First Excerpt: "Kingdom Come"

"Kingdom Come" is a murder mystery set in Amish country with a romance subplot (m/f).  It's being published by Penguin/Berkley in the Berkely "Prime Crime" line.  It will be published under my 'other author name' Jane Jensen since it's more mystery than romance.

Here's the link to the Amazon page.

And here's the first excerpt -- the first scene in the book.

The Dead Girl

“It’s . . . sensitive,” Grady had said on the phone, his voice tight.

Now I understood why. My car crawled down a rural road thick with new snow. It was still dark and way too damn early on a Wednesday morning. The address he’d given me was on Grimlace Lane. Turned out the place was an Amish farm in the middle of a whole lot of other Amish farms in the borough of Paradise, Pennsylvania.

Sensitive like a broken tooth. Murders didn’t happen here, not here. The last dregs of sleep and yet another nightmare in which I’d been holding my husband’s cold, dead hand in the rain evaporated under a surge of adrenaline. Oh yes, I was wide-awake now.

I spotted cars—Grady’s and two black-and-whites—in the driveway of a farm and pulled in. The CSI team and the coroner had not yet arrived. I didn’t live far from the murder site and I was glad for the head start and the quiet.

Even before I parked, my mind started generating theories and scenarios. Dead girl, Grady had said. If it’d been natural causes or an accident, like falling down the stairs, he wouldn’t have called me in. It had to be murder or at least a suspicious death. A father disciplining his daughter a little too hard? Doddering Grandma dipping into the rat poison rather than the flour?

I got out and stood quietly in the frigid air to get a sense of place. The interior of the barn glowed in the dark of winter morning. I took in the classic white shape of a two-story bank barn, the snowy fields behind, and the glow of lanterns coming from the huge, barely open barn door. . . . It looked like one of those quaint paintings you see hanging in the local tourist shops, something with a title like Winter Dawn. I’d only moved back to Pennsylvania eight months ago after spending ten years in Manhattan. I still felt a pang at the quiet beauty of it.

Until I opened the door and stepped inside.

It wasn’t what I expected. It was like some bizarre and horrific game of mixed-up pictures. The warmth of the rough barn wood was lit by a half dozen oil lanterns. Add in the scattered straw, two Jersey cows, and twice as many horses, all watching the proceedings with bland interest from various stalls, and it felt like a cozy step back in time. That vibe did not compute with the dead girl on the floor. She was most definitely not Amish, which was the first surprise. She was young and beautiful, like something out of a ’50s pulp magazine. She had long, honey-blonde hair and a face that still had the blush of life thanks to the heavy makeup she wore. She had on a candy-pink sweater that molded over taut breasts and a short gray wool skirt that was pushed up to her hips. She still wore pink underwear, though it looked roughly twisted. Her nails were the same shade as her sweater. Her bare feet, thighs, and hands were blue-white with death, and her neck too, at the line below her jaw where the makeup stopped.

The whole scene felt unreal, like some pretentious performance art, the kind in those Soho galleries Terry had dragged me to. But then, death always looked unreal.

“Coat? Shoes?” I asked, already taking inventory. Maybe knee-high boots, I thought, reconstructing it in my mind. And thick tights to go with that wool skirt. I’d been a teenage girl living in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. I knew what it meant to care more about looks than the weather. But even at the height of my girlish vanity, I wouldn’t have gone bare-legged in January.

“They’re not here. We looked.” Grady’s voice was tense. I finally spared him a glance. His face was drawn in a way I’d never seen before, like he was digesting a meal of ground glass.

In that instant, I saw the media attention this could get, the politics of it. I remembered that Amish school shooting a few years back. I hadn’t lived here then, but I’d seen the press. Who hadn’t?

“You sure you want me on this?” I asked him quietly.

“You’re the most experienced homicide detective I’ve got,” Grady said. “I need you, Harris. And I need this wrapped up quickly.”

“Yeah.” I wasn’t agreeing that it could be. My gut said this wasn’t going to be a cut-and-dried case, but I agreed it would be nice. “Who found her? Do we know who she is?”

“Jacob Miller, eleven years old. He’s the son of the Amish farmer who lives here. Poor kid. Came out to milk the cows this morning and found her just like that. The family says they’ve got no idea who she is or how she got here.”

“How many people live on the property?”

“Amos Miller, his wife, and their six children. The oldest, a boy, is fifteen. The youngest is three.”

More vehicles pulled up outside. The forensics team, no doubt. I was gratified that Grady had called me in first. It was good to see the scene before it turned into a lab.

“Can you hold them outside for five minutes?” I asked Grady.

He nodded and went out.

I pulled on some latex gloves, then looked at the body, bending down to get as close to it as I could without touching it. The left side of her head, toward the back, was matted with blood and had the look of a compromised skull. The death blow? I tried to imagine what had happened. The killer—he or she——had probably come up behind the victim, struck her with something heavy. The autopsy would tell us more. I didn’t think it had happened here. There were no signs of a disturbance or the blood you’d expect from a head wound. I carefully pulled up her leg a bit and looked at the underside of her thigh. Very minor lividity. She hadn’t been in this position long. And I noticed something else—her clothes were wet. I rubbed a bit of her wool skirt and sweater between my fingers to be sure—and came away with dampness on the latex. She wasn’t soaked now, and her skin was dry, so she’d been here long enough to dry out, but she’d been very wet at some point. I could see now that her hair wasn’t just styled in a casual damp-dry curl, it had been recently wet, probably postmortem along with her clothes.

I straightened, frowning. It was odd. We’d had two inches of snow the previous afternoon, but it was too cold for rain. If the body had been left outside in the snow, would it have gotten this wet? Maybe the ME could tell me.

Since I was sure she hadn’t been killed in the barn, I checked the floor for drag marks. The floor was of wooden planks kept so clean that there was no straw or dirt in which drag marks would show, but there were traces of wet prints. Then again, the boy who’d found the body had been in the barn and so had Grady and the uniforms, and me too. I carefully examined the girl’s bare feet. There was no broken skin, no sign her feet had been dragged through the snow or across rough boards.

The killer was strong, then. He’d carried her in here and laid her down. Which meant he’d arranged her like this—pulled up her skirt, splayed her thighs. He’d wanted it to look sexual. Why?

The doors opened. Grady and the forensics team stood in the doorway.

“Blacklight this whole area,” I requested. “And this floor—see if you can get any prints or traffic patterns off it. Don’t let anyone in until that’s done. I’m going to check outside.” I looked at Grady. “The coroner?”

“Should be here any minute.”

“Good. Make sure she’s tested for any signs of penetration, consensual or otherwise.”

“Right.”

Grady barked orders. The crime-scene technicians pulled on blue coveralls and booties just outside the door. This was only the sixth homicide needing real investigation I’d been on since moving back to Lancaster. I was still impressed that the department had decent tools and protocol, even though I knew that was just big-city arrogance talking.

I left them to it and went out to find my killer’s tracks in the snow.

My Fiction Nook Author of the Month - and GIVEAWAY

My Fiction Nook has done me the honor of having me as their June 2015 author of the month. Check out the first post and enter the giveaway for a free copy of "How to Howl at the Moon". There will be more giveaways as the month goes on. http://www.myfictionnook.com/2015/06/author-of-month-eli-easton-week-one.html

Eli

Desktop: "The Black Dog" (in claw anthology)

It's my tradition to do a desktop post when I have a new story release, showing images that inspired my story. "The Black Dog" is in "claw", the 3rd gothika. It's a gothic m/m anthology with three novellas by myself, Jamie Fessenden, and Kim Fielding. The theme of the claw anthology is beast shifters. Jamie and Kim's stories feature werewolf shifters and mine, a massive black hound.

INSPIRATION:

I love gothic stories and horror movies. Both of my previous gothika stories were influenced by some of my favorite books or movies. ("Wuthering Heights" and "Frankenstein" for stitch's "Reparation" and "I Walked with a Zombie" and "Wide Sargasso Sea" for bone's "The Bird").

The inspiration for "The Black Dog" comes from "Hound of the Baskervilles" by Sir Conan Doyle.

I love this Sherlock Holmes story, the mood and atmosphere of it. Though I have to admit always been a little disappointed that the 'solution' to the mystery ends up not being paranormal at all.  In "The Black Dog", that's not the case. SAY NO MORE.

Initially, I was going to do a modern take on "Hound of the Baskervilles", sticking true to the original plotline. But as I began working on it, I wasn't satisfied with that and I decided I needed to pull in some other influences and go my own way.

LOCH NESS MONSTER

I liked the idea of having a legendary creature in my story, and a small town where monster-hunters might go to try to track down this legend. I'm a fan of TV shows where people are trying to track down Big Foot and other fabled beasts.  "The Black Dog" is set in Scotland and the legend of the Black Dog (which is fictional) is the only thing bringing in dribs and drabs of tourists to the tiny Northern Scotland hamlet where my story is set. The Black Dog is like a poor cousin to the Loch Ness Monster.

SCOTLAND AND HAMISH MACBETH

Gothic stories are defined by their setting. It's critical to have someplace that feels mysterious, spooky, and isolated, where the normal safeguards and rules don't apply.

I decided to set "The Black Dog" in an isolated region on the northern coast of Scotland. Why? Well, first I felt the story had to be on the British Isles because the original inspiration, "Hound of the Baskervilles" is a very British story. But I wanted someplace that would still be very remote in the current day.

I decided on Scotland, primarily due to my love of the TV series "Hamish MacBeth". Hamish is a constable in a small town in Scotland and I loved the rural, isolated feeling of the show. What a great place for a spooky tale! The show was also the inspiration for my main character, Hayden, who is a constable in the small Scottish town of Laide.

More pics of my setting:

HAYDEN MacLAIRTY

Hayden, my main MC, is a huge "almost ginger" Scotsman, a police constable, patient and steady. Simon calls him "Mount MacLairty". Yes, he's big. He's the seventh son of a seventh son, and he loves living in the tiny hamlet of Laide and wouldn't have it any other way, despite the fact that all his older siblings have moved to big cities and the modern world.

I don't really have a picture that does Hayden justice, but not to leave you hanging, here's a lovely Scotsman for you...

SIMON CORTO

My other MC is a writer from New York. Simon is intelligent, sophisticated, he loves to travel, doesn't mind roughing it, and has made a career writing fictional stories around real monster legends. I picture him looking like a younger Neil Gaiman.

And last, but not least, some inspirational beast pics I grabbed off the web while writing:

That's it for this desktop. I hope you will give "The Black Dog" a read!

You can read an except and find ORDER LINKS here.

Eli

First excerpt from "The Black Dog"!

"Claw", the third volume of the gothika anthology, is coming out Apr 13th!  I'll have a blog post running on the DSP blog tomorrow, and in celebration I'm posting the first excerpt from my novella-length story, "The Black Dog".  Here's the blurb.

The Black Dog by Eli Easton Constable Hayden MacLairty is used to life being dull around the tiny hamlet of Laide on the north Scottish coast. They get occasional tourists, “monster hunters” interested in the local legend of the Black Dog, but Hayden thinks that’s only a myth. A rash of sheep killings, a murdered hiker, huge footprints, and sightings of the Black Dog force Hayden to rethink the matter. With the help of Simon Corto, a writer from New York doing research for a book about the Black Dog, Hayden tries to figure out why the enormous hound is reappearing. Hayden finds himself strongly attracted to another person for the first time in his life. But between the danger stalking the hills, Simon’s inevitable return to New York, and Hayden’s mother’s illness, true love may be more of a phantom than the Black Dog.

CHAPTER 1:

“I’m tellin’ ye, it was the Black Dog. Now what the hell are ye gonna do about it, Hayden MacLairty?”

The dead sheep, all four of them, made a grisly spectacle on what remained of the green summer grass. All of them had their throats crushed and bloodied, and two had their stomachs torn open, too, inviting flies to the feast. Hayden couldn’t quite wrap his head around it.

There were no bears or wolves in Scotland. A vicious pet or zoo animal might have gotten loose. Or perhaps it was a pack of stray dogs that had gone rogue. But what would kill four sheep and not feed? The animals were not so much eaten as displayed.

Hayden knelt down by one of the disemboweled sheep, trying to get a closer look at its wound. It looked torn, as from claws or teeth, not cut with a knife.

“I’ll take ’em to the vet in Ullapool. See if he can tell me anythin’ about what done this.”

“I told ye what done this! It was the Black Dog!”

Hayden straightened up to his full height, not averse to using his size to shut up Dylan Mitchell. Dylan was one of many colorful characters in Hayden’s precinct. He drank, and he saw things, and normally Hayden could ignore his wild stories. But not today, not with four dead sheep.

“Now you listen here, Dylan. There ain’t no such thing as the Black Dog.”

“I seen it! Why, just two nights ago—”

“And whatever killed your sheep is real, not some supernatural phantom, and that means I’ve gotta catch it. I’m not likely to catch it if I’m wastin’ my time lookin’ for spooks.”

Dylan’s face clouded with anger. “Ye don’t never listen to me, Hayden. But I know what I saw. Seen that thing five times now, the first time when I was nigh on ten year old, and there weren’t no liquor involved then. And I drink plenty without seein’ the damn thing. When I see it, it’s because it’s there. So what’re ye gonna do about it, hey? I can’t afford to lose four head.”

“I’ll post watch for a couple of nights,” Hayden agreed reluctantly. “I’m not arguin’ with you. We gotta find this thing.” And if you didn’t get drunk as a lord every night, you could watch your land your own damn self.

“’Course we do! My sheep one night, maybe my wife the next…! I wanna know what yer gonna do about that monster.”

“Now, Dyl, it won’ do a lick of good to berate the man.” Laith Mitchell spoke up, thank heaven. She was a good woman with a heck of a lot more sense than her husband.

“How ’bout you?” Hayden asked her. “You seen any animal in these parts that might have done this?”

She shook her head regretfully. “No, Hayden. The O’Ryan’s lab goes wanderin’ from time to time, but he’s gentle as a kitten. Ain’t seen nothin’ else.”

Dylan glowered harder.

“Right, then. I’ll just load ’em up.” Not for the first time, Hayden wished he had a subordinate to give such menial work to. He spread out plastic bags in the back of his Land Rover that was marked with the cheery yellow and blue check of the Scottish police. Then he hauled the heavy, bloody sheep into the boot. He had to drive them over an hour each way to Ullapool. But anything that ever had to be done, Hayden did himself. He was the only constable in the small hamlet of Laide and its surrounds. He covered a territory of nearly a hundred miles square, and he himself was the entire breadth and width of the law here. He might call in help if there was real trouble, but not for sheep. And decidedly not for a phantom black dog.

It was nearly dark when Hayden got back to Laide. He passed the Black Dog pub. There was a strange car in the lot, a rental, so apparently Angus had tourists in. Hopefully, they were there for the night and not just a meal. It was a good day when Angus could let out one of his upstairs rooms.

Maybe Dylan would show up at the pub tonight and spout off about the Black Dog. Nothing like a little local color to give the monster-hunters that chill up the spine. The wild northern end of Scotland was popular with long-distance cyclists and the occasional hardy hiker. But the few who stopped in the tiny hamlet of Laide had the legend in mind.

Hayden sighed. How he’d love to put up his tired feet at the pub and have a pint. But he had other obligations.

At home, Hayden let himself in quietly. As always the house smelled sourly of camphor and rose water and cabbage.

“Hullo,” he said to Ruth as he entered the kitchen. “And hullo, Mom.” He kissed his mother on the top of her head, assessing her condition automatically. Her crazy thick black hair, shot through with gray, was freshly washed, a task Ruth only managed a few times a week. She was wearing a thick purple cardigan. It was a bit too small on her large frame, but it was clean. And she had on real trousers today—some old khakis—not PJ bottoms.

His mother looked up at him and smiled. “Hayden! Ruth made us supper. Isn’t that nice?”

It was a good day then. Deep inside, where fear gripped his stomach in greedy handfuls, the tension eased.

“That’s lovely, Mom. What’re we havin’, then?”

“Pot roast! Can’t you smell it? I’m surprised the whole town isn’t outside the door wantin’ to be let in. Smells delicious!”

Hayden swallowed and looked at Ruth. She shook her head a little. “I’ve got some baked chicken in the oven,” she said quietly.

His mom ignored Ruth, going on and on about the pot roast. He sighed. A year ago he would have chased that phantom. But he’d learned better. Even if he went out and got a pot roast now, and they cooked it right away, by the time it was done, his mother would have forgotten all about it. She’d pick at her food like she always did, taking a few bites, and then claiming she was stuffed and couldn’t manage another morsel. He had no idea why she wasn’t a skeleton by now.

“I’m sure it’ll be wonderful,” he said. “I’m starving. I’ll just go wash my hands, shall I?”

After dinner, his mother settled in to watch her programs on TV while Hayden helped Ruth with the dishes.

“What is it, Hayden?” Ruth asked, giving him a leery expression. “I know that face.”

He sighed. “Ah, Christ. I hate this.”

“Go on. Hemming and hawing won’ make it any easier.”

He bit his lip. “Dylan Mitchell lost four sheep last night. I’m thinking it’s a pack of dogs. Told him I’d watch out tonight. Our farmers can’t afford to be losin’ livestock.”

Ruth rinsed the dish soap from her hands and turned to face him. “Hayden, of course I’ll stay, but this is what I’ve been tellin’ ye. You can’t manage. You can be called out any time day or night with that job o’ yours. And she shouldna be left alone.”

The anxiety in Hayden’s stomach returned with a vengeance. Dear God, he’d be growing a family of ulcers in there. “I can’t afford to hire a nurse, even if she’d take to one. What am I supposed to do?”

“Well, you know what I think! One of those fancy brothers o’ yours should be helping out.”

He didn’t disagree with the general concept. It was the particulars that were the problem. Jamie and Loren were both taking graduate courses in London. Jackson, Levi, and Moby had jobs and families of their own to care for hundreds of miles from here. And Sam was on a ship somewhere with Her Majesty’s Navy.

They’d all gotten away from Laide. And Hayden, the youngest, was left the loser in the MacLairty game of musical chairs. Last one standing. Then he felt guilty. He wasn’t the one with dementia. He shouldn’t be whinging about his own troubles. Besides, he honestly had no desire to leave Laide.

“You know that’s not gonna happen,” Hayden said tightly. “And you know how she is. Last time that social welfare lady stopped by, Mom screamed bloody murder, and she didn’t calm down for days. She won’t abide a stranger.”

“I know,” Ruth said quietly. “Which is why I told my niece and her husband they could have my cottage for the summer. And why I’m gonna be bossy and tell you I’m movin’ into the spare room.”

It was so welcome and yet too much at the same time. Hayden leaned against the counter, light-headed with relief. “I canna ask you to do that. I can’t pay you for more hours, and it’s not fair to you. You have a life.”

Ruth gripped his hand. She had a lot of strength for an old lass. And the light in her fierce eyes made it clear there was no faltering in her faculties either. “I’ve had a life, and, God willing, I will have one again. But right now Becca needs me. And you need me. And she’s been my best friend since we were six year old, and that doesn’t stop because she can’t remember what year it is. Of course, I don’t want any more of your money, Hayden MacLairty.”

Hayden swallowed. “That’s… I don’t know how to thank you.”

Ruth smiled, but she still looked worried. “It’ll be a relief to be able to keep me eye on her, to tell you the truth. You’re a right bonny son, and no mother could ask more. But if you ain’t workin’ nights, you sleep like the dead, and don’t think I don’t know it.”

“Hayden!” His mom called from the other room.

“Thank you, Ruth. Really.” His throat felt thick with gratitude.

Ruth snorted. “Yes. I’m sure any healthy young man would be itchin’ to live with two old crones. Go on, then. See what she wants.”

Hayden went into the living room. His mother waved frantically at the TV screen.

“Hayden, look at that dog! Isn’t he the cutest thing!”

Hayden sat on the arm of his mother’s recliner and took her hand. “He’s sweet, isn’t he?”

“You’ve asked and asked for a dog, but you know how your father feels about it. Maybe this Christmas, if you get that A in Maths. Do you think you could do that, lad?”

“Sure, Ma. I can do that.” His father had been gone for ten years, and Hayden had been out of school far longer. He often wondered how his mother could look at him and see a teenager instead of a man just turned thirty-two. But her misfiring brain had its own rhyme and reason.

Becca frowned. “I had a dog once. His name was Bandi. Did I ever tell you?”

Hayden rubbed her cold hands. “No, Ma. Tell me about Bandi.”

“He was a German shepherd. Used to sleep right by my bed. And he’d follow me to school. And I’d say ‘Thank you, Bandi! Now go on home!’ when we got there.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And do you know what happened to that dog? He got into the neighbor’s chicken coop and ate a chicken. Oh, did Pa gave him what for! Lord, Hayden. But Bandi, he’d got a taste for it, ye ken. And he wouldn’t stop. So Pa took a rifle and put him down.” There were no tears in her eyes, but her voice got soft. “Ma said Bandi ran away, but the neighbor’s son told me the truth. Pa shot him.”

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Hayden said, like he always did.

“Oh, look! It’s Bette Davis. Isn’t she lovely!”

Here's the link to "Claw" on dreamspinner's site.

And the Goodreads link.

Dream Vacation: Walking the UK

Dreamspinner's blog theme this month is 'dream vacation', so I thought I'd blog about the best trip I ever took. Two things you may not know about me: 1) I'm an Anglophile and 2) For many years I was into long distance walking. I was president of a volkswalking club in Seattle for a few years, and I've done a 10K in all 50 US states (except Alaska, which I haven't gotten to yet).

In 2009, I did a walking trip in England with a friend of mine. We did about a hundred and twenty miles on the Southwest Coast Path and half the Coast to Coast trail. We booked our trip with a company called contours. They reserve all your B&Bs and also pick up your luggage in the morning and drop it off at your next destination. So all you need to carry is a day pack and you walk from B&B to B&B. It's perfect.

I adore the long distance walking trails in the UK. The Southwest Coast Trail, as the name implies, hugs the southern coastline of England. The Coast to Coast trail cuts straight across England close to its narrowest point. Both are spectacular trails.

Here're some pics!

Southwest Coast Path -- St. Ives to Pendeen

My friend Marcia and I ready to head out from St. Ives. Click on any of these pics for a close-up.

Southwest Coast Path -- Pendeen to Porthcurno

Getting absolutely drenched at Land's End, the furthest SW point in the UK.

Southwest Coast Path -- Porthcurno to Penzance

Southwest Coast Path -- Penzance to Porthleven

Southwest Coast Path -- Porthleven to The Lizard

Southwest Coast Path -- The Lizard to Coverack

Southwest Coast Path -- Coverack to Falmouth

Coast to Coast Path

Marcia took the photo above of me in rain gear with my camera. I was really into photography at the time! And yes, I lugged that beast every step. And it was worth it.

So that's my dream vacation. I hope to go again to the UK to walk the Cotswolds Way with my husband.

What's your idea of the best trip on earth?

Eli

Guest Post: "My Favorite Shifters" on The Novel Approach

Today I'm a guest on The Novel Approach blog and I'm writing about a few of my favorite shifter romances.  This is part of the blog tour for "How to Howl at the Moon"! (P.S. there's also a giveaway). Check it out here!

Blog Tour: "The Dog Shifters of Mad Creek" on Sinfully Sexy

Read about the inspiration behind the dog shifters of Mad Creek (in the new release "How to Howl at the Moon"). You can enter to win a free copy of the audiobook version of this novel, which is coming out as soon as Audible approves the uploaded audio file (1-2 weeks). http://sinfullysexybooks.blogspot.nl/2015/02/how-to-howl-at-moon-by-eli-easton.html#more

Desktop: How to Howl at the Moon

It's release day for "How to Howl at the Moon", the first book in a new m/m romantic comedy series about dog shifters.  I had a blast writing this book, and I'm so excited that it's now out there available to the public.  Fly little bird, fly!  Or maybe, run, little dog, run! It's my tradition to share some of my photo inspiration on release day. So without further ado, here are some images that I found to use as mind candy while working on this story.

NOTE: These are all images I googled. I don't own the rights to them and they are not used in the actual book.

TIM WESTON

Tim is our shy gardener, a full-blooded human who moves to Mad Creek by chance and has no idea that dog shifters exist (or any other shifters for that matter).  Tim is tall, lanky, and a bit gawky. I looked for a long time to find the right 'mind model' for Tim physically, and I fell in love with the photo below. Love those bangs!  (so does Lance)

SHERIFF LANCE BEAUFORT

The other MC is Lance, a border collie shifter who is the sheriff of Mad Creek, and a determined protector of the town. I didn't find the perfect photo of Lance. He had black hair and brilliant blue eyes, he's compact and muscular, and intense with a capital I! But here are some images that come close....

 (THE HAIR!)

 (THE TUDE!)

CHANCE (aka Lance in dog form)

Lance is a shifter descended from border collies. In dog form, he's all black with just a touch of white on his chest and a dot on one ear, and he has brilliant blue eyes. He's very intelligent looking. This is the dog photo I used for Lance. He actually looks quite a lot like the dog that ended up on the cover, no?

MAD CREEK

For my setting, I wanted a small town, someplace remote and someplace that felt a bit interesting or exotic. My husband suggested the California mountains.  We lived in Oakhurst, California for about five years, a small town in the mountains up the hill from Fresno but before you get to Yosemite.  Mad Creek is technically further up into the mountains than that, but I based Mad Creek on Oakhurst. Here are some photos.

RENFIELD (aka "Renny")

Renfield is a puppy that Lance gives to Tim. He's a 100% dog (not a shifter) and he's mostly Bernese Mountain Dog.

LILY (Lance's mother)

Lance's mother is also a border collie shifter with black hair and blue eyes. She's wiry, energetic, and basically a whirlwind of manipulation and buttinski-ness.  Julie Louis-Dreyfus is a great comic model for her.

MISC STORY STUFF

Some reference images for rose hips, a Sheiff's badge and the DEA uniform.

That's it for this release! I hope you enjoy the book.

P.S. The audiobook is done and is 'in processing' at Amazon. It should be live in the next week or two!

Eli

"How to Howl At the Moon" -- cover & excerpt!

 Release date: Feb 28, 2015

I'm super, super excited about this book!  "How to Howl at the Moon" is the first book of a new m/m romantic comedy series featuring dog shifters and a little town in the California mountains called Mad Creek.

I wrote the first draft of this novel during NaNoWriMo in 2014, and I had so much fun writing it. I fell in love with Molly Harper's "Naked Werewolf" series and it inspired me to want to write a humorous shifter series of my own, only in m/m.  My husband likes to say he gives me all my best ideas, and I'm afraid there's some truth in that. When I said "romantic comedy with shifters?" He said "dogs!". He was right.

We have three bulldogs of our own and it was a blast to write dog shifter characters and give them dog mannerisms and personality traits. I hope you'll enjoy reading about Lance, his mother Lily (as Lance says, Jewish mothers have nothing on the relentless herding instinct of a mother descended from border collies on both sides), Gus, Roman, and the other residents of Mad Creek. And of course, Tim, our  clueless hero.

You can read an excerpt here. And the book is available on Amazon right now for pre-order.

The cover is awesome, no?  Cover by AngstyG. (Click for close-up)

Also, I am working on an audio book version of this right now!  I hope to have it out around the same time as the ebook.

Eli

"The Trouble with Tony" now out on audio!

Like audiobooks?  "The Trouble with Tony" is newly released on audio. You can find it here!

Eli

M/M Romance Group 2014 Book Awards

The M/M Romance group on Goodreads is a fun and large group (the 3rd largest group on goodreads I think), and if you like m/m romance, you should definitely check it out. They just had their annual awards to determine the group's reader's favorites for 2014.  Two of my books won in several categories.  Given all the books that I personally read and loved that were nominated this year, and all the very talented authors, I feel super honored.

YOU CAN SEE ALL THE WINNERS HERE.

The Mating of Michael

Best Sex Industry -- #1

Best Medical/Rescue Works Prof -- #2  (#1 - The Backup Boyfriend by River Jaymes, #3 - Collide by Riley Hart)

Best Hurt/Comfort -- #1 (#2 - Beneath the Stain by Amy Lane, #3 - While All the World Sleeps by Lisa Henry)

Blame it on the Mistletoe

Best Gay/Out for You -- #3  (#1 - Try by Ella James, #2 - The Backup Boyfriend by River Jaymes)

Best Coming of Age -- #3  (#1 - The Art of Breathing by TJ Klune, #2 - The Family We Make by Kaje Harper)

Best Friends to Lovers -- #3   (#1 - All Kinds of Tied Down by Mary Calmes, #2 - Collide by Riley Hart)

Best Humorous -- #2   (#1 - #3 - Loving Jay by Renae Kaye, #1 The Art of Breathing by TJ Klune)

Thank you so much to those who voted!

Eli

New Edition of "Before I Wake"!

My very first m/m story published was "Before I Wake", which came out from Torquere Press in April 2013. They only had a year contract, so the story has been out of print since Apr 2014. I finally got my ass in gear and have self-published a new edition.

The original story was written for a fairy tale anthology with a strict 8000 word count. Of course, self-pubbing I was able to expand it a bit, adding a new 3K epilogue.

You can find it here:

AMAZON -- http://www.amazon.com/Before-I-Wake-Eli-Easton-ebook/dp/B00S35AHDE/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1420930684&sr=8-1&keywords=before+I+wake+eli+easton

ALL ROMANCE EBOOKS -- https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-beforeiwake-1721954-145.html

BARNES & NOBLE -  http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/before-i-wake-eli-easton/1121024294?ean=2940150207943&itm=1&usri=2940150207943

Hope you like the new version,

Eli

Second half of "Fielding's Fa La La" posted!

I've finished my little Christmas freebie, "Fielding's Fa La La".  You can now find the entire story here!  http://elieaston.com/fieldings-fa-la-la/ This Christmas story features Mick and Fielding from "Blame it on the Mistletoe".

Merry Christmas!

Eli

Looking Back, Looking Ahead: Eli Easton 2014 to 2015

 

I published my first Eli Easton m/m romance in April 2013, so 2014 was a “year two” for me. That’s the year when newbie enthusiasm faces the realities of the market and the daily work flow, and you either flunk out entirely, settle into a dabblers casual ‘tude, or decide you’re in it for the serious long haul.

As of Dec 2014 I can say that it’s option c—my butt is firmly planted on this piece o’ earth.

In 2014 I published 5 m/m romance books, making 13 total. I had less publications in 2014 than in 2013, but I released my first full-length novel (“The Mating of Michael”).

Many readers of m/m romance also write it, so you will know what I’m talking about when I say there are things an author must consider when deciding whether or not to invest more time in a genre. First: Am I objectively any good at writing it?  Second: Do I really like the genre enough to dedicate a large chunk of my time to building a career in it? Third: Can I continue to come up with fresh ideas and fresh work in this area story after story?

The answer to those questions for me is 'yes'. I still feel I have something to offer the genre, I still really enjoy writing it, and I've gotten some lovely encouragement which makes me feel like my efforts are not in vain.

The m/m romance genre is an interesting beast. If being a ‘romance author’ is not taken very seriously by the general population and/or literary world, writing m/m romance is regarded with even more confusion/embarrassment/disdain. It seems to be the equivalent of saying ‘I write porn’. Now, I personally don’t think there’s anything wrong with writing porn, but that’s not the way I consider my Eli Easton books.

Granted, I am probably in tune with point-oh-one percent of the population in this, but I really don’t see a lot of difference in regular (m/f) romance and gay (m/m) romance. At the heart, a romance is a romance.  Love is a mystery. Why do two people fit together? And how do they figure it out? To me, a romance is about two people discovering their perfect partner—from first meeting, to getting to know one another, to overcoming obstacles, to realizing they want to be together for life. It’s about the dynamics of their personalities and daily lives and how they fit together. It's about realizing that love is more important than anything else. It’s family and psychology, personal flaws and strengths. It’s chemistry and heat.  In the end, very few things in life impact us the way our choice of life partner does. So what could be a more important subject to write about?

How I landed in the m/m genre is a bit of luck and a bit of good casting. My first exposure to m/m was Anne Rice's "Cry to Heaven", which I read in high school and found compellingly unusual and sensual. Later on, there was fan fiction (johnlock and sterek mostly). As a writer, I’ve always been more comfortable with male characters. Never a girly girl, I am sometimes irritated by romance heroines. Bottom line: I find men more interesting creatures and far sexier. So being able to write two male leads works for me on many levels. I also find the social and personal dynamics of being gay interesting. Let’s face it, unless you want to write regency romance, there’s not a lot left in our modern society to keep men and women from doing whatever they damn well please. There are more hoops to jump through, and thus more opportunity for denial, obstacle, and conflict, in a gay relationship. I also like the idea of contributing, however obliquely, to normalizing gay relationships. I am absolutely in favor of gay rights.

As for stigma or literary snobbery, I am old enough to have given up on expecting to rule the world—or the NY Times bestseller list. The fact is, whatever people think of romance, more people read it, and buy it, than any other genre of book. People read it because they enjoy it—it’s an escape, a comfort, entertainment, and a solace. It’s fantasy and an outlet for the love and desire that is often lacking in our 'real lives'. I am honored to provide that for readers.

On to the old and new!

2014: Looking Back

Publications:

“Stitch” (gothika anthology, my story “Reparation”), Apr 2014 “The Mating of Michael” (Sex in Seattle #3), Jun 2014 “Heaven Can’t Wait” (in Dreamspinner’s Daily Dose), Jul 2014 “Bones” (gothika anthology, my story “The Bird”), Oct 2014 “Unwrapping Hank” (Christmas novella), Nov 2014

Cons Attended:

Dreamspinner’s author con

Milestones:

“Blame it on the Mistletoe” gets over 2000 rankings on Goodreads

“Unwrapping Hank” hits #1 on Amazon’s gay romance list (briefly, but it was there!)

“The Mating of Michael” wins #1 place in the William Neale Award for Best Gay Contemporary Romance category, 2014 Rainbow Awards and #2 place in “Best Gay Book” overall.

3 audio books published in 2014: “Blame it on the Mistletoe”, “A Prairie Dog’s Love Song”, and “Superhero”.

‘Came out’ as Eli Easton under my writing/game design nom de plume of Jane Jensen

2015: Looking Ahead

I plan to spend more time writing in 2015 since I’ve recently finished a huge work project.

Publications Anticipated:

“The Lion and the Crow” (expanded edition), Dreamspinner, Jan 2015 “How to Howl at the Moon” (new paranormal dog shifter series), Love Lane Books, Feb 2015 “Claw” (gothika anthology, my story “The Black Dog”), Apr 2015 A novel for Dreamspinner (TBD-- probably Sex in Seattle #4 or Prairie Dog #2), Aug 2015 “gothika #4” (anthology), Oct 2015 Christmas novella 2015 (Micah Springfield’s story), Nov 2015 “Kingdom Come” (murder mystery set in Amish country from Berkeley’s Prime Crime line),- sometime in 2015

Writing in 2015: Kingdom Come #2, Howl at the Moon #2

Cons Attending:

Dreamspinner’s author con Rainbow Con Romantic Times

Goals:

* continue to build name recognition and reader base

* do a better job updating my blog!

* would be lovely to have a #1 on amazon for longer than one day!

;-)

That's it for this year's round-up. Please let me know your suggestions and if there's anything you are dying for me to write in 2015!

Eli

Fielding's Fa-La-La

This story features the main characters from my 2013 Christmas novella, "Blame It On The Mistletoe". It takes place during Fielding and Mick’s second Christmas as a couple, just before the epilogue of “Blame It On The Mistletoe”.  It was written for RJ Scott's Christmas story posting.

FIELDING'S  FA-LA-LA

by Eli Easton

On the morning of December 2nd, Mick wandered into the kitchen of the little house he shared with Fielding near the Cornell campus. He was midway through a nice, juicy morning yawn and stretch when he noticed the card propped up on the kitchen table. It looked like this:

 

Mick huffed a confused laugh, picked up the card, and turned it over. There was nothing else on the card. Probably it was something from Fielding’s physics department, but it looked odd for an assignment.

He made a couple of mugs of green tea, tucked the card under his arm, and went back into the bedroom. He sat the cups on the bedside table and bounced his ass on the bed.

“Come on, Babe! Time to wake up.”

Fielding, lying on his stomach like a very large, dark-haired, and angly rag doll, grunted without opening his eyes. “Kay.” That meant he was about to go back to sleep.

“Hey, I found a card on the kitchen table. What is it?” Mick picked up the card and turned it over again, but there was still nothing written on the back.

Fielding abruptly sat up. His eyes blinked from dreamland to fully alert in record time. “Oh. I put that there.”

Mick snorted. “Really? It wasn’t midnight elves? Or maybe a cat burglar who gets off on leaving enigmatic mathematical messages?”

Fielding rolled his eyes, but his mouth tugged up into a smile. He took his cup of green tea and had a sip.  “It’s for you.”

“Oh?”

“It’s December 2nd. Last year on December 2nd I asked you to kiss me. The rest, as they say, lives in infamy.”

Mick smiled, a genuine, deep-down, giddy smile this time. “It was a year ago, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Fielding said seriously.

“Okay, so what is this supposed to be then?” Mick held up the card.

“It’s the formula for a Euclidean triangle.”

“Under mistletoe. Okay.” Mick pursed his lips and nodded. “That’s… sweet. Thanks.”

Fielding huffed. “The card is merely bracketing the start of a series of proofs. It gets better. Also, this isn’t your real Christmas present. You’ll get that at Christmas. This is merely preparing the stage. A little holiday Euclidean fa-la-la.”

Mick sighed and looked fondly at his boyfriend. Only Fielding would think Euclidean geometry was… romantic? Holiday fun? Then again, knowing Fielding’s kinky side, this could get interesting.

“A series of proofs, huh? Does this involve you and me getting naked in some way, he asked hopefully.” Mick waggled his eyebrows.

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise,” Fielding said in his gravelly morning voice. “Anticipate and tremble, Mick. Anticipate and tremble.”

With a final enigmatic glare, Fielding hopped out of bed and headed for the shower.

* * *

 

Proof #1

That weekend, Mick didn’t have to work on Friday night. He was looking forward to a slothful night at home with Fielding—no studying, just some good quality couch potato time. But when he got home, Fielding met him at the door wearing his winter coat.

“Get dressed for the cold. You’ll want thermals under your jeans and on top, but you’ll need flexibility, so don’t get too bulky.”

“For…?” Mick asked.

“Proof number one. You’ll see.” Fielding smirked.

Mick was game. After all, there  was a sparkle in Fielding’s eye that promised fun or,  at the very least, something interesting and unexpected. Practically every day with Fielding was interesting and unexpected, but when Fielding put a bit of effort into it, things really got wild.

Mick changed and followed Fielding down the street toward campus. They held each other’s gloved hands, interlocked like padded pythons. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

Where they were going was Lynah Rink, Cornell’s ice skating venue. Fielding paid for two entrances and two pairs of rental skates.

“I don’t actually skate,” Mick said, wondering where Fielding had gotten the idea.

“Precisely the point.” Fielding led them over to the rental skate counter.

“Okay. So this proof is to see how many times I can fall on my ass?” Mick smiled. He was always up for anything athletic, despite his protests.

“No.”

They got their skates and took them over to a bench to put them on.

“Proof number one, the first side of the Euclidean triangle, is friendship,” Fielding explained, all serious intensity. “How do you demonstrate friendship? I determined that a defining characteristic of our friendship was one person teaching the other how to do something. It’s a shared skillset. A willingness to bring the other to one’s own level of competency. As opposed to the opposite of friendship, which would be competition and jealousy, hoarding one’s skills in an effort to yield the upper hand.”

“Makes total sense.” Mick bit back a grin. God, Fielding was adorable.

“Ice skating is a skill I have from when the pater took me to Rockefeller Center. Hence it is a skill I can share with you.”

“So no sex then?” Mick feigned a pout. “I was hoping the proof would be of a highly sexual nature.”

He dropped his gaze to Fielding’s lips and allowed it to grow heated. Mick knew his boyfriend—that look was a hundred percent guaranteed Fielding kindling right there, a weapon Mick only dared wield when he was ready to go to bed immediately. Because once Fielding's brain locked on sex, it didn't shift gears until they were both boneless--in all senses of the word--and their balls were set on "E".

Which was, of course, not possible in a skating rink. Fielding deserved a little payback. Just because.

Fielding sucked in a breath and grabbed Mick’s forearm. “Stop it. No anticipating the other proofs. This is proof number one.  Friendship.”

“Oh, so there is sex in this plan somewhere?” Mick licked his lips and winked.

Fielding glowered. “I’ve never attempted to skate whilst having an erection, but I doubt it’s a pleasant experience.”

Mick chuckled and relented. “Okay, pal. I get it. I’ll be good. But only if you promise me a blowjob when we get home.”

Fielding narrowed his eyes. “Hand job,” he countered.

Mick snorted. “As if you could ever have my dick in your hand and have it not end up in your mouth.”

Fielding seemed to take that as a challenge. “Just because that’s my usual modus operandi doesn’t mean I can’t complete a hand job without oral. I told you, no anticipating the proofs. Hand job. That’s my final offer. Say yes.”

Mick laughed and kissed Fielding with hard, closed mouthed enthusiasm.  “Okay. I look forward to seeing your mental struggle over your oral fixation later then during my hand job. Now show me how to skate.”

Fielding did. He was graceful on the ice, sturdy and stable. He made it look effortless.  He was a gliding post for Mick to hang on to as Fielding led him around and around the arena. Mick clung on for dear life at first.  And then he thought, well, it didn’t look that hard, and he was pretty fit. He wanted to try it on his own, to look cool. So he let go and moved his feet more confidently. And he fell. Repeatedly.

“Fuck, this ice is hard!” Mick laughed after a particularly meaty thump.

“There’s a Vickers hardness scale for ice, but it depends significantly on the temperature,” Fielding offered.

“Yeah, my ass appreciates that tidbit.”

“Your ass might be less bruised if you weren’t such a dare devil. Go slow, and use the toe stops,” Fielding advised, helping Mick up.  “And there’s no shame in holding my hand, you know.”

“True,” Mick said as he regained his feet. Or his blades anyway. He was holding both Fielding’s hands and he leaned in for a chaste kiss. “No shame in holding your hand, Babe.”

Fielding smiled shyly. “Good. Let’s go again.”

So Mick kept ahold of Fielding’s hand and, yeah, that worked much better.

When they got  home, Fielding had apparently been thinking about the hand job, because his fingers dove into Mick’s pants before he even got his coat off.

“Hey! Your hand is freezing!” Mick yelped, pulling away.

“Oh. Sorry.” Fielding looked abashed, then his eyes brightened. “Hot water.” He ran off into the bathroom and Mick heard the sink run.

He chuckled and went to change into his flannel pj bottoms. He intended to enjoy this. A lot.

Mick was on the couch, arms stretched out over the back, pj-clad groin open for business when Fielding came in. He was drying his hands on a towel and carrying a bottle of lotion in the crook of his arm.

“Hand lotion? Not  lube?” Mick said with surprise.

“I'm not supposed to put my mouth on you,” Fielding said. “Our lube is edible. I don’t like the taste of the lotion.”

“Stacking the deck in your favor. I see.”

“Yes, that’s why they call me a genius,” Fielding said facetiously.

Mick was half hard just at the idea of what was to happen, and the hunger in Fielding’s eyes made his blood rush faster still. Fielding made Mick sit up and slipped behind him on the couch so Mick was sitting between Fielding’s spread legs. Fielding carefully pulled down Mick’s pj bottoms to expose him, gave off a little growl of interest at the sight, and pumped lotion onto his hands.

“I thought, if I’m to bring you to orgasm with a hand job only, this position would be ideal. I can touch you like I touch myself.”

“Also, conveniently, you can’t get your mouth near my dick.”

“Also a bonus.”

Mick gasped as Fielding’s hot and lotion slick hands took turns wrapping around his cock and pulling up slowly, spreading the lotion all over him.

“Fuck.  Nice job warming up your hands.”

“Mmm.”

An ‘mmm’ meant Fielding was going quiet, which he tended to do when he got really aroused. When he was fully cranked his mouthiness turned off except for spontaneous curses, Mick’s name, and groans. Mick loved seeing Fielding reach that state.

“That’s so good,” Mick panted. He was absolutely hard now as Fielding stroked him firm and slow. Those long fingers of his were dexterous from dancing over computer keys all day.

“Oh,” Fielding agreed.

“Not gonna have any problem achieving your objective.” Mick sucked in a calming breath, wanting this to last. No trouble at all.

“Mmm.” Fielding nuzzled into Mick’s ear.  “But you’re right. I do want it in my mouth. Badly.”

“Oh God,” Mick groaned, his hips pushing up involuntarily. Fielding increased the pace and pressure and it was awesome.

“Can’t touch your penis or even see it without wanting it in my mouth. All the way in.”

Apparently, verbal stimulation was part of Fielding’s hands-only strategy. It was highly effective.

“Oh my God,” Mick groaned. His baby did have an oral fixation. Mick had never been with any girl who loved sucking cock the way Fielding did. And that… that was fucking fantastic. Mick loved that. Just the thought of it….

Fielding cupped Mick’s balls with one hand while jerking rapidly with the other. His thrust his tongue in Mick’s ear.

“Fuck!” Mick’s orgasm slammed into him with embarrassing speed. But, man, it was too good to regret.

“Fa la  la,” Fielding said, a smirk in his voice as he kissed Mick’s ear.

* * *

Proof #2

On Sunday afternoon, Mick came back from working at the gym, tired and hungry. He was thinking about the salmon dish he wanted to make for super—marinated with spicy orange glaze, Fielding’s favorite—when he realized a car had pulled up to the curb in front of their house just behind him.

Fuck. It was Fielding’s mother.

“Hi, Sandra,” Mick said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.  “I didn’t know we were expecting you.”

“Oh, I was in the mood to get out of the city, and I wanted to visit that antique store I love. The one downtown? So I just got in the car this morning and drove. I thought maybe we could all do a late lunch before I head back.”

“Oh. Great.”

Mick bussed Sandra’s cheek. They had an interesting détente. Although Mrs. Monroe wasn’t thrilled about Mick ‘seducing’ her baby (ha!), Fielding and his dad, Lex, had talked her around to being genial. Now when she called she spent a lot of time asking Mick how Fielding was doing, since Fielding never told her, and giving Mick advice on how to make sure Fielding ‘had everything he needed’.

Sandra had just finished telling Mick about a darling bench she’d seen at the antique store as Mick opened the front door and they stepped inside.

“TA DA!” Fielding leapt into the living room from the hall. He was… God, he was completely naked except for a red and white yarn knit Santa thing—apparently they made cock-and-balls cozies, who knew?—that was decoratively adorning his extremely erect genitalia.

Mrs. Monroe gasped, sputtered something that had no vowels, turned on her heel and marched out, slamming the front door hard behind her.

“What’s she doing here?” Fielding said, sounding disappointed.

Mick thought he sounded disappointed, but he couldn’t tell for sure because his hands were plastered over his face. “Oh my God,” Mick managed.

“Are you laughing?” Fielding said hopefully.

“I’m not sure.” Mick’s heart was up around the roof of his skull, and a large bubble of something was caught in his throat, but he wasn’t sure if it was laughter or a scream.

“Don’t worry about my mother. She’s seen worse.”

Oh, really?  Mick lowered his hands and looked at Fielding. He was naturally lean and he had a nice body, honestly, though he was a bit pale. The yarn Santa though….  Fielding was still, remarkable, quite hard and Santa’s hat fit right there.  The ball cozy part was black Like Santa’s boots.

“Oh my God,” said Mick. A hysterical laugh escaped.  “Like what? What could your mother have possibly seen that was worse than this?”

Fielding waved a dismissive hand, causing Santa to bob in agreement. “Oh, like one time I stripped off long skinny strips of the wallpaper in my bedroom for a poster I was making for school. It had these red lines and I needed them for a graph.”

“Um, Fielding? That’s not worse. You were naked and had a woody. In front of your mother.”

“I’m not naked!” Fielding looked down. “You can’t actually see anything.”

“The only thing you can’t see is the skin color of your dick, and that’s because you have a yarn Santa over your hard-on. Trust me, that’s worse than naked.”

Fielding thought about it as he gazed down. He did an experimental little jump, resulting in yarn gyrations. “Hmm. Maybe it is the worst thing.”  It didn’t seem to particularly bother him though. “Anyway, she’s gone now. Can we try it again? Go out and come back in!” Fielding giggled.

Mick looked out the front window. Yes, Mrs. Monroe’s car was gone. Bye, mom!  He turned to look over his boyfriend’s eager face and smiled. “Is this one of those Euclidean proof things?”

“Yes. This is the one you were waiting for. So do it! Go out and come back in!”

Despite the bone-killing horror that was Fielding’s mother, Mick’s body was starting to take interest. He laughed. “You certainly know how to make things memorable.” Still laughing, he went back outside and shut the door.

It took him several minutes of deep breathing on the doorstep to quell his laughter and lingering sense of embarrassment. But finally, he was ready to do this thing right.

He loudly unlocked the front door and opened it. “Fielding!  I’m home!”

“TA DA!” Fielding jumped from the hallway, his bits all saying hello.

“Oh my God, that’s so hot!” Mick exclaimed. “What a surprise!” With a growl he shoved the front door closed, tossed off his coat, and grabbed Fielding around the waist, picking him up a few inches and swinging him around. “Just what I always wanted!”

“Sex!” Fielding said enthusiastically. “The second side of the Euclidean triangle is sex!  Lots of sex. Hope you’re horny.”

“I so am,” Mick agreed.

And if he wasn’t totally at that moment, he was soon as Fielding kissed him hot and dirty. Fielding Monroe was the best kisser on campus. Of that, Mick had no doubt.

Mick put his hands on Fielding’s bare ass and squeezed. Apparently, Fielding had taken the cold hands thing to heart, because he felt like he’d just gotten out of a bath, his skin all warm and slightly moist from steam and lotion. Yum.

Mick broke the kiss to suck on Fielding’s neck. “You’re like a hot Christmas toddy. Edible.”

“Great minds think alike.” Fielding wriggled his way free and pulled Mick into the bedroom.

“Et voila!” he said with a flourish.

It was a scene worthy of a ‘voila’ if ever there was one. Mick gaped, amazed. There were candles all over the room. The bed had nothing on it but a sheet and some of the thick beige towels the pater had got them. By the bed was a TV tray draped with a clean white napkin and items arrayed as neatly as a surgical tray. There was a can of whipped cream, chocolate sauce, lube, a bowl of fresh cherries and other delights.

“Is this sex or a picnic?” Mick teased.

“A sex picnic. Or a feast, preferably. You see, while planning my proof, it was difficult to find sexual activities we haven’t already done. But we’ve never played with food before.”

“True.”

“So… it’s time to take our oral explorations to new orgasmic heights. Hence this.”

Fielding pulled a yarn string between his legs and whipped off the yarn Santa.

“Holy shit!” Mick exclaimed.

No wonder Fielding had looked so bare. He’d shaved. Every single hair.

“Also, I’m so clean you could eat off me.” Fielding paused dramatically, eyebrows raised. “Everywhere.”

There was a half a beat where Mick had a ping of thought that he ought to go shower himself. But he’d showered well that morning and hadn’t been working out or anything .Besides, Fielding was right there, still skin-warm and fucking bare, and any thought that didn’t involve attacking Fielding’s body immediately pretty much had no prayer.

Mick swung Fielding onto the bed and hastily removed his own clothes. “I’d offer to shave for you sometime, but I hear it’s a bitch growing back in.” Mick crawled up between Fielding’s legs. Fielding was just lightly ghosting fingertips over himself, which drove Mick insane.

“Totally worth it. That is—do you like it?”

Fielding sounded a little insecure. Mick wouldn’t have thought he would prefer Fielding groin as bare and smooth as a baby’s bottom, but with whipped cream in the room, the answer was obvious. “Hell yeah.”

He proceeded to show Fielding how much. The chocolate sauce was sticky, which offered some unusual friction sensations for both giver and receiver. The whipped cream made pretty designs, but melted quickly. Mick soon figured out less was more. A little dab of whipped cream on Fielding’s blushing, smooth sac and he could play there for long minutes without wanting another dose.

Fielding was squirming with delight, all silent and panty.  Mick sucked and licked his balls and perineum, only randomly giving a few sucks where Fielding really wanted them. Soon Fielding was so sensitive he was shuddering at every touch of Mick’s tongue.

“Need—ugg—need to do you!” Fielding complained, sitting up and pulling weakly at Mick’s arms to dislodge him.

“Still working on it,” Mick said firmly, as if a waitress was trying to take his plate away.

“But my proof! I should!”

Mick loved it when Fielding’s lofty speech went Cro-Magnon. “You’re the one who came to this party dressed as a hot buffet plate. Consequences, babe.”

“Ugg.” Fielding said, as Mick pushed his thighs to his chest and discovered how clean he was everywhere. The fresh cherries were a nice touch.

Fielding came when Mick added loosely sliding fingers on his cock to the subterranean explorations of his tongue. And yeah, wow, that was hot.

Fortunately, Fielding had a short refractory period. Mick kissed the melted lump that was his boyfriend and went for the most intense, fastest shower in history. He was still rock hard when he walked back into the room five minutes later, warm and clean.  Fielding was kneeling on the bed, hands on his hips.

“My turn,” he threatened, in a low, enthusiastic rumble.

And he proceeded to eat Mick alive.

Mick fucking loved Euclid.

* * *

Proof #3

The third proof came to Mick’s email inbox, but he didn’t know what it was at first. It was Friday, December 12^th, and he was working his noon shift at the Grain Basket. They had a long enough break in the sandwich orders that he idly checked his email on his phone. There was a notice from the Bursar’s office.

Mick lived in fear of the Bursar’s office. They were the raven to his Poe—always looming, ever glooming. So he opened the email with dread, expecting a warning about another raise of tuition. But that’s not what it was.

He didn’t have time to do much with the information other than store it away as a… potentially happy surprise? Mistake?  Until he got home that night.

“So something weird happened today,” Mick told Fielding over their chicken Caesar salad. They were at their small dining room table, and it was already pitch black outside. The Christmas lights they’d strung over the kitchen window twinkled merrily.

“Well, there was the largest solar flare in ten years, but I doubt that’s what you mean.”

Mick smiled. “Yeah, good bet. Not what I meant.”

“Then…?”

Mick dug out his phone. “Look at this.” He brought up the email and showed it to Fielding.

“Ah.” Fielding said, blushing a little. “Fa la la?”

Mick got a funny feeling in his stomach and his appetite went M.I.A. He put down his fork and spoke carefully. “What do you mean exactly?”

There must have been something unpleasant in his tone, because Fielding started talking fast. “The third side of the Euclidean triangle is love. How do you design a proof that demonstrates love, a ephemeral concept? I decided the main feature of love is that it's unselfish.”

“Fielding....”

“Love is caring about the other person’s wellbeing, and doing things to support that, because it’s as important, or even more important, than your own well-being. Because when you love someone, if they are suffering or tired or stressed out, you are too.”

Mick picked the phone back off the table and looked at it. “What has that got to do with a one-thousand, seven-hundred and eight-five dollar credit to my tuition account?”

Fielding’s lower lip stuck out stubbornly. “You work too much. You have a job at the Grain Basket and at the gym, and you’re taking an extra class every semester to try to get through school sooner. It’s an unsustainable burden.”

“I’m sustaining it just fine!” Mick felt a hot tightness in his chest, unease and impending anger.

“I know you enjoy working at the gym. But the Grain Basket is just a job. You earn eight dollars and twenty-five cents an hour there, working ten hours a week. Between January and the end of term in May, you’ll work twenty one weeks. Ergo: one-thousand seven-hundred and eight-five dollars is what you’ll make from that job, and that’s before taxes. You have the money now, so you can quit the Grain Basket and have one less job to juggle next semester.”

Fielding seemed to have felt he’d stated his case satisfactorily, because he picked up his fork and took a big bite of chicken salad.

And it was sweet, really. It was. But also wrong.

“Fielding… you can’t just give me two thousand dollars.”

Fielding frowned. “I’m not giving you two thousand dollars or even one-thousand seven-hundred and eight-five dollars. I’m giving you ten hours a week of free time next semester, hours in which you can study, or relax, or have wild sex with your boyfriend. Which is me, by the way. I’m a beneficiary.”

God. Mick felt all squirmy inside, like his subconscious was waging some epic Game of Thrones battle between the white faction, which wanted to be noble and refuse the gift, and the black battalion, which was lusting after the extra time like it was the Holy Grail.

“Fielding…” Mick began firmly. “I won’t take your money. I appreciate the sentiment, but, seriously--”

Fielding shoved his chair back and stood up, fists balled at his side, face upset. “Do you realize I have a full scholarship ride here at Cornell? My parents are paying nothing in tuition right now. God, the pater paid tens of thousands a year for private schools from pretty much kindergarten on. So right now he’s practically in a fugue state, stunned at how cheap I suddenly am.”

“But he’s your dad, not—“

“And that tutoring job I’ve been doing since September? It pays in tuition credit, which I don’t need. So I had them transfer that much credit from my account to yours. Ergo, it’s not my dad’s money, thank you very much. It’s my own credit, which I worked for, and I don’t need it, and if I ever did need more tuition, the pater would cover it, so shut up now.”

Fielding sat down, looking pissed and dejected as he stabbed at a strip of chicken. Mick felt guilty. And slightly amused at Fielding’s outburst.  And then guiltier still. And touched.

Maybe it was harder to receive than to give, especially for Mick’s ego, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t learn. He could learn anything at all for Fielding. Mick put his napkin on the table, got up, and went around to kneel by Fielding’s chair.

“That’s the coolest, sweetest, most practical thing anyone’s ever done for me. Buying me time. I love it.”

Fielding sniffed and turned to face him. “Seriously?”

“Yes. And what a perfect proof of love.”

Fielding’s eyes got a spark in them. “It was a difficult proof to demonstrate.”

“It is, and you nailed it. Come here.”

It was a bit awkward, because Fielding was tall, even sitting down, but they managed to kiss with Mick on his knees.  That soon gave way to couch snogging, though, because. And chicken salad be damned.

“So what was this whole Euclidean triangle proof about anyway?” Mick asked when they were both warm and liquidy. “Friendship, sex, love. Adds up to…?”

Fielding pulled away so he could look into Mick’s eyes. “I wanted to prove that our relationship was like a Euclidean triangle. Because a Euclidean triangle has infinite symmetry.”

Mick thought about that, and about the spark of something very Fielding in his boyfriend’s brown eyes. Infinite symmetry. Yeah. Wow. That… sounded like him and Fielding? It did. It really did. And God, whoever would have believed Fielding could be so fucking romantic?

“Infinite symmetry. I like it,” Mick said quietly.

“Yeah. Of course, all of this leads in a dastardly way to your real Christmas present.”

“Oh? And what is that?” Mick asked.

Fielding smiled. “You’ll  see.”

~ The End ~

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Eli Easton

 

"The Mating of Michael" wins in the Rainbow Awards

Pardon me while I hyperventilate. This is the first year I've had a book in the Rainbow Awards and I'm shocked to find that "The Mating of Michael" won 1st place in the Best Gay Contemporary Romance category and second place in the Best Gay Book category. Wow!  I feel so incredibly lucky that Michael and James' story resonated with the judges. This will hopefully get some people to pick it up who otherwise might not have tried it. Thank you.

Also, the "Stitch" anthology I wrote along with Jamie Fessenden, Kim Fielding, and Sue Brown, won 4th place for Best Gay Anthology and also won an award for the cover. Whoot!

Check out all the Rainbow Award winners here:

http://reviews-and-ramblings.dreamwidth.org/4489098.html

"Unwrapping Hank" hits #1 on Amazon gay romance list!

As an author, I have a soft spot for every book I write, even if others don't love them like I do. lol  But it's amazing, wonderful, hopeful, sustaining to have one that gets good sales.  I was super excited this morning to see that "Unwrapping Hank" has hit #1 in gay romance on Amazon.  I'm so grateful, because getting good results means I get to keep writing m/m romance, which I LOVE, and I get to spend more time on it. So thank you so much for anyone who bought the book. In these days of rampant piracy, your support is so, so, so much appreciated! http://www.amazon.com/gp/bestsellers/books/14044691/ref=pd_zg_hrsr_b_3_5_last

Desktop: "Unwrapping Hank"

My 2014 Christmas novella, "Unwrapping Hank" released today!  Here's my traditional desktop post in which I share images that inspired me while I was writing the story. THESE IMAGES ARE TAKEN OFF GOOGLE and do not belong to me. They do not appear in the book itself but only in this post. If anyone has an issue with one of these being in this post, please email me at eli@elieaston.com and I'll be happy to remove it.

SLOAN:

I Googled a lot to find this guy. He has the sort of smart ass, intelligent, slightly Euro look. Sloan!

HANK & MICAH:

My husband just told me today there's a new thing called a "lumbersexual" -- a guy who has a beard and wears flannel and likes to build things. That's Hank all right (well, maybe not the building things). His brother Micah is slightly more on the hippy side. Here are a few images I found that remind me of Hank and Micah.

PSU (Penn State Uni in State College, PA)

Here are some mood-setting location shots.

DEAD SANTA PARTY:

I mocked this up and then decided not to include it in the book.

LILITH AND KARMA:

The parents of Hank and Micah are lovely hippy, homesteading peeps.  Here are a few images I found for inspiration.

THE TURKEY:

I was too soft-hearted to write the turkey-killing ceremony. I'm sorry.

AMISH COUNTRY CHRISTMAS:

Actually,  the Springfield's farm turned out to be very autobiographical. It's based on our real farm in Lancaster County, PA. We do have 3 cows (named Trueheart, Tinkerbell, and Bessy) and chickens. Our barn similar to the one in the book.

GRINCH:

Our bulldog, Lucy, walking out by the cornfields along the lane by our house. Lucy was the cover model for Wrapping Hank.

TALLY HO tavern in Lancaster

Is a real place.

'

That's it for this desktop!  The story is live today!

Here's the Amazon link.  (kindle edition)

Here's the link for ARE (epub, pdf, kindle editions)

Eli

 

Dreamspinner Press has produced an audio book version of my Christmas story from last year's advent, "A Prairie Dog's Love Song". It's really good!  Check it out here:

http://www.audible.com/search/ref=a_hp_tseft?advsearchKeywords=eli+easton&filterby=field-keywords&x=14&y=19

Eli

Desktop: "The Bird" (in "bones", gothika #2 anthology)

Today is the release day for "bones", the second volume of the gothika series -- m/m romance with a gothic twist. This volume is all about Voodoo. There are 4 novellas by Kim Fielding, Jamie Fessenden, BG Thomas, and myself.  You can get it at 25% off for a short time on Dreamspinner.

My story is called "The Bird" and here's the blurb:

“The Bird” by Eli Easton Colin Hastings is sent to Jamaica in 1870 to save his father’s sugar cane plantation. If he succeeds, he can marry his fiancée back in London and take his place in proper English society. But Colin finds more than he bargained for on the island. His curiosity about Obeah, the native folk magic, leads him to agree to a dangerous ritual where he is offered his heart’s most secret desire—one he’s kept deeply buried all his life. What happens when a proper English gentleman has his true sensual nature revealed and freed by the Obeah spirits?

COLIN

First off, the story is set in the West Indies during the end of British rule.  I've always been interested in old horror movies set in the tropics like "Island of Dr. Moreau", "I Walked with a Zombie", "White Zombie", etc.  So the horror side of this story was definitely influenced by those films.  On the romantic side, this story definitely owes a nod to "Wide Sargasso Sea", both the book and film, which has a visceral sense of sweaty, muggy senuality. I love the film version starring Nathaniel Parker, so he is the model for my lead character, Colin.

SUGAR CANE PLANTATION

The story is set on a sugar cane plantation in Jamaica owned by a British Earl.  His third son, Colin, is sent to set the plantation to rights after being mismanaged for years by a lazy overseer.  I found some great resources online for the workings of a colonial-era sugar cane plantation.

TIYAH

One of the women who works on Colin's family plantation is Tiyah, rumored to be a powerful Obeah woman. Below is a stock image I found that reminded me of Tiyah. She's very beautiful. Colin ends up doing Tiyah a significant favor. And in return, Tiyah offers to give Colin "his heart's desire" through Erzulie, an Obeah loa. Colin is curious and he agrees, but he has no idea what is about to happen.

THE BIRD

A bird features heavily in this story, as a metaphor and a magical conduit. The bird looks like the one below, which is a black-crowned night heron.

MAJOR JOHN PIVOT

John Pivot is a neighbor of Colin's in Jamaica, an Englishman who lost his wits in war and has been exiled to Jamaica by his family to be hidden away. John's fate is more linked to Colin's than Colin realizes.

RICHARD

Colin's best friend since his school days and perhaps more.

MORE MOOD SETTING JAMAICA PICTURES

That's it for this desktop!  I hope you enjoy reading "The Bird".  Please leave a comment for me at goodreads or amazon if you do.

Cheers!

Eli