DSP Publications author and QSFer Amy Lane has a new Fantasy book out:
Cory fled the foothills to deal with the pain of losing Adrian, and Green watched her go. Separately, they could easily grieve themselves to death, but when an old enemy of Green’s brings them back together, they can no longer hide from their grief—or their love for each other.
But Cory’s grieving has cut her off from the emotional stability that’s the source of her power, and Green’s worry for her has left them both weak. Cory’s strength comes from love, and she finds that when she’s in the presence of Adrian’s best friend, Bracken, she feels stronger still.
But defeating their enemy is by no means a sure thing. As the attacks against Cory and her lovers keep coming, it becomes clear that their love might not be enough if they can’t heal each other—and themselves—from the wounds that almost killed them all.
THE BOY was young and plain, with sandy hair and a smattering of freckles that hadn’t disappeared although he was more than twenty-one. But in the sunlight of the bedroom, he was beautiful. With reverence he reached out a hand to the inhumanly lovely sidhe next to him, looking as he did so at the over-wide-set eyes the color of new emeralds in shadows, the clean-lined, narrow nose, the strong jaw and sensual mouth. After touching Green with his eyes, the boy used his hand to touch him languorously, his hand on Green’s elongated stomach, his semihard manhood, his flank—smooth as marble—and back again.
Green thought fondly that Owen didn’t really need this anymore—he was seeking Green’s comfort more from habit than from need. But that was okay, Green realized fretfully, because his power as a sidhe was in healing, and so it comforted him to be Owen’s habit. And he didn’t want to look at Cory’s empty room one more time.
“Where are you?” the boy asked, and Green was truthful.
“I miss her,” he said, and there was no translation needed.
“It’s only one weekend, Green.” And in spite of Green’s immortality, Owen was the one who sounded like the exasperated parent.
“It’s more than one weekend,” Green said after a moment, turning on his side and starting a slow, lazy, skilled stroke of his own. “She’s been gone as long as Adrian has… except she comes home. She comes here, she crawls into our bed and shivers, and shivers, and begs me to make her warm.”
“But you do,” Owen said quietly, arching his back, his breathing beginning to quicken. They had lain silently in the big oak-framed bed for a long time. It was a good-bye, Green recognized now. Owen was saying good-bye to this part of them—Owen didn’t need him anymore, not like this. “You… do…,” the boy hissed, and Green moved down, taking his shaft into his mouth. It was a tight fit, a pleasurable chore, a skill Green had always enjoyed.
“Come,” he whispered, his breath tickling the head of Owen’s cock, wanting to see Owen’s face this last time before he let his fledgling out into the world—healed, happy, ready to love on his own.
“Say it first,” Owen insisted, fisting his hand into Green’s hair, pulling it back to expose the pointed ears, the faint green cast to the delicate flesh behind the ears. It was a demand, a surprising one from a lover who’d been so scarred by sadism, by drugs, by a corruption of the sex act, to ask such a thing without causing or receiving pain. He took his own body from Green’s control, stroked it in his fist, running his thumb over the glistening end. Green felt a hunger for the boy then, and enjoyed that.
“Say it,” Owen said again. “Tell me that you make her warm, that she needs you like you need her…. Say… it….” He was close. Agonizingly close. Green almost wept with the wanting of the purple head in his mouth, and the taste, and with the boy’s touching refusal to believe that there was a wound that Green couldn’t heal.
“She needs me,” he said, praying it was true. “She needs me so badly she doesn’t know how to ask….” And Owen pressed the back of Green’s head, and Green devoured him, his prick, his kindness, his seed, because Owen had asked, and Green could only do his best to make his people happy.
DSP Publications: Click Here
Amazon: Click Here
Amy Lane is a mother of four and a compulsive knitter who writes because she can’t silence the voices in her head. She adores cats, Chi-who-whats, knitting socks, and hawt menz, and she dislikes moths, cat boxes, and knuckle-headed macspazzmatrons. She is rarely found cooking, cleaning, or doing domestic chores, but she has been known to knit up an emergency hat/blanket/pair of socks for any occasion whatsoever, or sometimes for no reason at all.
She writes in the shower, while at the gym, while taxiing children to soccer/dance/gymnastics/band—oh my!—and has learned from necessity to type like the wind.
She lives in a spider-infested, crumbling house in a shoddy suburb and counts on her beloved Mate to keep her tethered to reality—which he does, while keeping her cell phone charged as a bonus. She’s been married for twenty-plus years and still believes in Twu Wuv, with a capital Twu and a capital Wuv, and she doesn’t see any reason at all for that to change.