As promised, Cock Fight fans, here is your nice, long and thick excerpt from my 11th novel out tomorrow!  Enjoy!

Chapter Five: Morning Delights

Carr roused to the stuttering whirr of an old window fan. At first he thought the sound was the death throes of some monstrous wasp that was not going quietly into the proverbial light. That theory was eventually squashed as Carr realized the warm air hitting his naked body rode the stuttering whirr like the waves rode the tides. Still too lost to the vestiges of a deep, fucked-out sleep, Carr only peeked out from his leaden lids long enough to affirm the fan hypothesis. Satisfied now that he wasn’t about to be the last meal to some mutant insect, he let his eyes close once again and beckoned sleep to return with every limp fiber of his being.

It was not to be.

A new sound soon joined the electric tides. The slapping of bare feet against the cement floor of the bedroom became insistent and steady and quickly maddening.

“What the hell are you doing?” Carr mumbled out with a woolen tongue. It was slurred and was rushed out in a single breath so even to his sex-soaked brain it was clear that the jumble of sounds was nothing less than completely incomprehensible. He sighed at his communications failure but didn’t have the oomph to try it again. Hopefully, his lover would get the general idea from the Cro-Magnon grunt and would answer in actual words.

It was too much to hope for.

The pounding of feet only sped up with tiny, measured whooshes of breath now added to the mix. Carr had a sinking suspicion as to what the noise was. With a groan he was sure wouldn’t be heard over the pounding and whooshing, Carr opened his eyes. He found exactly what he had feared.

“You’re running,” Carr stated drily. Thankfully his tongue felt confident enough to string together intelligibly those few words.

Unfortunately, marathon man was too busy running fucking nowhere to notice.

After scrubbing a hand across his face a couple of dozen times, Carr finally felt it safe enough to try to sit up. With a painful wince the reminder of the previous night’s activities let itself be known. “Ow!” he gasped as his asshole throbbed in utter disagreement with his plans of sitting himself up on his butt.

Of course, Mitchell heard the stupid “Ow!” and whipped his head around to the bed. He did not, however, stop running. “Are you okay?” he asked in place of the measured whooshes of breath.

With a flap of his hand, Carr waved off his concern immediately. His fucking ass be damned, Carr forced himself up into a proper seat on the bed. “I’m fine,” he huffed behind a grimace. “Just getting used to the new lay of the land.” Yeah, he was fairly sure that didn’t make much sense, but hell at least he wasn’t the one running his ass off in place.

A crinkle of Mitchell’s brow was the only response Carr got before his lover returned to his focused stare out the old fire station’s window.

Now that he had been stripped from his sleep, however, Carr wasn’t about to let Mitchell just run on in his merry way. Behind a yawn that turned into three, Carr asked, “Is this a thing?”

“What?” Mitchell spared Carr a confused glance before returning to his thing.

“That.” Carr pointed with both his hands at the activity in question.

“What?” Mitchell asked again with no less confusion on his face.

“That!” Carr snapped because if this kid thought for a second that this was normal, there was going to be some post-coital rules laid out.

“I’m running.” The bastard shrugged as he picked up his pace. “It’s a workout… not a thing.”

At least the man was no longer able to speak in complete sentences without stealing a breath between every few words. The speculation that Carr had just been fucked by some kind of government-sponsored robot technology had been disturbing, to say the least. “How long have you been awake?”

Mitchell squinted at the clock hanging above his plywood dresser. “Seven minutes.”

Carr shook his head, disappointed he didn’t get a damned seconds count. “You do this every morning?” Because, really, if that was the case, there should have been some kind of release form for Carr to sign before he’d been given the go-ahead to fuck “Running Feet.”

“Every… other… morning,” Mitchell corrected between measured gulps of breath.

Carr thought it best not to congratulate him on the Lamaze classes just yet. He’d leave that piece of smart-assery for a time when there was more than one thin sheet and one wickedly supportive jock strap between them. Not that Carr was about to complain about the chosen athletic support his lover was so fashionably sporting. It highlighted the bulk and sheer girth of the goods without secreting away any of those hard, pounding muscles.

Carr watched for a minute as the play of muscle and skin and sweat roused Carr’s dick from its morning-after hangover. Maybe he shouldn’t complain about the running. In fact, maybe he should ask, “Uh, what do you do the other mornings?” If it was anything as hot as this, Carr was moving in.

Cutting the pace down to a jog from a full-out sprint, Mitchell again looked over his shoulder at his lover and squinted in an approximation of “What the fuck’s with you?”

Carr laughed. “You’ve got to know how pornographically beautiful you are doing that, right?”

Mitchell screwed up his face at the compliment. “You’re crazy, Christianson.”

Flinging the sheet that had been halfheartedly covering his dick off the bed, Carr looked pointedly down at his goofily bobbing dick. “This is the kind of crazy junior goes for. You should know that and adapt accordingly.”

Mitchell finally came to a stop. His breathing was hard but controlled. His sweat-coated skin glistened in the early morning light from the window. His eyes still held the laser focus gleam of a man in an intense workout. In short, Mitchell Boyd looked like he’d just been caught in the middle of a slow but dirty fuck. “Are you always this weird in the mornings?” Mitchell asked with a cocky-assed grin on his face.

“No, this is new.” Carr stopped and considered his partying penis once again. Coming to a conclusion, he looked back up at his lover. “I blame you.”

Mitchell laughed as he grabbed a towel from the window sill, scrubbing his face with it. “I got to shower.” He peeked out from behind the terry cloth and smirked. “Does your little friend there want to wash or dry?”

Said little friend twitched happily. Carr beamed, “I’m not thinking he cares right now as long as he gets some one-on-one action with that fine ass of yours.”

Mitchell grinned as he snapped the band of his jock strap against his hip. “You like my ass?”

Carr shrugged. “Junior’s fond of it, yeah.”

With a put-upon sigh, Mitchell relented, “Okay, wash, dry, then fuck. How does that sound?”

“Efficient,” Carr answered with a dirty smirk.

Mitchell smirked back. “Not if you don’t get your own ass out of bed.”

“Yes, sir!” Carr snapped off a crisp salute. Then, with a spryness Carr hadn’t felt since he was ten, he jumped off of the mattress and jogged obediently right past his lover. Only after he reached the shower did he call back, “Last one in blows the other!”

The hot water ran out way before the men lost their steam.



Did you like? I really hope it tickled you in all the good spots.

So, until tomorrow, when Cock Fight will be available at all the usual suspects (Amazon, AllRomance Ebooks, my publisher www.ravenousromance.com, etc.) I will leave you with a smile and a thank you for always reading.

Until release day (Wednesday, April 11)…

Chloe Stowe

A quick and exciting note for all my -Cock Fight- Dailies blog followers…

A release date for my 11th novel Cock Fight has been announced! This Wednesday, April 11, the latest Chloe Stowe original will be available from all the usual suspects (Amazon, AllRomance Ebooks, and my publisher www.ravenousromance.com).

To spur you into dusting off a space on your electronic bookshelf for my latest I include here the blurb/synopsis for Cock Fight…. 

 
For some, life is a fight, a struggle to succeed and thrive.

For Mitchell Boyd, life is a cage fight, a struggle to merely survive.

Twenty-six years old and with an elderly father to support, for the last two years illegal cage fighting has offered Mitchell the answer to many of his problems. It’s a dangerous game and one that has just gotten more dangerous. Mysterious attacks have been made on Mitchell’s life, each one worse than the last. It is only a matter of time before they turn deadly.

Thirty-year old Carr Christianson owns one of Baltimore’s most respected security firms. As a favor to a friend, he offers to play “bodyguard” to the young fighter while both men work to discover who is behind the attacks.

A fierce, dazzling love is found along the way, a love that forever anchors the men’s wandering souls to each other. 

But when one final attempt is made on Mitchell’s life, not only is the present shattered but the men’s very future is put in doubt.

For some, life is a fight.

For Mitchell and Carr, life is a dare.


As promised, I will post a nice, lengthy excerpt here for you tomorrow. Hopefully, it will tantalize, scintillate and entice your romantic hearts to lean my way.

Thanks again for all your loyalty, patience and grit. Following me and my wobbly psyche can’t be easy.

Please, spread the word and drop by tomorrow!

Until tomorrow…

Chloe Stowe

“Reeking of foul cigarette smoke, Carr limped determinedly down the long, third floor hospital corridor.” (page 157)

 

Ah, Day Twelve! The penultimate blog of this preview blogging event!

I still can’t believe that I have had eleven novels published. Wow! (I’m allowing myself a little giddiness over the accomplishment. Please feel free to grab a handful of giddiness for yourself. *grins*)

Enough of the self-aggrandizing bluster. On to the blog!

*Sighs*

I have apparently tied myself up in a big, old blog knot again. To continue with my goal of keeping the blog related to either the chapter title (the post’s title) or the day’s excerpt, let’s see what we’ve got for possible subject matters today… dolphins, cigarettes or hospitals.

Anybody care to jump in and make something out of that? Perhaps a public service announcement warning marine life about the dangers of smoking? Or a cautionary children’s tale about associating with dolphins who puff?

Yeah, I didn’t think so.

Ok! *rubbing hands together like a mad scientist with Boris Karloff and a few bolts laying on her table* I can do this. It may not be pretty. It may limp and drag a bad leg behind it, but it will be done!

Here we go…

Dolphins.

A savvy reader might ask: How the hell did dolphins end up in a story about underground cage fighting?

Good question. In fact, it’s an intriguing one, isn’t it? It kind of makes you read the chapter title a couple of times before finally giving up and going “Huh?”

I never understood authors who didn’t use chapter titles. It’s like you’ve gone through all this trouble to cook up this magnificent feast for your readers only to serve it to them without a plate. Yeah, the food’s still good but the presentation sucks.

It’s a small thing, I know. Miniscule, even. But I like going whole hog for my readers. I’m not going to just pull out the Sunday china and slop my wordy goodiness on the pretty plate and send them on their way.

No. I’m going to the antique store. I’m going to the consignment shop. I’m going to the quirky artist down the street who makes pottery in a rainbow of colors. I’m going to find the perfect platter for each dish. I want each title, each serving dish, to be unique, enticing and curious… a dolphin-shaped plate does that to a meal.

Just wait until you see the banana-shaped bowl the epilogue is served in. *winks*

Until tomorrow…

Chloe Stowe

“Neither man knew it, but it was the only goodbye they would be allowed that day.” (page 142)

Day Ten of the Cock Fight Dailies crests the hill with the sound of a thousand thundering hoof beats… or am I lost in a delusion of grandeur again?

Well, either way, welcome!

Goodbyes. They are many things to a writer.

They are often the lynchpin to a hardy, robust romance.

They are a surefire fix to any dragging storyline.

And they’re usually guaranteed to up a scraggly word count by at least twenty-five percent.

Goodbyes are an author’s finest weapon. The threat of them alone casts an uncertain pallor to every romance, be it historic, contemporary or paranormal. I’ve heard them described once as a guillotine writers force their readers to walk through for the privilege of joining the party.

The blade could fall at any time… and on anyone.

In the best suspenseful yarns of romance, it’s like sitting in the room with a ticking bomb. There’s no nifty timer, however, to tell you when or if it’s ever going to blow. The constant tick-tick-tick may fade into the background behind sexual “Oh!”s and “More!”s, but the tick-tick-tick is still ticking away in the afterglow.

Is it a power trip? Do we feel like the Greek gods of old javelining thunderbolts at our mortal characters at our every whim?

Well, no.

At least, I don’t. Once I’ve spent the time, energy, emotion and imagination to create a character the very last thing I want to do is kill them.

Does that mean I won’t?

Of course I will. The storyline must come first.

But does it mean I won’t miss him or her?

Of course I’ll miss them. I’ll mourn them right alongside my readers. Perhaps, even more since I will know sides to them that the audience has never seen… and now, thanks to me, will never have a hope of seeing.

If the guillotine falls, it always falls for a purpose.

Bottom line to all of today’s rambling?

I much prefer hellos to goodbyes.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe Stowe