Then to add icing to a very lovely cake, I found that the Not Quiet Shakespeare Anthology, of which my story "The Jacobite" is included, was nominated in the Best Anthology category. So woohoo (just saying). Not that I'm laying claim to that one by any means, but it was exciting to see this nomination too, and I still feel extremely honoured to be in such wonderful company as I am in that book. Congrats to my fellow NQS authors as well. All in all it's been a good week.
While I'm here I suppose I should add an update on my writing progress. I didn't bother beginning a NaNoWriMo project this year, but I have been writing when I can. It has been much slower than I would like—real life and other commitments are a bitch—but it is coming along. Mase and Tom are just as sexy as ever (especially Mase—black lingerie this time anyone? Tom?) and happily telling me their story. And because I'm feeling generous, here is a little peek. Enjoy!
Before he’d even opened his eyes, Mason Reid knew it was still dark in the room around him and that the sun had yet to rise. He also knew he was alone in his bed. He tucked one hand under his pillow and reached with the other into the cold space beside him—he’d been alone awhile.
Eyes still closed, he rolled over and reached for his phone. He pushed a button on the screen, and only then did he open an eye and squint at the illuminated display: 4:32 a.m. He’d only been asleep—this time at least—since just after three. He wondered how long Tom had continued to hold him in his arms before he got out of Dodge—not long at all it seemed.
When he woke the first time, somewhere close to two, wrapped around Tom in a tangle of limbs and heat, he’d been instantly aroused. Finding Tom, fast asleep, his breaths low and steady, in his bed, was . . . fuck, it was amazing. And he could hardly believe it. Maybe he should have been content with that, content just to have Tom in his bed, something three weeks ago he’d have never let himself think of let alone believed a possibility. But he was greedy. His cock, hard and pressing into Tom’s hip, was greedy too, and being such a greedy bastard . . .
Maybe he’d pushed too far. Not that Tom had complained. But then again, what man complains when he wakes to find his dick in a warm, willing mouth?
Mason ran his fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp with the tips. His flesh was tender, and he could feel each individual follicle protesting as he passed over it, the errant pain reminding him of how tight Tom had gripped his hair as he’d thrust into his mouth. He could live with that reminder. Fuck, Tom could tear his damned hair out if doing so meant he was lost to the sensations of having Mason’s mouth on him. Hell yeah. Tom had not complained, at all. The memory bringing a sleepy smile to Mason’s face in the darkness. No, not at all.
But the simple fact was, Tom wasn’t there. And even as Mason let his mind drift back over the night, his heart hurt to think those few experiences might be all he’d ever get. Because when it all boiled down to it, three times was not enough—not even close.
Copyright 2014 © Bette Browne
Note: excerpt is a draft only.
I'm also pottering away on some other projects and would hope to have them ready for submission in the new year—even though Exposed is my priority. Wish me luck.
That's it for today. :)