UPDATE: The winners are Jen B, DebraG, and Shirley Long!

* * * * *

Happy Saturday! I hope you’re not working today, or that you’ve got a huge list of errands to run. As for me, I’ll have my BITHOK (Butt in Chair, Hands on Keys), trying to get closer to The End of my current project. So, not much time to chat, y’all! But I would like to know if you’ve read one of my short stories before, and if so, which one was your favorite?

Comment for a chance to win your choice of
one of these stories! I’ll choose
three winners!

And if you haven’t read my shorties, check out the full list here!

Tailgating at the Cedar Inn

Two construction workers come to the aid of one woman looking for a last taste of freedom…

Breathing became something I had to think about doing. I swept my upper lip with my tongue, opening my mouth to say something, but he bent toward me. Slowly. His narrowed eyes daring me to draw away.

I didn’t. The beer was plucked from my lifeless fingers, and I gripped the edge of the tailgate, wrapping them around it to brace myself for a kiss.

His mouth was tentative, teasing, sliding over mine and rubbing in a circular movement that pulled me with it, until I was moving with him, following to make sure I didn’t lose the seductive heat.

When he drew back, he smiled. “You know, sweetheart, you don’t have to be alone tonight.”

I blinked and glanced to the side at Owen.

“Package deal,” Chris said, drawing my attention back.

Package deal. Two packages. Mine to enjoy.

I opened my mouth and drew a quick breath, suddenly nervous. “I don’t…” I cleared my throat. “I’ve never…”

“We have,” he said quickly, cupping my chin and sliding a thumb over my still moist lower lip. “Nothin’ to be worried about. Cedar Inn’s quiet. Clean. You’ve got the single room, right? Come to ours, and we’ll shove the mattresses together. Plenty of room.”

Moisture seeped to soak the crotch of my shorts. My clit throbbed and hardened. I could end it now and go back to my bed, slide my fingers over the knot and come in an instant, but their scent and heat surrounded me. I imagined being sandwiched between them both—slick, hot skin sliding against mine, front and back. I squeezed my thighs because they were beginning to quiver. Suddenly, I had options. One safe. One not so much—but wickedly enticing.

“No pressure,” Owen said, dropping a slow kiss on the corner of my shoulder. “You call the shots. Whatever you want.”

What I wanted was for them to make a move. Make up my mind for me, because I didn’t think I was capable of speaking.

Chris laid his palms on the tops of my bare thighs and slid his thumbs between them, then slowly opened me, stepping closer, forcing me wider again until his crotch was flush with mine.

His erection was impossible to ignore. A thick, insistent bulge. “Maybe you don’t want a bed?” he murmured. “Maybe you want it here?”

His crudeness excited me. Challenged me in a way I’d never have accepted in my former life. I tossed my head. “But someone will see.”

“Maybe. Might only be Bobby, but he won’t mind. Will you?”

Owen slipped a hand behind me and rucked up my shirt until the fabric bunched under my arms. My belly bare, the warm night air blew across my skin, feeling like a caress. My stomach tightened.

I glanced between them, noted the tension riding both their jaws. They wouldn’t make a move without my consent, but they’d pounce the second I did. I let the moment stretch.

Then I leaned forward and raised my arms, keeping my gaze locked with Chris’s as Owen pulled the garment all the way off.

Both men breathed deeply as they stared at my breasts. Chris cupped one, hefted it in his palm then squeezed. Owen wet a finger and circled the other nipple, pausing to scratch a nail across the tip. It hardened.

“You’re pretty,” Chris muttered.

“Doesn’t sound like you’re happy about that.”

“Don’t pay any mind to what he says,” Owen said. “He’s hard. He doesn’t think straight when he gets that way. Take it as a compliment.”

Chris plucked my nipple and released it, watching it bounce back. His gaze darted to mine again, and then he slipped his fingers inside the waist of my shorts and rubbed the top of my mound. “Can I take these off, too?”

I didn’t mind his blunt tone this time. The air between us felt charged with a current that pricked my nipples and caused my pussy to contract.

I was already shirtless, already committed. So hot I was panting. I nodded, then gasped when Owen eased me back at an angle and Chris went to work unsnapping my shorts and dragging them off my legs.

Then Owen pushed me forward and slid behind me, urging me to rest against his naked chest. Chris opened his jeans and pushed them off his hips, freeing his cock. He leaned over me, pressing me harder against Owen who chuckled as Chris hooked his elbows beneath my thighs and lifted my bottom.

“A condom?” I gasped, one last shred of sanity remaining before my mind completely filled with the sight of him. He was thick, long, a straight cudgel of a cock. Twice the girth of the last man I’d had.

“Pocket,” he ground out.

I reached for the scrunched-up top of his jeans and pulled out his wallet. My hands shook, but I found the trifold of foil packets and tore one off. He watched as I clumsily cloaked him in the latex sheath. Then he was there, pushing inside me.

The moment he entered me, my mind clicked. Fuck, I was really doing this. Really taking on a stranger while his friend held me, his hands cupping my breasts and his cock grinding against my backside through his jeans.

And I wanted him nude as well. Wanted them both rutting, both sinking deep.

I wriggled inside Owen’s embrace.

Chris shook his head, his nostrils flared. “Want me to stop?” he bit out.

“Fuck no. But what about Owen?”

Owen laughed. The sound edgy, taut.

Chris urged my legs around his back and stood, lifting me from the truck bed. Behind me, I heard the rustle of clothing, the snap of latex. I didn’t look back and instead nuzzled into Chris’s shoulder to hide my face. I should be ashamed. But instead, I was grinning, and then nipping his skin, causing him to groan and thrust.

I didn’t know how they would manage it, but trusted that they knew a way.

“Ready.”

Chris nodded, then turned and sat on the tailgate, leaning back and bringing me with him. Behind me, hands cupped my ass, pulled my cheeks apart. I moaned in protest, and Owen’s thumbs slipped farther down, tucking into my pussy, sliding along Chris’s dick, then stretching upward to make a space.

“No way,” I muttered.

“There’s room. I promise,” Owen said a trace of humor in his strained voice. Then he was pushing inside me, forcing his way atop Chris’s thick cock.

Enjoy an excerpt from Lindsay McKenna’s latest release, Snowflake’s Gift!

A Delos Series novella

SOMETIMES A CHRISTMAS GIFT DOESN’T COME IN A PACKAGE….IT COMES ON FOUR LEGS….

Snow was coming down hard in town as Nick drove the van toward the shut-in area at four p.m. The smell of spaghetti and buttered, garlic toast filled the vehicle. Myra had made sweet potato cupcakes for dessert, and he stole one before they left the charity facility. It was nearly Thanksgiving and he was looking forward to taking Holly to his folks place for the afternoon and evening. The wipers were rhythmically swinging back and forth, throwing off the heavy, wet flakes. The roads were salted, but still Nick was wary of invisible black ice. In the late afternoon the heat of the day was gone and things got slick real fast.

“Oh dear,” Holly called, sitting up, pointing out her passenger-side window. “Look, Nick!”

Snowflake, who stood between them, heard the pitch of her voice change, and whined.

Nick slowed and pulled over to the curb, then looked to where she was pointing. There was a yellow Labrador moving awkwardly through the belly deep snow between two brick buildings. Her ribs were prominent even though she had a short, thick winter coat on. “She’s starving,” he muttered, scowling. “It looks like a female Lab. She’s too dainty looking to be a male.”

“She’s terribly thin,” Holly said, worried. “I wonder if someone dumped her—they do that all the time around here. I hate it.”

“No collar on her, either,” Nick agreed. The Lab was about a hundred-feet down the alley between the two buildings, slugging it out with the snow. Nick heard Holly make a little sound of urgency. She had such a big heart, and she hated to see animals or humans suffer.

Nick knew she wanted to get out and try to call the dog over to her. From the looks of the animal, her light-brown eyes wild looking, tongue lolling out of her mouth, her fur matted, he intuitively knew this was a dog that had been left behind a long time ago to fend for herself.

“She’s feral,” he warned Holly. She turned, her huge, blue eyes filled with tears. “She won’t let us near her. I’m sorry.” And he was. It wouldn’t be the first dog dumped here that Nick had found, or that Holly had come upon around the building of one of her shut-ins. They had a no-kill shelter here, and this Lab would have had a warm place to stay, food, and care if they could befriend her.

“Can’t we do something for her, Nick?”

LINKS
BN.com
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/snowflakes-gift-lindsay-mckenna/1125267515?ean=2940156794072
Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01N994DJF?ref_=pe_2427780_160035660
Kobo.com
https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/snowflake-s-gift

iBooks/Apple
https://linkmaker.itunes.apple.com/en-us/details/1179641291?country=us&mediaType=books&term=Snowflake%27s+Gift+by+Lindsay+McKenna

Tantor Media Audio:
https://tantor.com/author/lindsay-mckenna.html

Coming to the end of a series is both exciting and sad.  It’s a lot like graduating from school.  I’m excited to move on to new adventures but sad to be leaving old friends behind

The Rose series started when I heard the song KISSED BY A ROSE, sung by Seal.  The words from the chores inspired me.  “I might compare you to a kiss from a rose on the grave.”  I heard those words and had a flash of a grave in winter with its headstone half buried and a blood red rose resting on the snow.  This vision and my background in politics combined to form the foundation for the series.

I have been a staffer for two different congressmen, a campaign consultant for numerous campaigns, and I have substituted for my Representative in the Idaho legislature.  I pulled a lot from my experience to write the political parts of the three books.  The three political issues my characters have to deal with are real and have either been reviewed by interim committees or actually debated in the legislature. The supernatural parts of the story were the most fun to write.  How would a legislator explain that he was being haunted?  It’s not something you want to advertise to your constituents or let your opponents catch wind of.

The hardest part of finishing this series is saying goodbye to characters who have been in my head for years.  I had the idea for these stories for quite some time before I ever sat down to type the first line.  Like many writers I know a lot more about my characters than the parts that made it onto the page.  Not all of a character’s back story fits into the series but it is still information that I as an author need to know in order to create a well-rounded and believable character.  They are like real people to me.  Many Sundays when I sang hymns in church I would check the date of the song, and if it was before 1882, I often wondered if Rose would have sung this one.  At least I have the satisfaction of tying up the loose ends and giving my characters the happy ever after that they all deserved.

Do you every miss characters when you finish reading a book and know there will be no new adventures?

Augustina Van Hoven
Proving Love is Strange

THE KISS OF A ROSE
THE THORN OF A ROSE
THE BLOOM OF A ROSE – Available March 14th

www.augustinavanhoven.com

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Augustina-Van-Hoven-Author/336028986575129
Twitter:  @augustinavhoven
Pinterest: Augustina Van Hoven, Author

The Bloom of a Rose

Rachel Bartlett doesn’t expect to meet the man of her dreams at a funeral.  But a chance conversation with Paul Miller inserts her in a political game between good and evil.  Unfortunately, her political strategist mother has other plans for her, and they don’t include romance.  Paul is the exact wrong guy for her, but sometimes it takes someone from the opposition to show you the way out of the maze.

Paul Miller is fighting battles on multiple fronts, and he doesn’t have time for an infatuation with a liberal graphic artist, no matter how blue her eyes or how sharp her wit.  If his trust is misplaced, then a wrong move loses the game.

What the couple doesn’t know is that they are not alone.  Supernatural beings battle behind the scenes—and humans are all pawns on a chessboard.  The outcome of the game will determine not only what the future might be…but whether or not there even is one.

Available March 14th

I want to start by thanking Delilah for letting me come play in her space here again.  Visiting here is always a blast.  I had plans for a different subject for today’s guest blog, but in the last two weeks real life has kicked my butt in more ways than one.  So I opted to do something different instead, something a little less serious than what I started with—some of my favorite romance novel hero types.

We all love our romance novel heroes.  For some of us, they’re the main reason we pick up a book.  Even if you don’t shop by the cover of the book (which I don’t), the story blurb gives you a taste of the hero that makes you think, ‘Hm, that sounds like a guy I want to fall in love with.’  And if you shop by the cover art, well, mostly naked men on book covers…very visually appealing when you’re browsing shelves, no?

I love a great, tortured hero when I’m reading, but they’re sometimes really draining to write, depending on just how dark their stories are.  I also love a hot Alpha hero, but some of them veer into asshole territory, and it’s a fine line to walk.  When I’m reading, I also enjoy a hero who has a sense of humor, but humor is really subjective, so it can be as much of a challenge to write as a tortured Alpha hero, plus a guy who’s a clown might be too shallow to fall in love with.  Maybe a dangerous hero, one who would kiss you stupid, right before he kills you?  Done right, I’ve read some really amazing stories with very dangerous heroes.  Then there is the guy next door—but they can be a little boring if they’re too realistic.

So what is a romance writer supposed to do?

Some of my favorite books don’t rely on just one of those qualities to build heroes I’ve fallen in love with, and probably you, too, yes?  There is a Viking series I’ve been enjoying for years with the hottest heroes, many of them Alphas for sure, and they are the funniest books I’ve ever read.  One of my favorite authors (I aspire to someday pull off romantic suspense half as good as hers) has done some heroes who are really anti-heroes—assassins, who falls in love with assassins, I ask you?—purely Alpha and some of them really tortured to boot, and they would do anything to keep their heroines protected.  How do you not fall in love with a man like that, no matter what his profession?

So, tell me what kind of romance novel heroes do you like best?  Strong and silent?  Tortured but sweet?  Deadly?  Everybody who shares by 5 p.m. ET on Fri, Feb. 3, 2017 will have their name entered in a giveaway (via RandomResult.com) for an ebook copy of Hunting Medusa.

Hunting Medusa, The Medusa Trilogy, Book 1

One murderous mission.  One killer case of PMS.  Who said “the curse” was a myth?

When Kallan Tassos tracks down the current Medusa, he expects to find a monster.  Instead he finds a wary, beautiful woman, shielded by a complicated web of spells that foils his plans for a quick kill and retrieval of her protective amulet.

Andrea Rosakis expects the handsome Harvester to go for the kill.  Instead, his attempt to take the amulet imprinted on her skin without harming her takes her completely by surprise.  And ends with the two of them in a magical bind–together.  But Kallan isn’t the only Harvester on Andi’s trail…

__________

Excerpt: 

Kallan wiped his sweaty hand down his jeans, hoping the shriek of the Medusa’s alarm shutting off hadn’t wakened her. He didn’t want her prepared for an attack. He’d prefer to kill her quickly and get the hell out. He could be back in Baltimore by supper tomorrow with the amulet in hand for Uncle Ari to destroy, ending the protective spell for the rest of the Medusa’s descendants.

He touched the doorknob, felt the locks disengage beneath his hand, then turned the handle and swung the door wide.

Silence greeted him, and he took that as a good sign. No creaking came from upstairs, as there would be if she’d wakened. Good. Nevertheless, he stepped inside cautiously, listening hard. He took another step after a few heartbeats, trying to remember just where the kitchen table and chairs stood from his limited view the day before.

He made it past the furniture and paused to listen again. Still nothing. He frowned. With the power off, the house was too quiet. Surely the sudden and complete silence would wake her, even if she hadn’t heard the brief noise of the alarm shutting down. He slid one foot forward on the smooth wooden floor, and suddenly she was there. Fiery pain shot up his left arm. He grunted, realized she’d stabbed him deeply. He swung his other hand up, managing to hit her on the side of the head.

She cried out but didn’t go down, swinging her blade again. He caught her wrist, but she managed to get another slice to his already-injured forearm before he yanked her arm behind her.

Her booted foot connected with his knee—hard—and he bit back a string of curses at the pain, but didn’t let her go. Why wasn’t she barefoot? If she’d been sleeping, she should be barefoot. His left arm was nearly useless, blood pumping steadily from his wounds, so he crowded her up against the nearest surface. The refrigerator. He shoved hard, hearing her moan when he twisted her arm a little more.

Her blade hit the floor between them. She kicked backward again, and her foot hit his knee from the other side this time.

“Dammit,” he muttered, flattening her between his body and the appliance’s cool metal surface. His arm burned, warm blood dripping from his fingers.

“Get off me, you murdering bastard,” she said, her words slurred slightly from her face being mashed into the refrigerator.

“Well now, that’s not very nice. Especially since I’ve never murdered anyone. Yet,” he added darkly, tightening his grip on her wrist. The bones in her arm were fragile and he was fully aware he could crush them, render her arm as useless as she had his. But he didn’t. He wasn’t Stavros.

“You’re not going to start with me, either, Harvester.”

Mouthy. He grinned at the back of her head. Even trapped and defenseless as she was now, she didn’t stop fighting, even verbally. He had to work to keep from laughing as she continued to threaten him. No one had warned him the Medusa would be talkative. Or soft, he realized when her bottom shifted back into his groin. He concentrated on breathing evenly when his nerve endings all came to life. He’d never imagined he might be aroused by the Medusa.

“Wh-what are you doing?” she asked suddenly.

Kallan realized he wasn’t moving—or most of him wasn’t. He shut his eyes for a second, clenching his jaw. Her ass now cushioned his throbbing erection.

“Hey!” She shrank closer to the fridge, making a soft sound when the move forced her arm higher behind her.

He shifted, easing her wrist a little lower. This wasn’t going at all as he’d imagined it. “Stop moving.” He forced himself to unclench his jaw.

“If you think I’m going to make it easy for you to kill me, Harvester, you have another thing coming.” She didn’t stop wriggling.

Growling, he flattened her completely between his body and the refrigerator again.

She froze, and he could feel her pulse beating crazily in the wrist he still held. Fear? He imagined that was one cause. Anger too, probably.

He doubted she was having the same unexpected reaction to him that he was to her.

Not that it was a bad thing that she wasn’t suddenly aroused, too.

He just needed to stop thinking about it.

Concentrate on the task at hand.

Kill the Medusa.

Feel how soft her ass was against him. If he shifted his hips just a little—

No. He growled again, and she shifted, just as he’d imagined so her softness cradled him even more.

“Get off, Harvester,” she whispered.

“Stop calling me that.” He hated hearing it from her lips for some reason. Yes, it was what his name meant. It was what he was destined to do. But the contempt in her tone… He didn’t like it at all.

As though the Medusa had room to be contemptuous of him.

“It’s your name.” Her voice was stronger now, as if she’d somehow sensed his unexpected inner struggle. “Why shouldn’t I use it?”

“You won’t be alive long enough to worry about it.” He ignored her behind against his groin for the moment and took a slow breath, trying to remember his plan.

Get in, find her, kill her, get the amulet, and get out.

Well, his plan was not going very well at all.

He didn’t want to be the first Harvester in so many generations to finally find the Medusa and then fail at his job.

__________

Buy: Samhain:   http://www.samhainpublishing.com/book/4883/hunting medusa

About the Author

Elizabeth Andrews has been a book lover since she was able to read.  Almost as long as she’s been enjoying great books, she’s been attempting to write her own.  When she found her mother’s romance stash as a teenager, it was a natural progression to write romances.  Along with her enormous book stash, she lives with her husband of twenty years, two young adult sons, and belongs to two cats.  When she’s not buried in her personal library, writing, or at the day-job, there’s a garden outside with flowers, herbs and vegetables that requires occasional attention.

www.ElizabethAndrewsWrites.com

I remember watching Star Trek: Voyager when it came out, thinking would this be the week that the crew would be able to return home? Those who have watched the show know it took a few years and many episodes for that to happen, but the weekly adventures of the crew’s journey kept viewers entertained. Growing up in a family that loved soap operas (Young and the Restless ), the episodic form of a television show wasn’t odd to me. From week to week and year to year the Newmans and everyone else had drama and trials, and you always tuned in because who knew what would happen next? (I haven’t watched the show in well over 20 years, but I still recognize some faces and some things never change.)

I like to think my Tobine Chronicles is its own science fiction universe and with each “episode” (each book has 3 chapters) the story deepens and the plot thickens. I’m a big fan of sci fi television, from Star Trek in all its incarnations to Babylon 5 and Crusade, to StarGate in all its forms and then some. There’s something about the weekly episode within an overarching arc. Right now the CW is doing this extremely well with its DC comics shows, Arrow, The Flash, Legends of Tomorrow, and of course, Supernatural (which isn’t a part of the DC universe, but I can’t forget the Winchesters.)

As a writer it’s fun, and a challenge, to craft episodes that will keep readers entertained while working to move the story along. And yet, it’s something that I am really enjoying doing, and have plotted the Tobine Chronicles quite a few episodes into the future. A new episode will release every six weeks, so Tenni and her rebellion will have plenty of opportunities to free the people on the planet Tobine.

For fans of good science fiction television, I hope they also enjoy the Tobine Chronicles. Couple that with some drama  and erotic content, and the Tobine Chronicles will hopefully please readers of all kinds. And yes, eventually I’ll give Tenni her happy ending. But then she’ll probably have a whole new set of problems and the chronicles will continue.

Latest Release…

Tobine Chronicles Episode 3

In the battle to save the planet she loves, one woman must discover the truth about her past, and if she has the strength necessary to not just save Tobine–but rule.

Episode Three – As Tenni learns more about the Vilos’ plans, she wants nothing to do with the frog-like creatures. With the slave Kavin, she begins to make plans to escape only to discover that she’s been given a horrible twist of fate.

Buy from Amazon  
Buy direct from the author

About the Author

Adera Orfanelli is a newer alter ego for erotic romance author Mary Winter. She began writing several years ago when she discovered how fun it was to write stories about hot men and adventurous women living and loving in outer space. With the universe to explore, she lets the stars light her way and her imagination play. Now, she sees hot couples everywhere and her stories have moved beyond outer space and into the past, and into our modern day world. Right now, Adera is having fun writing stories her readers will love, and who knows where, or when, she’ll write about next?

She loves to hear from readers and can be reached at Adera@aderaorfanelli.net. Don’t forget to visit her website and sign up for her newsletter where readers receive coupons and specials as well as free stories.

Website: http://www.aderaorfanelli.net
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/mwaowmk
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/mwaowmk

“It is only through labor and painful effort, by grim energy and resolute courage, that we move on to better things.”
― Theodore Roosevelt

So I am beginning to ask myself if Indie publishing is a better thing. I am not sure.

I have been writing for a long time. I do have a distinctive voice, and I read across many genres. Fortunately, both of my parents were avid readers and I could read long before I went to school. This kind of thing can really turn you off to education, but I was fortunate, that is not what happened to me.

My Dad used to let me read the newspapers with him, every day. Moreover, I still have an order for reading the newspaper: Horoscope first, comics second, and then the news. My Dad used to tell me, it is a good thing to have a positive outlook, (horoscope first) try to never lose your sense of humor, (comics second) and finally yet importantly, be informed (news).

This might not seem like great advice to give a four year old who is not yet in school, but it was not only great advice, but it served me well most of my adult life. I still read every day, and still read the newspaper in that order.

People often ask me what influences my stories. Those folks who know me well understand I grew up in a large family, in an old Victorian house with an odd reputation. People in my hometown believed it was haunted.

Truth be told, it was.

When my family acquired the house, I was given the back bedroom on the second floor. The house still had gaslights in each room although these lights had not been in use for many years. You see, the house sat vacant for a number of years, and that is probably why people believed it to be haunted.

I did not think much about it at the time, until one night I woke up to the sound of someone opening the door to my room. There was a full moon, and the light streaming in my window allowed the average person to read a newspaper. I knew this because I read every night. Moreover, earlier I used the moonlight to exceed my reading time.

So the knob rattled and turned and a man, youngish—about in his early thirties, stuck his head in the door and surveyed the room. He moved into the room from the hall, and took off his jacket, which he hung in the closet. He closed the closet door, walked past my bed to the window opposite me, and opened it wide. He then climbed out the window and was gone.

The first night I screamed bloody murder, but my mother did not believe me. She said I was dreaming. This happened often over the next few months and finally, I started to pay more attention to the ghostly images.

You see, the room would change with the nightly apparition. Once the visitor finished his trip across my room, things returned to normal. One night my best friend spent the night, and she witnessed what I’d been seeing for several months. Only this time, when the room returned to “normal” the window remained open. I also had a witness.

Keep in mind, as a young girl, I was not likely to share a story my parents told me would make me seem crazy to my friends. But, now . . . my best friend knew exactly what was happening.

Those early encounters, better explained by my Irish grandfather, became more of an adventure than frightening encounters. They happened on and off through the years of adolescence. None was truly frightening or hostile, but when people do not believe you or make you think you are crazy. Well, that is just wrong.

Highly likely you will encounter ghosts in many of my stories. I know how ghosts can catch you off guard, and sometimes frighten you when they only mean to help. Look for ghosts in my next book, The Covenant, about a white witch fresh from college with a brand-new MBA who returns home to revive the family business and learns secrets that may destroy her future.

Better yet, read the two free short stories on my website, http://www.aneryanwalker.com

Sign up for my newsletter for notices of new releases and free short stories.