QSFer Rory Ni Coileain has a new fantasy book out:
Lasair Faol, Master of the Fade-Hounds to the Royal court of the Demesne of Fire in the Fae Realm, has been exiled to the human world by the Princess Consort for failing to catch her son’s kidnapper. Bryce Newhouse, Greenwich Village investment banker, is universally loathed by all who know him. Generally, he’s perfectly cool with that, but he discovers what he’s been missing—literally—when he finds Lasair chained in his basement.
Bryce was supposed to receive half of Lasair’s soul at his birth, but thanks to the Fae of Purgatory, the Pattern—portal between the worlds—has been damaged, and Bryce’s soul arrived thirty-one years too late. Now the exiled Fae is the shunned human’s only hope of healing his broken past. And with the fate of two worlds riding on that healing, Lasair is going to have to overcome both his race’s innate mistrust of genuine emotion and his own very unFae awkwardness, to have any chance of reaching Bryce’s impenetrable heart.
Book Five of the Soul Shares Series
Bryce straightened, stepping out of his trousers and nudging them aside with a foot. He blushed faintly, smiling a little, when he saw how intensely Lasair was watching him.
“I want more of that smile,” Lasair murmured, letting his leggings fall and drawing Bryce close.
“You’re looking at my smile?”
“You sound surprised.” Lasair captured both of their cocks in a curled hand and started a gentle pumping; the strange delight rippled through him, and he felt Bryce shudder with it at the same time.
“Most men would be looking somewhere else, under the circumstances.” Bryce’s blush deepened.
Their loss and I plan to eventually warred with one another, and in the end Lasair said neither; he simply took Bryce’s mouth again, urging him back toward the chair and following him down. He slid one hand down the underside of Bryce’s thigh, urging his leg up. Surely the human was limber enough to hook a leg over Lasair’s shoulder—
“Wait, wait, hold on.” Bryce stiffened, forcing Lasair back. “I don’t bareback on a first date, I don’t care what world you think you’re from.”
“You don’t… what?” Lasair blinked, frowned. How did horses suddenly get involved?
“No sex without a condom.” Apparently Lasair’s blank look was finally registering with Bryce. “Jesus. Are you going to tell me you don’t know what a condom is?”
“I don’t think I need to, since you’ve obviously already figured that out.”
Bryce’s mouth opened, closed; he shook his head, as if he had something else he wanted to say but was thinking better of it, and hooked his trousers with a bare foot.
Lasair’s brows arched as the human’s quick search through his trouser pockets yielded a small circle in a thin square wrapping. “I’m anxious to discover what that has to do with either horses or sex toys.”
“Horses?” Now it was Bryce’s turn to stare blankly.
Lasair took the little package away from Bryce and held it between thumb and forefinger, studying it. “You were the one who mentioned barebacking. I’d be glad to saddle you if you want, it wouldn’t be the first time, but I don’t see how you’d use this thing to—“
Bryce’s sudden laughter warmed Lasair all the way to his suddenly curled toes, flooding him with the joy he’d sought even as it brought his arousal back to its peak.
“You are fucking priceless, Rapunzel.” There was no hint of sarcasm in Bryce’s voice, no scorn, only laughter, and his smile was every bit as breathtaking as Lasair had imagined. Something had opened in the human, some barrier lowered. “Here, let me. Watch and learn.”
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Rory Ni Coileain has been writing almost as long as she’s been reading, and reading almost as long as she’s been talking. She majored in creative writing in college, back when Respectable Colleges didn’t offer such a major, so she designed it herself—being careful to ensure that she never had to take a class before nine in the morning or take a Hemingway survey course.
She graduated Phi Beta Kappa at the age of nineteen, sent off her first short story to an anthology being assembled by an author she idolized, received the kind of rejection letter that fuels decades of therapy, and found other things to do for the next thirty years or so, including nightclub singing, working as a volunteer lawyer for Gay Men’s Health Crisis, and studying ballet in New York City, until her stories grabbed her by the shirt collar and announced they were back.
Now she’s a legal editor, a soprano in her church choir and the St. Mark’s Cathedral Choral Society (unless they’re singing Mozart, because she’s decided that Mozart didn’t like sopranos very much), the mother of a teenaged son, Brony, and budding film-maker (all wrapped up in one amazing offspring), and amanuensis to a host of Fae, Gille Dubh, and shapeshifters who are all anxious to tell their stories, and some of whom aren’t very good at waiting their turns.