****PLEASE BE AWARE: I write GLBTQ romance. GLBTQ stands for gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, and queer. This means my works feature same sex relationships AND same sex sexual acts. If winning that kind of a book isn't your cup of tea, kindly pass on to the next blog in the hop and leave the spot open for someone else. Thank you.****
For my part in the hop today, I'm offering up a free pdf copy of my m/m story "Cupid Knows." To enter, just leave a comment below, including your e-mail, and tell me about your favorite Valentine's Day memory. If you don't have one, gratuitous flattery will get you *everywhere*! GOOD LUCK!!
Here's the blurb:
Jack has been dreaming about Alan ever since they randomly hugged at a game. They haven't seen each other since, but when Alan crosses Jack's path on Valentine's Day, it's an opportunity Jack can't pass up. Can he convince Alan to take a chance on a Valentine's Day meeting when Alan has something to hide?
Excerpt:
Ugh. Valentine’s Day. If there was a better way to make a single man feel like crap, I didn’t know what it was. I stomped the snow off my boots and stared hard at the stupid little cut outs of hearts and cherubs adorning the bank door as I opened it and entered. Inside the décor was even worse; a giant inflatable Cupid, complete with bow and arrow and cheesy smile, stood off to the side. Cupid Knows You Should Bank at Mid Atlantic!, the sign above him proclaimed. I shook my head, wondering if I should bother to point out that anyone who was actually inside the bank probably already did bank there, or would shortly, and wouldn’t it make more sense to put Cupid out on the curb?
I had decided it couldn’t get any tackier when I turned and spotted little white bears hanging from the stanchion ropes. I smirked at the words Mid Atlantic Cares emblazoned across their furry chests, imagining bank tellers armed with tattoo guns hunting down polar bears. And then it happened: I looked up…and stifled a gasp.
There he was.
I didn’t know his name. Had never even formally met him. I’d hugged him at a football game. A playoff game, to be more specific. Our team won. I say “our team” since we had both been wearing team shirts. In the magic of the moment of the final ticking of the game clock, as the crowed had screamed “five…four…three…two…ONE!!!” we had turned to each other and hugged. That was it. Nothing more. No handshake. No “Hi, my name is…” Nothing. Stupid, insignificant nothing.
But I’d held onto that moment for three years. I had no idea why. Maybe because he’d set off my ‘gaydar’ back then, even in that brief contact. I had a knack for ‘finding my own kind’, as my friends said. I could still remember how it had felt to have his arms around me, how he’d smelled, how his hair had tickled my ear. And I knew with one hundred percent certainty that he was standing in front of me. Check that – he was standing at the next available teller. His hair was the same, neatly cut and trimmed, and that physique was the same as well: strong, wide shoulders, a back that tapered just so slightly, hips made for grinding against, and a wonderfully round, tight ass that made me think wicked thoughts.
And then my mystery man was done and walking back toward me, head down, studying the receipt in his hand. I stepped out in front of him, blocking his path. He’d no doubt run into me. I couldn’t tell you why I did it. Maybe to see if he remembered me as well? Would he?
I had decided it couldn’t get any tackier when I turned and spotted little white bears hanging from the stanchion ropes. I smirked at the words Mid Atlantic Cares emblazoned across their furry chests, imagining bank tellers armed with tattoo guns hunting down polar bears. And then it happened: I looked up…and stifled a gasp.
There he was.
I didn’t know his name. Had never even formally met him. I’d hugged him at a football game. A playoff game, to be more specific. Our team won. I say “our team” since we had both been wearing team shirts. In the magic of the moment of the final ticking of the game clock, as the crowed had screamed “five…four…three…two…ONE!!!” we had turned to each other and hugged. That was it. Nothing more. No handshake. No “Hi, my name is…” Nothing. Stupid, insignificant nothing.
But I’d held onto that moment for three years. I had no idea why. Maybe because he’d set off my ‘gaydar’ back then, even in that brief contact. I had a knack for ‘finding my own kind’, as my friends said. I could still remember how it had felt to have his arms around me, how he’d smelled, how his hair had tickled my ear. And I knew with one hundred percent certainty that he was standing in front of me. Check that – he was standing at the next available teller. His hair was the same, neatly cut and trimmed, and that physique was the same as well: strong, wide shoulders, a back that tapered just so slightly, hips made for grinding against, and a wonderfully round, tight ass that made me think wicked thoughts.
And then my mystery man was done and walking back toward me, head down, studying the receipt in his hand. I stepped out in front of him, blocking his path. He’d no doubt run into me. I couldn’t tell you why I did it. Maybe to see if he remembered me as well? Would he?
