lord Matsushita was the Shogun's favorite vassal, and his gallantry was well known throughout Edo. If Yukiko hadn't discovered the ugly truth behind Lord Matsushita's noble character, she would naively believe he was as righteous as his reputation.
Yukiko reminded herself she must carry out her plan no matter how innocent he might look. Sadae wouldn't rest in peace until Yukiko fulfilled the vow she had sworn on her shrine. Sadae's death was a disgrace to the Kinshiro clan, and this revenge was the only way to restore their family honor.
She gave the daimyo a deep obeisance, proceeding to pour him sake. Her heart thundered and her hands trembled. She didn't fear him, nor did she yet have second thoughts. She just couldn't fathom why this man literally made her nervous.
"Tsunemoto-dono." Yukiko summoned all her wits, and schooled a coy smile she had rehearsed a thousand times before. "Would you like to sample these sweet cakes? Nishio-san procured them especially for you." She bowed again in a perfect motion, full of grace as any celebrated tayū, courtesan, would. The long sleeves of her scarlet kimono swept the edge of the lord's feet, and the silver sparrow jewelry that festooned her coiffure made a clinking sound when her forehead brushed the tatami floor. She started when she felt his warm hand on the nape of her neck. Lord Matsushita ordered her to rise.
Nishio, the yarite, madam chaperone of the pleasure house, also gave the daimyo deep obeisance. "Honorable Lord, please forgive the girl's impetuousness. Azalea was so excited when my lord decided to grant the honor of an engagement this evening."
Yukiko heard the sharpness in Nishio's tone, which served as an indirect warning for her: Don't ruin the charade. As a tayū -- the Lady of the First Class Rank courtesan in Yoshiwara's pleasure quarters -- she was supposed to maintain a stoic and passive demeanor on her first appointment with the patron. Yukiko was a virgin, and thus she lacked the necessary skills to please a man. But for the last several months, Nishio had taught her the pillowing art as well as how to carry herself to pass as a seasoned tayū. It would be a shame if the charade was foiled by a simple mistake.
Lord Matsushita made a tiny gesture with his hand, dismissing Nishio's apology. "I'm honored Lady Azalea would grant me an appointment tonight." The daimyo tugged Yukiko's chin up so she would look at his face. His dark eyes glittered like moonlit jewels when she caught his gaze. "I've heard of Lady Azalea's famous beauty for some time, and what they've been telling me doesn't do justice to what I witness before my eyes."
Yukiko blushed. She couldn't help being flattered, even though the praise came from this heartless man. She calmed herself, brushing out the fluttery feeling. But she was alarmed when Lord Matsushita politely requested Nishio to remove herself from the room so they could have some privacy.
"Forgive me, sire," Nishio objected. "I don't mean to be rude, but this is only your first appointment." Old custom dictated patrons would only bed a tayū on his third appointment, as the first and second appointments were intended for getting to know each other.
"Are you worried about your master's fee, Nishio? Tell Ori I would be more than happy to satisfy any due amount. Just leave us in private for now."
Yukiko cast a sharp glance at Nishio, hoping she would persuade the daimyo to rescind his decision. She wasn't supposed to bed him tonight, as she didn't have the weapon to carry out her plan. To her disappointment, Yukiko saw Nishio bow. No one dared to disagree with a daimyo, especially with a man like Lord Matsushita.
"Tsunemoto-dono, I bid you a good evening," Nishio conceded in a low voice.
The madam looked worried as she silently withdrew from the room. Yukiko caught the meaning in Nishio's eyes that she should go along with Lord Matsushita's whim. To assassinate a powerful man like him required a meticulous arrangement. They didn't think Lord Matsushita would fall into their machination this fast. And so Nishio and Yukiko hadn't planned to escape from Yoshiwara tonight. The pleasure quarter was tightly guarded. One couldn't just walk in and out unchallenged, especially women. The tight security measures were employed to preserve order, keeping shady characters away, and to prevent the courtesans from escaping.
Yukiko was about to pour the lord more sake when he suddenly halted her hand. "I prefer to enjoy my drink in my own fashion."
Yukiko was baffled for a second, and then she inclined her head. Nishio had told her that sometimes patrons demanded queer ways to be satisfied. She had no idea what the lord meant by preferring to drink in his own fashion. To ask would be an inappropriate thing to do.
"Azalea-chan. You're new in Yoshiwara, aren't you?" Lord Matsushita's voice sounded deep and warm, and commanded great authority.
"Yes, sire."
"I heard you are quite selective with patrons too. You even refused Senior Elder Umehara's patronage. Truthfully, I find your selectiveness quite unusual."
Yukiko didn't know what to say. Her sole purpose in Yoshiwara was to lure this man and then kill him. She had no interest in bedding old men for money. She thought hard and chose her answer carefully. "Sire, Lord Umehara is ripe with old age."
Matsushita smiled at her answer. "Senior Elder Umehara is a very wealthy and prominent man. His Excellency values his advice greatly. No courtesan has dared to refuse his patronage before. If you don't mind quenching my curiosity, may I ask why you did?"
Yukiko's lips thinned. "I don't mean to be rude, sire, but have you ever seen Lord Umehara in person? He is… most undesirable."
Lord Matsushita arched an eyebrow. "But he can buy your freedom. Don't you want to be free?"
"Not if I have to bed a man like him. Am I foolish, sire?" Yukiko dared to look upon him. The lord possessed a pair of sharp eyes -- hawk eyes, her sister used to say. They were oval-shaped, fathomless, and dark as a starless night. A true mark of a great warrior. In ancient times, people said a man who possessed hawk eyes could see a thousand miles away, and spot a liar with one glance. Could he see that she lied right now? Yukiko secretly hoped not.
"You're young. I understand." Matsushita reached for the sake flask and poured himself a cup. "How many men have you bedded since you arrived in Yoshiwara?"
The question was rude and unexpected. Yukiko had no idea why Matsushita would ask such a question. She could lie, but she worried he would already know the answer. A daimyo like him chose his intimate companions selectively. One of his spies would have already investigated her background before the lord decided to approach her.
She answered in a small voice, "None."
"Will you have me, Azalea-chan? I would rather not waste my time with women who have no interest in me."
"Lord, it would be my greatest honor to please you."
He arched his eyebrows again. A sneer lingered on the corner of his lips. "Is that so? Why?"
She was tempted to give more elaborate answers, but she was afraid he wouldn't believe her. "Because you're very desirable, sire."
His smile widened. "Yuhara Tamuramaro is also a desirable man, but you refused his request for a second appointment."
So he had investigated her. Yukiko found the fact rather amusing. "Forgive me, sire, since you wish me to be blunt, Lord Tamuramaro preferred sake and greasy barbarian food to my companionship. My art was wasted, sire. You should see the way he engorged the whole roast pheasant by himself." She pretended to shudder. "Repulsive."
Lord Matsushita laughed heartily. "Fair enough."
Yukiko was relieved. Apparently, her answer had satisfied him.
Lord Matsushita slowly lifted the cup and drank his sake in one gulp. His eyes devoured her with unspoken lust. His hawk eyes stripped her of her clothing, leaving her naked and vulnerable in his presence. Her face burned. She had anticipated this moment for years, and yet nothing had prepared her for the sudden attraction to this man. Yukiko resented herself for being weak.
"Look at me, Azalea."
Yukiko lifted her gaze from the floor and forced herself to meet his demand. Her heart skipped a beat. He was tall, broad-shouldered and very well built. Yukiko had stolen a glimpse of him when he arrived with his retainers downstairs. Lord Matsushita stood a head taller than everyone else in the room. The moment he arrived, all courtesans on the floor flirted for his attention.
"Do you want me to be your sponsor, Azalea-chan?"
A sponsor was a patron a tayū saw exclusively. When a patron willed himself to be a sponsor, the tayū would commit herself only to him, and was forbidden to receive the patronage of others. Yukiko fluttered her eyelashes. "Will you, sire?"
Lord Matsushita answered her question with a smile. Her heart thundered. His smile had temporarily captivated her attention. She froze when the lord leaned toward her, cupped her face, and captured her lips with his. This display of affection was only practiced by the yellow-haired barbarians from the West, and it was uncommon for Japanese people. Luckily, Nishio had enlightened her about this, so Yukiko knew what she had to do. She surrendered under his ministration and timidly reciprocated his kiss. But nothing that Nishio had said had prepared her for the effect from the kiss. All the bones in her body melted as his tongue stroked deep into the moist cavern of her mouth.

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In The Belly of the Night Collection by Jonathan Wright

In The Belly of the Night (Collection)
by Jonathan Wright


Cover art by Bryan Keller
ISBN: 978-1-60521-219-7
Genre(s): Collections
Length: Collection



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Blurb:

Refugees...
Joe Horn emerged from the twisted mental lapse of 'Nam thirty years ago tired and scarred and a little whacked, running like hell from a nightmare. For the last three decades he's lived life on the edge, never stopping, never making friends, never aging. And never, ever sleeping.
Until he meets Sarah Fenton, a razor-edged reporter with secrets within her secrets. Sarah stalks Horn, hunting for a great story -- and something more. A compelling, voluptuous dream of intense sensual pleasure, she sets off all his alarm bells and makes him sweat with pure passionate hunger for the one thing he knows he can never have.
And there's one more...
Muck Drippy Thing comes from the Other Side, entering through a rift in the curtain between Here and There. He hangs out in the shadowy corner of narrow alleys, moves silently through the quiet night, slides wetly through the open window, delivering nightmarish hell and screaming death. He breathes bile and feeds on his victims' blind terror, and always follows Horn. Always.
Why? Just because.
Their paths cross like bloody trails on a Ouija board, and no place, not Here, or There, or the Netherworld, will ever be the same...

Publisher's Note: This collection contains three previous published novellas, In The Belly of the Night, Nightwalker, and Promises to Keep.

Excerpt:

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

Miss July, green-eyed, lithe and seductive, had returned.
Joe Horn sat outside the Croissant Place, feet propped up on a chair, reading the Tribune, sipping a mug of steaming coffee. Meat for the predator.
He caught glimpses of the emerald-eyed succubus as she carefully stalked her prey. Stalking me. Yes. Not overtly. Instinctively. It's something she does without thought.
Paranoia, leavened with a measure of grim experience, drove his instinctive assessment. He watched her, surreptitiously, and with a certain amount of prurient interest. He imagined popping the buttons of her blouse and sucking those ripe tits.
In a far, dark corner of his mind, prompted by this line of thought, the Beast stirred.
On Columbus Day the crowd at the Harborside Mall lacked the usual noise and clamor. The usual mess of screaming kids, giggling teenagers and exhausted men and women dragged themselves from one store to the next, but the retailers sweated. The summer had been bad. In a so-called booming economy a lot of people, like Joe Horn, had next to no money.
Unlike those to whom appearance was all, his chosen look was down-and-out chic. Army surplus fatigue pants and a field jacket, thoroughly broken in. Which is to say, ragged, with patches. Beat up running shoes, showing miles of wear. Good quality, though. Major budget item.
A family walked by. Mom with shades perched on frosted hair, Dad looking comfortably rumpled in an Eddie Bauer way. Two kids, a girl in a stroller and a boy toddling. Mom's laser eyes hunted bargains. Dad sighed. Toddler had to go to the baffroom. Made the elusive th into ff and then ffff, a spray of spittle. Giggled at his own rapier wit.
Mom pointed, issuing directives to Dad, who did the sigh thing again. Mom and the stroller arced into Ms Professional. Dad picked up the toddler and headed for the baffroom. He had a bit more lift in his step, maybe thinking of a detour to Sears, where he could spend a few minutes ogling a voluptuous band saw.
In contrast to the slightly paunchy dad, Horn was on the lean side. Unlike the glassy-eyed followers of the latest diet fad, Joe Horn had come by his leanness in other ways. Like sweating in the lee of a bridge abutment while something that breathed bile and moved with the sound of mud flowing searched for him. Like creeping quietly in the dark, hoping to sneak by the place where death was just a sigh. Like running down a pitch-black alley with something fast and lethal on his tail, praying he didn't run into more of the same. A fellow could sweat off a few pounds that way.
Miss July cruised like a mako along the storefronts: Periwinkle's. The Old Bag. The Short Shop. Successfully evaded the Mrs. Fields gill net, focused on her prey.
Horn turned to the sports section. Atlanta came from behind, beat the Pirates in the tenth, evened the playoffs.
It wasn't like he'd never seen her before. That was the problem. The memory lingered, enticing him, like a hint of perfumed cyanide, like a shy smile that hid lethal fangs.
C'mon, Horn, she's a babe, not Muck-Drippy thing. The differences are pretty obvious. Like, you can count her arms...
He'd liked her eyes, from the moment he saw her, even though the initial impact had been frightening. He had a thing about eyes. Windows to the soul and all that.
Yeah, nice eyes. And a killer body, let's not forget about that. Tits to die for… Whoops, bad choice of words… He allowed himself that bit of fantasy. It wasn't every day that a chick with a pneumatic chest chose to hunt him down.
The Beast, on the other hand, regarded her with quiescent, simmering dislike. It didn't care if the stranger looked like Miss July, which in fact she did. Appearances could deceive. Deceptions could kill. The Beast did not parse clever phrases or weigh the potential meaning of a subtle inflection. The Beast's job was simple. Stay alive.
Mom emerged, staggering under captured treasures, went looking for the troops. Somebody's gotta carry all this stuff.
Miss July dodged right and left through the crowd, like Gayle Sayers slipping through the Rams front four. Sato would have liked the way she moved. He had always valued fluidity over power.
Good old Sato. Horn's sensei. Sato had a little dojo in Japan, in the mountains. Very pristine. Very beautiful. Very rugged. Very fucking cold at night. Horn had spent a few nights outside, up there at eight thousand feet, watching for the furtive movement, listening for the delicate step. Screaming obscenities when Sato inevitably caught him napping and beat the shit out of him with the Stick.
When Horn first arrived at the dojo, he'd been afraid. His fear had begun as a child, had grown through adulthood, had blossomed like a blood red rose, in a scummy bog in Vietnam, one night when the moon waned and a hideous stick figure rose out of the black water and ate seven men.
A long time ago, in a land far, far away, but their screams still haunted him thirty years after the fact. Even though they had been about to kill him. No one deserved to die the way they died.
Sato taught Horn how to control his fear. Mostly the fear of Sato, hiding behind trees and bushes, waiting with the Stick.
Horn hated the fucking Stick.
He snapped open the metro section. Man strangled his wife because she served his oatmeal cold. Horn smiled thinly. Human interest stories were his favorite.
Miss July swooped in, took the seat across from him. Let out a sigh. Pulled out her notebook. Brushed a bang out of her big green eyes. Clicked the pen. "I talked to a man who says you blew up a bar in Texas."
"Really." Horn turned the page.
She might have introduced herself, but he already knew her name. Sarah Fenton, a reporter doing a story on the homeless. She'd found him yesterday. She had nice hair, short and thick. Moved like a dancer, accentuating her sleek body. His puerile mind invented means of disrobing her. The possibility of making her do it herself, for his considerable pleasure, momentarily clouded his mind. He noticed she was bra-less under a fairly thin top. His eyes strayed to her rather prominent nipples.
He sensed she was immediately aware, and not repulsed.
But the Beast murmured fear her. He usually listened to the Beast. He resolved to do so this time. Besides, he had other things to do. People were dying.
He'd chased her off last time with one of his wacko routines, mumbling about God's Wrath On Heathen Puppies. But now she'd returned, and she knew about the bar in Texas.
She nodded briskly, checking items off. "Yep. Then there was a truck stop in Nevada. And..." she paused as she confirmed her careful research, "... a warehouse in Seattle."
He grimaced inwardly. The grapevine was unreal. "Well, some architecture is an affront to good taste."
"Crap."
He shrugged. "That's what I just said."
She tried a different tack. "I also found out you're a Vietnam vet --" She frowned, looked up at him, then down at her notes again. "That doesn't make sense."
He raised one eyebrow without looking at her. "Smartest thing you've said so far."
She ignored that. "That conflict ended in seventy-five -- twenty-eight years ago. You'd have to be at least fifty, maybe fifty-five years old."

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Sweet Oblivion 3: Fluid by Jordan Castillo Price

Sweet Oblivion 3: Fluid
by Jordan Castillo Price

Cover art by Reneé George
ISBN: 978-1-59596-397-0
Genre(s): Paranormal
Theme(s): Vampires, The Dark Side, Gay and Lesbian
Series: Sweet Oblivion
Length: Novella

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Blurb:

It's been a couple of decades since Wild Bill has been able to savor the bite of an ice-cold, freshly tapped keg. Twenty-odd years since the shivery pucker of a cheap, boxed wine has assaulted his palate. But that doesn't mean Bill's forgotten how to party.
Wild Bill and Michael have holed up in a week-to-week hotel in an iffy Milwaukee neighborhood, and even though it's been a year or two, the fringe art happenings are just as edgy as Bill remembers.
There's a girl covered in frosting in the middle of the hors d’ouvres table, and she's begging them to dip. And the host of the party wants to lure them into the range of his mechanical eye. It's all fun and games, until a tryst turns deadly.

Excerpt:

This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

The old loft had been a factory once upon a time. Maybe a place where six-year-olds earned two cents a day drilling holes in buttons. Or maybe a place where Bohunk women fresh off the boat stitched together brand new ready-made stuff for the generations who'd been here longer, middle-class matrons who spoke English.
It wasn't hard to imagine humanity teeming through the place. They wouldn't have been wearing PVC and fishnet back then, of course. But bodies is bodies.
Unless you count the body on the table. "What's that?" I asked her.
Her gaze met mine. "Cream cheese frosting."
What was she, twenty-five? If that. And splayed out on a table in nothing but a thin white coating of frosting, surrounded by sliced fruit. She'd bleached her buzz-cut to match the frosting -- that night, or maybe the night before, judging by the faint note of peroxide I detected over the warring scents of kiwi, pear, apple and grape. "Very creative. You're the artist?"
She shook her head. The cream cheese stopped at her collarbone, so she could do that much without disturbing the setup. "I'm modeling for Ivan."
Ivan. He was the flavor du jour, judging by the snips and snatches of conversation floating around every trendy watering hole on the south side of Milwaukee.
"What's your name?"
"Wild Bill."
"Suzanne. Listen, will you do me a favor? Dip something on me and eat it. Everyone's avoiding me like the plague. Maybe you could get it started."
Twenty-odd years ago, I woulda been all over her like stink on a wino. But even though I thought she was cute -- because, come on, how can a pixie-faced chick covered in frosting not be cute -- I felt like this wasn't my world anymore, and I had no business butting in.
"Please?" she begged me. "This was supposed to be fun."
What can I say? I felt sorry for the kid. It was ballsy of her to be pressing into service as a centerpiece for someone named Ivan. It had probably seemed like a great idea at the time, in a performance art sorta way. Who could've predicted how weird it would be to walk up to the hors d'oeuvres table and find a chick on it? I really did want to help her out. And while I couldn't eat -- not fruit, anyway -- I could at least dip.
I almost took an apple slice. My hand hovered over a fan of them. Twitched. But then I scented the pear, September-hard, and I took a wedge of that instead. "Anyplace in particular you want me to start?"
She blushed. Zing. The smell of it went straight to my nuts like an invisible, fondling hand.
"My arm, or, uh… my leg."
I'd been staring at her tits. No barrier whatsoever between her and the cream cheese. Oh my. I locked eyes with her again, gave her my most reassuring smile, fangs covered, and glanced at her wrist. A pair of handcuffs surrounded her skinny girl-arm, both cuffs on the same wrist.
"Don't ask. I've been on the lookout for someone with a master key. The locksmith wants a hundred bucks to pop it."
"Just act like it's a fashion statement, and no one'll be any the wiser." I judiciously ignored the hard, cold metal and the titillating story that undoubtedly went with it, and dragged the hard edge of the pear down Suzanne's thigh. The frosting parted. I imagine that's how it would've felt to press cuneiform letters into a clay tablet. The pear was a good choice. It made a beautiful line.
I drew a spiral first. Her thigh was firm as a boy's, and had just the right amount of give. I traced an accent line around it. The two lines, side by side, created a sort of negative space, a pinstripe of frosting. Another stroke. Even better.
I felt eyes on me, that prickle that's not quite hot or cold but maybe a little of both, and I glanced up and saw a dark-eyed kid with a mohawk and a pierced eyebrow giving me bedroom eyes. A year ago, I would've made good on that invitation -- 'cos he was sweet on the outside, but better than that, I could tell just by looking at him that he was bitter on the inside -- and that's the siren song that makes even the mustiest of dried-up vamps dash themselves to death on the rocky shore of wanting.
I'd paused mid-swoop, eye-locked with Pretty Boy for a split second, with that cream cheese-covered pear wedge clutched between thumb and forefinger.
Michael stepped between the vamp bait and me, and I felt like my soul, which had been trying to float out through my eyes, had slammed back into me, and I was myself again. I don't think he'd noticed the current of Mesmerism that he'd just short-circuited. "What are you doing?" Michael said, genuinely curious -- about the pear, not the mohawk boy. I finished out the whorl of the line I'd been drawing, and then turned to face him.
He had a red plastic cup of beer in one hand, full to the brim, and a handful of chips in the other. Everything else was black. Black leather jacket. Black T-shirt, black jeans. Filmy black scarf. Raven black Clairol hair. Thick black eyeliner. And tragically pretty, with insides all red and raw as if his best gal-pal had just been sucked dry yesterday. I brought the frosting-covered pear wedge up to his face and painted a thin line of white across his lower lip. "Dipping," I told him. And I slid the pear into his mouth. His tongue grazed my finger as he took it.
"That is so hot," Suzanne said.

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