QSFer S.A. Garcia has a new MM fantasy book out for preorder:
Elf Prince Fabion enjoys the perfect supermodel lifestyle until wizard Matradorian chucks him back in time to save Henda, the sexy, powerful elf king. Since the death of his lover, Henda has lingered in a half-alive, half-dead state. Surprise, Fabion is a spiritual match for Henda’s dead lover, so only he can save the dying king.
Fabion uses his sexy bod and sweet lovin’ to revive the elf king. All seems well until he realizes saving Henda destroyed Fabion’s world. He is an elf adrift. Fabion must stay in this ancient land forever. Fabion pitches the biggest temper tantrum of any century until he realizes sexy Henda accepts him as his true lover. Being the virile, handsome Henda’s lover fills Fabion’s emotional gap. The former supermodel decides to accept life in the backwards century.
Soon, Fabion learns the nineteenth century is more dangerous than his vanished thirty-ninth century. Now who wants to kill him? And why?
CONTENT ADVISORY: This is an extensively expanded and re-edited title
Ding-dong! Fabion’s already strained heart began racing toward an unknown winner’s circle. Thump-a-thump-a-ling-long. No fuckin’ way!
The pale dude quietly resting on the incredible bed was the dude Fabion had always enjoyed in his wet night fantasies. Talk about a dream come true!
Drool. Better yet, talk about mondo sexy. Even when silent and unmoving, the elf resting on the grand bed looked tastier than all of Fabion’s many lovers put together. This king provided a more mature, err, sterner—yeah, that was the damned word—version of his lovely sons. Wisdom and power etched into his pale face. Normally any facial wrinkles made the hypercritical Fabion run screaming into the distance, but not this time. The light age lines added depth to the male’s supremely handsome face. How startling. Watch out, world, Fabion might fall for someone who had never hid his facial lines with chemical peels, inserts, or surgery. No way.
The elf king defined hot, although right now Henda appeared too damned cold. If someone placed a white marble slab next to Henda’s muscular body, the marble would blend in. If anyone tried such a stunt, Fabion vowed to kick them.
The long black hair flowing behind Henda’s noble head and the violet sheet tucked around his spectacular body emphasized his intense paleness. The dude looked sensational even while slipping away.
What a sad concept.
Fabion needed a quick mental distraction to halt hyperventilation. What a damned gorgeous headboard. A skilled artist had forced solid wood into a turbulent fantasy featuring orchids, crashing waves, fern fronds, and twining ivy. Killer. Why didn’t Fabion own such a super headboard? The dramatic style suited his legendary beauty. He wanted one exactly like it for his bed. He stared around the vast room, loving how the far side opened to the sea-facing balcony. The sound of the waves muttered below them.
Good, his breath finally stopped emerging in frantic puffs. Fabion crept forward. He examined the immobile elf.
“Hello, Henda. After years of delicious, wet fantasy desire, we finally meet. You are the real deal. Imagine the crazy concept. At least I think you’re real. Fuck, this might be a first-class hallucination.”
Before he realized what he did, Fabion’s trembling fingers unlaced his tight tunic. His instinctive response urged him to strip naked and jump into bed with his eternal fantasy.
How had sly Mr. Fuckface sensed Fabion’s desire to perform the ultimate deed? What a slick manipulator!
Bizarre. No time for messing around. The selfish elf realized he needed to perform a miracle or else this magnificent elf would cease to exist. Talk about a fuckin’ shame. A turned-on Fabion needed those royal lips nuzzling against his perfect body. Hmm, did raw lust supply enough zip to revive this glorious male? Fabion hoped so. Imagine, his fantasy male waited for him. Kicky!
Fuck, these intricate laces foiled his treacherous fingers. They teamed with the relentless trembling and tried defeating his undressing effort. The frustrated Fabion released a teakettle-worthy hiss. He anxiously yanked and tugged until his fingers tossed his ripped tunic to the floor. What a waste of a bitchin’ garment. Well, in times of need, one sucked-up fashion sacrifices. No worries, Mattie and his magical staff guaranteed Fabion a new tunic.
Fabion sat on the bed and peeled down his snug leggings. Mattie hadn’t provided Fabion with any underwear. What an old letch! After he undid his radically cool boots, Fabion shoved everything to the floor.
Yikes! Fresh hyperventilation almost set in. Frantic thoughts tumbled into Fabion’s dizzy mind. Yes, I sit on the bed. I sit on Henda’s totally opulent bed. My divine butt cuddles into his super-superior feather mattress. How many times had I fantasized about crawling into Henda’s grand bed and letting him fuck me six times to sideways? Woooow.
Fabion’s usually wild imagination had missed exact details. Hell, Henda’s giant bed could host an elven orgy. Still, Fabion had never imagined anyone but handsome Henda performing the honors. In his fantasy world, the free love-supporting Fabion always acted bitchin’ loyal to the big dude. Cheating on anyone in Henda’s stellar rank sounded brainless.
Okay, today the fucking option didn’t own a chance. The disturbingly motionless Henda didn’t seem capable of fucking anything, especially not death. No matter, today Death needed to get fucked. Fabion did not intend to let the bony bastard steal Henda. Death needed to find his own classy king to cuddle.
Big, brave attitude helped in a fashion shoot, but how could Fabion defeat Death? Challenge him to a strut-off? Aw fuck.
Unwelcome tremors jerked Fabion’s tense muscles in different directions. So not cool. He despised his nasty inadequacy. Did a loving touch activate special, bring-back-Henda magic? The tremors intensified enough to twitch Fabion’s fingers. He needed to try the simple solution.
Fabion reached out to caress Henda’s firm chest. Yikes! Pained surprise lashed at Fabion’s senses. He jerked his fingers back and held them against his warm chest. Henda imitated an elf-shaped ice block. How wicked. What a seriously bad problem.
This poor chilly elf needed intense warming up via full-body contact. Fabion winced. Ugly discomfort cavorted before him in malicious glee.
Too bad. Fabion pulled away the silk sheet’s light weave from Henda’s pale flesh. The airy material imitated gossamer web. Classy. Yummy, those fine, tight abs demanded praise. Reaaalll sweet. Jackpot. Fabion’s fantasies hadn’t lied. This powerful elf displayed masculine might. Luxurious black hair framed Henda’s long cock. Super impressive. The big dude even had sexy pubic hair. Fabulosity plus. Henda’s muscle-corded thighs deserved an award. Fabion carried a definite torch for muscular thighs, especially since his thighs dwelled on the skimpy side. Blame genetics. The sensible Fabion never appreciated exercise unless he sprawled naked and panting in bed.
Henda even had good-looking feet. Please, how many breathing creatures had handsome little toes? King Henda offered Fabion total top-shelf male perfection or something along those flowery lines. Geesh, Henda invited Fabion to pile on the compliments.
Enough admiring. One-two-three now go! Fabion shifted on the soft bed. He slithered close until his hip met Henda’s. When Henda’s cold flesh made contact with his warmth, Fabion writhed in disgust. Aiiii-yiii-yiii-ee-oo-ahh-ooo! Shiiittt! Poor Henda felt beyond frigid. How did this near-frozen elf still live?
Henda’s chest moved up and down at a vastly slow rate. Fabion counted to eight between Henda’s shallow breaths. The situation looked seriously bad—damn, deathly bad.
Forty years ago, I started writing gay male romance. My writing remained a secret lest my friends thought me a freak. Writing about men inserting tab A into slot B didn’t seem the norm for a suburban female teenager. Reading Gordon Merrick, John Rechy, and Larry Kramer helped me fill in the informational gaps. No wonder I read those books in my bedroom.
As the years progressed, this lesbian still wrote gay male romance, although the stories moved from lurking in notebooks to hiding on the computer. I wrote fantasies, contemporaries, bodice rippers—I chugged along following Diva Faboo, my drunken, ornery muse.
A few published novels, assorted novellas, and spicy short stories have turned my life into a fun quandary of too many stories hindered by my slow typing skills. I accept the challenge and blunder onward into more trauma, drama, and humor. Once I train my wicked men to stop ruining my plots— face it, that will never happen. They refuse to listen!