tatt:kilt cover 1 zon copy

A rancher’s son goes to Scotland in search of his family roots. Fate brings him to the door of an oversized, cranky castle laird. After getting off on the wrong, er, boot…the men find something about each other to delve into more deeply. But fate can be a cruel matchmaker. 

Finding the Loch Ness monster…a contemporary #gay #romance- #fantasy novella.


They were close as a whisker. So close Hugh felt a movement of his kilt, where the guardian sporran used to be. It was now pulled to the side, and the lump he felt was not the man’s purse.

That was his signal.

He cupped the chin and brought Guthrie’s face to within an inch of his own. He raised his head only a little. Only a touch at first, a brushing of lips, a tongue running along the wide mouth, still shut, seeming not to yield.

Another truth came to him in another moment of wonder. This man has never had a real kiss before.

So softly it seemed to be almost unspoken, Hugh finally broke their long silence. “It’s okay. Open for me.”

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He found a small opening and breached it, sliding his tongue inside, and then his cock decided to try bursting from his suit pants. He moaned, and Guthrie opened his mouth wider. Hugh cupped the man’s jaws and entered his mouth, deep, his tongue searching the inside, slicking its way deeper. He pulled out a little, lingering on the bottom lip.

In a frenzy of need, he sank his teeth into the flesh of that lip, savoring the soft rush of blood, licking it clean.

He spoke into the wounded mouth. “Suck my tongue. Will you?”

The answering voice came low. “Call me Graeme.”

“Suck my tongue, Graeme.”


Kinde US: http://amzn.to/1SHlutk 

Kindle UK: http://amzn.to/23CzwIi 

Smashwords: http://bit.ly/1VujDiI


Following COWBOYS AND KILTS is another novel about a Scot and an American. But this time, the Scot is out of his element, and the American, a state trooper, is ironically the Highlander as both these guys meet and mate in Nevada’s highest mountain range. That book is NEVADA HIGHLANDER.

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Chase sat staring into his computer screen. He brought up a new document from his iMac “Pages” icon and set the title to boldface, centered.

Buffalo Ryder

He sensed Brew behind him, then felt his warm breath just behind his right ear. Without acknowledging the sudden stirring of his crotch, he began to write the words that had kept him awake half the night.

Crane Ryder felt a deep exhaustion between his shoulder blades, a pain that increased with every step of his horse. It finally curled in his lower back like a rattler, nestled on his raw nerves. The figure in front of him walked with a stiff back that belied his own fatigue. Ryder knew the half-breed Indian was at least as shit-ridden with pain as he was, because he’d walked a few steps ahead of his horse, hands lashed behind his back, the last two days.

He pushed his tattered Stetson forward to shield his eyes from the desert wind and the merciless sun. His horse, tired of carrying his weight, moved slowly through the cakes of shale and caliche.

The town of Noble, Nevada, seat of Sloane County, lay another day ahead. He’d been there before, tracked it over the lizard-back stretch of the Paiute Range to the west, eighteen hours of dust in his eyes and dirt in his mouth. And balls that cried for relief.

Between them hung a stiff-fibered rope, held by one man and biting into the flesh of the other man’s wrists. An hour ago, when he’d stopped to squat before a fire, eating a half-grown jackrabbit, the ’breed had stood defiantly apart, rejecting the scrawny half-cooked haunch he’d offered on the tip of his Bowie knife.

“Think I give a fuck?” He’d eaten it himself, then buried the bones. file0001073841038 rope flipn 500

Now, almost sunset, he spotted a copse of root-sharing mesquite trees, huddled like thin outlaws somehow clinging to the rocks. He dismounted. Reeling from desire to sleep, he drank deep of the ’skin that was strung across his belly, under his thin shirt.

His captive stood watching the sky, as though calling a scowling cloud to his rescue, or asking his gods to let him die. Ryder walked to the Indian and held out the ’skin.

The man jerked his head away, not meeting his eyes, moving his legs a fraction.

As he moved, Ryder caught a glimpse of his prick, heavy as a hatchet under the rag that clung to his loins,.

Shit. He turned and walked ten feet away, readjusting his crotch as he strode to the back side of the mesquite.

He thought about his prisoner. The man was tall, muscled, quiet. His eyes sought only the horizon, never his. His mouth seemed set in a line that never once moved—not in disgust, not in pain, not in supplication.

Ryder hadn’t had release for days. He thought about tying the sonofabitch with his feet and hands together in front, taking his ass in a torrent of greed. No. He might have ways of cutting my cock in half while I’m in him. Goddamn Indians, can’t trust a one of  ’em.

Even as he thought about it, then rejected it, Ryder’s cock began to weigh on him, a taut and heavy rope of flesh with nothing to snag and pull in. Standing hidden from the captive’s sight, he stroked himself with callus-roughened hands until his seed spat into the thin dirt. Then he walked back through the slender-leaved trees. Did he need to secure his prisoner even tighter so his captor could sleep tonight? He wondered again whether the bounty money was worth this pain and aggravation.

“Where you going with this, Chase?”

Chase turned his face to capture Brew’s mouth, biting down a little on his lower lip.

“Not sure. Ryder’s almost crazy with desire.”

“And yet he holds back.”

Chase turned back to the computer screen. “Yes.”

“Think you’ll put them in a bondage scene?”

“I never gave it much thought.”

“Well, it’s heading that way. White man over red. Submission, punishment. Is that what you want?”

“No, not one race over another.”

Brew’s breath blew closer, lips almost thrust into his ear.  “But you have him in ropes.”

“He has to be, Brew. He’s being taken to justice.”

“Whose justice? Some flea-bitten white sheriff?”

“It’s the wild west, Brew. Not much choice here.”

“Yeah, there is. For instance, the Indian could be the one taking in the bounty hunter. Ever thought of that? Make Ryder the bad guy, not a freaking kemo sabe.”

Chase turned all the way around in the swivel chair to face his lover, his large thighs open. The naked Brew, like a heedless jackrabbit, stepped into the trap. In a second, Brew’s taut ass was squirming between his knees as he bore the man lower with the strength of his legs, toward the floor.

Brew was laughing and struggling. “Come off it, man.  We’ve got to get dressed and join your dad in Quad Three. Goddamn you—”

“Don’t question my motives. Ryder has to take in the Indian.”

“I say you have bondage issues.”file0001704853842

“I’ll show you bondage.” In a flash, Chase was on top of the smaller man, holding his shoulders into the thin Navaho rug that lay between the bed and the computer desk.

He could fuck this man six ways from Sunday every night, and still want to ream his ass the next morning. So Brew’s struggling served only to stiffen his resolve to take him right there, on the goddamn floor. He saw an abandoned neck scarf near the bed leg, the one he’d been wearing last night before he and Brew had tumbled into their king sized bed.

In two quick motions, Chase had the scarf around his wrists, then wrapped around the stout wooden bed leg. He was straddling the man, sitting on his groin, looking down into coal black eyes and an unshaven face. He could feel Brew’s long cock nestled next to his crack, and he settled back to catch it between his own butt cheeks.

The former tight end for Sloane County High sat admiring the one he’d tackled. He was not really skinny, but Brew Lloyd was a lover, not a fighter. Chase Grayson knew the other man was not muscled enough to get loose, but he had the spirit of a goddamn maverick. Even now, he struggled in the makeshift manacles, daring Chase to eat into the hour they both knew should be spent on the ranch.

Chase had never taken a lover, nor even been fucked. Not until a few months ago when the experienced Brew had outright seduced him, right here in his own large bedroom. Since then, he’d let his inner sense of his own athlete’s body rule his actions. Their lovemaking, to him, was abandoned, daring, forbidden. Even Brew, experienced in the ways of men, swore he’d never been fucked by a man with his towering imagination. Not to mention size.

Not Brew, nor any man, had known that Chase was a writer. It was something he’d kept hidden for years, even from Pa. He’d finally confessed to Brew, the man he’d like to keep in his bed forever.

Grinning, Chase leaned into Brew’s chin. “Bondage issues, you say, Brew?”

“Hey, man. Let me go. I never bargained for this shit.”

He turned Brew belly down, twisting his wrists in the makeshift handcuffs.

Not for the first time, his eyes devoured slender buttocks and long thigh muscles. He sank to his knees and bent into Brew’s ass, sliding his fingers through the crack, then spitting on them and working them into his anus. Nice and slow. He watched his own fingers pull out of the soft flesh, the way Brew’s skin seemed to close around them, like a tender mouth on a nipple, as he withdrew.

His tongue found the rosebud. Suddenly his prick was twice as big as before, demanding entrance. Denying himself, he began to lap Brew’s anus with slow, wet strokes. He could feel his rigid cock beginning to leak, a soft weeping for satisfaction.

“Stop it, damn you.”

“Okay. I think I’ll let you lie right here while I finish my story.”

Deliberately, he stood with his legs on each side of Brew’s body. He was lying outstretched, with his hands bound over his head, his legs splayed. To Chase, his hip movements were the ebb and flow of a rip tide.

“I demand to be released, asshole.”

“Fuck you, Brew. Just lie there till I’m ready for you.”

He returned to the chair and bent again over the keyboard.This time he was wearing a massive hardon.

Ryder tried to sleep. The Mexican saddle under his head was hard, the night was cold. He lay curled away from his prisoner, listening for the man’s breath, a sound he began to crave. What if the bastard ups and dies on me? Just half the bounty money for a dead Indian.

He retraced his own moves an hour ago, the way he’d bound his prisoner to a mesquite trunk, hands and legs both. He knew the man would take the first opportunity to get loose, then slit his throat. Both within a split second.

If he was alive. Had he slipped to the happy hunting ground while Ryder lay fingering his own freaking cock? Or was he even now sliding out the hidden knife, slicing through his bonds, creeping toward his back?

Somehow the danger of it all made him hard again. His hand  began to find a rhythm. The more he stroked himself, the more he knew he had to hammer the man he’d bound to the fragrant desert tree, rip away that goddamn loincloth and savage him, like

Chase felt his own rodeo rope around his chest, then his arms, and Brew was lashing him to the freaking swivel chair.

“I say the Indian takes in the bounty hunter.” Brew was kneeling in front of him, prying his knees apart, then measuring his rearing prick with hands suddenly gentle.

file0001851238717Chase laughed. “All right, Brew. That’s enough, okay? How’d you get loose, anyway?”

“The same way the Indian did, Chase. You are a dead man.”

Brew leaned into him, and his long, resilient fingers moved behind his balls and began to test his asshole. “I can get ’em all in, Mr. Buffalo Ryder. And if you don’t hold still, I’ll ride your prick and then your back all the way to Noble.”

Chase let his head loll onto the back of the chair, allowing the wet heat of Brew’s mouth to devour him. The fingers in his ass seemed to reach past his rectum, into his very gut, and he started to jump and toss.

“Let me go.”


“Ah, God, Brew.” The sucking and thrusting, combined with his inability to move his arms and torso, brought Chase to a new high. He closed his eyes and imagined Buffalo Ryder being taken by his prisoner.

“Never your captive. Now you will know ways of the red man.” The Indian pushed him upright against the mesquite trunk and lashed him tight. His exposed ass felt the bite of the wind sweeping from the Paiute Range.

 “Spread legs. We ride all night.”

He rode Brew’s hungry mouth, bucking and thrusting, feeling the cum travel from his balls to the slit while his ass exploded and the story wrote itself.


TCFenceZonThe characters Chase Grayson and Brew Lloyd appear in my novel THE CHASE, recently re-published by my own New Dawn Press, and available widely.

Two young guys with smokin pistols in their Levi’s …

Start with a smartass gay man named Brew Lloyd, back home in the hick town of Noble, Nevada for a few weeks. Add a shy man a few years older named Chase Grayson, former high school football star, buried in work on his dad’s ranch 15 miles from town.

Now throw these two guys together, add a homophobic father and an unscrupulous federal agent … what do you get? An adventure, a mystery, and a very erotic trip to the “new old west” of Nevada.

gay romance action- #mystery

Series page:
~Noble Dimensions

You are here: X

Hi, gay lit fans. This short post is my way of introducing the whole blog.

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“The Man in Romance” is dedicated to just that—the play of men together in a relationship. The photos are almost all images of couples, and the books I have written are about two men together. An exception might be Warrior, Ride Hard, in which a third man plays a prominent role. But that man’s romance was ten years prior to the action of the novel. So my books never explore any sexual intimacy beyond the bonding of two, in a HEA or HFN relationship.

Need I say, for the sake of moral safeguards, that the content of this post is mature? If you are reading this, and you are under the age of 18, you need to get a life. The content is not meant to titillate,  but to entertain on a very adult level.


~Erin O’Quinn





Oh, ouch! I have just realized that this “home” section of my blog should have fresh blogs every week or at least every month. I am quite far behind on it, so I’ll catch you up to speed on my writing since Noble, Nevada. If you go to the page headings at the top, though, you will see updates on my MM writing.

The Chase debuted end of January. It’s another in the “Noble Dimensions” series, this time starring two different guys.



TheChaseZonLogo copyIf  you like ranchers and small-town guys . . . if you like rugged landscapes and plain-spoken people . . . if you like your erotica on the phallic and anal side of extra-hot . . . I think you’re gonna like The Chase.

Two unlikely men are drawn to each other, even over the space of years:

Brew is openly and outspokenly gay. He’s been pursuing a half-assed college career in Los Angeles, letting his father pay the rent and tuition as “blood money” for detesting his gay lifestyle. Brew left the two-bit town of Noble, Nevada four years back. But he’s never forgotten his old high school hero, the god-in-a-muscle-tee named Chase.

Chase is shy, a man who used to be a high-school football player but who spends most of his time alone with his dad on a 2000-acre ranch. Since high school, Chase has hidden his fantasies of a good-looking, dark haired guy named Brew. He’s let the years dull his dreams, but he’s never forgotten a pair of deep flashing eyes and a sardonic lift of the mouth.

An outspoken gay and a quiet rancher are each pursuing a fantasy. Where will the chase lead them?

Brew Lloyd finds himself back in Noble, taking care of his parents’ home while they’re at the bedside of his dying uncle. His father has arranged for him to find part-time work during the day at a ranch outside of Noble called The Chase. Brew doesn’t fit the name with his old crush, until he goes to the ranch and sees the man from his long-ago fantasies, Chase Grayson.

For his part, Chase must suddenly confront a man whom he thought he’d forgotten, left under the blankets of his bed as he burrowed his needing flesh into a lonely cavern. But Brew is right there in his father’s living room, and his dad asks him to show this young man the ranch. And so Chase sets out to show this newbie how to sink a cedar fence post….

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He turned away and walked to where he’d left the cedar post, fighting a stubborn hard-on. By the time Brew joined him, his new helpmate had removed his shirt completely. His pale chest showed both lack of muscle and his aversion to sunlight. Maybe aversion to manual labor also. Too bad. That’s about to change.

Chase picked up the post and leaned it strategically over the swelling in his jeans.

“Okay, Brew, here’s what you’re gonna do. As soon as we set the post in the hole, you hold it tight and straight. Yes?”

“Tight. Okay. Straight. I’ll try.”

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Chase knew he could easily lift the post, but he waited until Brew was next to him. “On three, we put it in the hole.”

He watched in appreciation as Brew’s muscles seemed to strain and his breath came out a little harsh as they lifted. “Now hold it, while I fill the hole. Then we’ll make sure the wire’s taut on both sides. Good and straight, and tight. Got it?”

“Yeah. I got it straight and tight, Chase. Quit teasing me and do it.”

Then Chase couldn’t help it. He smiled and looked into Brew’s eyes. They were standing close, almost touching.


Still he didn’t move away, and Brew didn’t drop his eyes. Chase waited until he thought his prick would betray him if he stayed this close. He bent to pick up the shovel and began to fill the hole. He took his time, moving around the other man, quickly adjusting the crotch of his denims while watching the smooth back of Brew’s neck. He saw the muscles on the nape jump a little, and he almost tasted the thin film of sweat at the dark, lustrous hairline, trickling slowly down his shoulders.


After the post is up, Chase is still vicariously enjoying the closeness of his new help-mate.

He stood back a foot from Brew and lavished one last look at the vision of a slender, handsome man holding the erect fencepost as though he was part of it. “That’s enough. That’s good, Brew. You passed.”

As soon as he said it, Chase was pissed at himself. This guy Brew was way too smart—and smart-assed—to let a statement like that go by without challenge.

He walked a few feet away. Brew moved next to him.

“Passed. Passed what, Chase?”

He looked again into the other man’s eyes. “Never mind. That’s enough for the day.” He knew they needed to straighten a bunch of other posts, too, but something stopped him from mentioning it.

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“No. You were testing me. What grade did you give me?”

He shook his head and lied. “No grade.”

But Brew would not let go of his eyes. “Then let’s repair another post. Let’s brand a calf. Let’s…let’s do what ranchers do. And you test me on it.”

“Hey, I didn’t mean to piss you off.”

“I’m not pissed. I’m fucking turned on. Can’t you tell?”

His voice was low. Perfectly cadenced and…yes, sexy as hell. Brew moved to within six inches of him, and Chase began to sweat. How had he let this happen? He had never felt so aroused and he couldn’t understand it in the least. He was suddenly a little scared.

“Time to go.” He turned and walked to the security of his dusty midnight blue truck. When he got in and looked to the fence line, Brew was still standing there. Just standing, looking at him.


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Yeah, both men are turned on by each other. But Chase is unwilling—or unable—to admit the truth. And now he’ll have to spend the summer working next to a man who brings sweat to his palms and an unyielding timber to the crotch of his pants. Hell, how is he supposed to cope with a fantasy, when that dream is standing in front of him with a visible hard-on?chase  200 flip

The next time I post an excerpt, I’ll show you what happens a little later that day, after they get back to the ranch house and Chase’s dad leaves for town.

The Chase is available widely. The link to the series is here:

~Noble Dimensions series


June 13, 2013
I promised an excerpt from the book, after Roy Grayson leaves for town with the two horny young guys watching him roll down the driveway. What in the world could happen, now that they have some time alone?

They left the dining room and went to the hall. Mr. Grayson pulled a grey Stetson off a battered hat rack, settled it over his straw-colored mat of hair, and left. Brew stood by the door, uncertain what to do next, watching Chase’s dad take off in a black Suburban.

“Wait a sec, Brew. Be right back.”

Chase left the hallway and disappeared through a side door. When he returned, he was carrying a tattered excuse for a cowboy hat, a singlet and some kind of denims rolled into a ball.

“These were mine, um, a few years back. They might fit you.”

“Thanks, dude. I’ll join you in the truck in a couple minutes. Okay?”

“Yes.” Chase stood in the hall, hands at his sides, quietly watching him.

Brew could feel a flush start in his neck and run up into his cheeks. “Where can I change?”

Chase gestured to the door he had just emerged from. “You can use my room.”

Now or never. “Come with me.”


The room was spacious, pine wood-paneled, hung with Navajo blankets and adorned with arrowhead display shadow boxes. A large desk, some kind of dark wood, held a Mac desktop computer and a stack of books. Brew noticed that the bed was over-sized, too. Big enough to fit a king, and his whole goddamn entourage besides.

Brew began to unbuckle his turquoise-studded belt. “Okay if I just drop my drawers?” He smiled into Chase’s eyes. They’d lost the paleness they had a while ago. A trick of the light. Now they seemed green as the mossy bottom of a wooded pond. Quiet, still, waiting.


Looking into Chase’s eyes, unbuttoning his jeans, knowing the huge bed was just behind him—all of it hit him at once, and his prick jammed into second gear, then third, heading for home. He had a hard time pushing the jeans down over his briefs, tangling them up on his crotch, watching Chase watch him.

Finally, Brew just let his jeans fall. Chase stepped a foot closer to him. He had to lift his head a little, and Chase lowered his own. They were so close now that he felt the man’s hot breath in his mouth, the soft cobwebs of his whiskers brushing his chin…

“Shit, Chase, I’ve wanted you since I was old enough to crave a man.” He began to lick Chase’s lower lip, then bite a little. Chase parted his lips, and Brew slipped his tongue inside.

Brew held Chase’s stubbly cheeks in both hands, slowly discovering his mouth, while the other man let him explore. His hands were still at his sides, as though he didn’t know where to put them. Their bodies by now were so close their groins rubbed and ground together, performing their own counter rhythm. “Kiss me,” he said against the tall man’s hot tongue. “Oh, fuck, Chase, kiss me. I want you.”leviskisswow 220

He began to suck on Chase’s tongue, softly, in rhythm with the hard pulse in his throat, and he put his hands up under the wife-beater. His fingers found the man’s erect nipples. He pulled on them a little as his tongue searched the inside of his mouth. Then Chase was in his own mouth, a sudden jab of molten heat, and his tongue seemed to reach the back of his throat. Now Chase’s hands were on his back, massaging, stroking, descending to his hips. His large hands seized his buttocks, then spread them, until Brew felt he was on the edge of a desperate climax.

The bed was behind him, close. Brew sat, bringing his mouth down Chase’s chest as he did, moving his hands around to grasp his butt cheeks. “Just stand there. Let me suck you.”

Chase fumbled with the top button of his raggedy denims, and Brew helped him. He pulled the zipper all the way down. “Let me. Let me.”

The cock that reared from his pants was almost frightening. Brew had never seen one so big, so marbled with veins. He took the time to edge Chase’s pants down over his hips, inch by inch, stroking the man’s flat-muscled ass cheeks. He held off putting the cock in his mouth. Let it be my reward, my all-day sucker. Oh God in heaven, I want this man.

He heard Chase’s tortured breathing and looked up into his face.

“Do it, Brew. I need you. Now.”

Brew started with his index finger in Chase’s asshole. He slid it in easily, wiggling and moving it as he entered and kept going. The other man jumped a little, not expecting the intrusion. “Hey.”

“Shhh, shush. Let me take you, big guy. Just relax.” He slid in the next finger. Chase had begun to let out small, inarticulate sounds, and he moved his legs apart farther as Brew searched his anus. Pushing in and then retreating, very slowly, Brew began to coordinate his fingers with his tongue. He started at the balls, pulling them almost entirely into his mouth before letting them spill out in gobs of spit.

That’s all for today, folks. Tune in to ths blog for more excerpts from Erin’s novels, historical and contemporary. Let me know what you think of the books.

Local kid Tony Grazzo, fresh out of college, comes back to Noble, Nevada for his mom’s funeral. One night he meets blue-eyed drifter Rick Hendrickson, and both their lives change forever. 

Tony, who has never had a gay encounter, finds that this man Rick is a keeper. Rick falls so hard for the handsome kid with an oversized, ah, mustache that he wants no one else the rest of his life.

What happens to make Rick leave, while Tony sits behind bars for a crime he didn’t commit? Can these two men reconcile, even while steel bars and the prison of anguished memories separate them?

So reads the promotion for my gay novel Noble, Nevada. Here’s an excerpt from about midway in the book, a scene where the two men are still experimenting with what makes the other feel good.

They undressed again, each standing across from each other at the sagging little bed. Tony thought he’d been drained last night, but now the semen seemed to be surging through his balls. He knew there was a viscous sheen on the tip of his cock. “Lay down, man. I got something to show you.”

Again, he found himself slipping into the easy speech he’d left behind when he’d left Noble. He no longer felt a need to sound like he was in a goddamn English class. He’d hone his language skills later, in a courtroom. He knew Rick wouldn’t judge him.

Rick stood on the other side of the bed and put one foot on the top, the same way he’d straddled the bar stool. Tony’s prick stirred when he saw his lover’s soft testicles hanging and his prick standing up. Rick was giving him a hard time, in more ways than one.

“You mean you want me to jump back into this sway-backed bed, Tone?”

Tony picked up the tube of K-Y gel. “Do it or I’ll put you there.”submit 290

“Don’t aggravate me, Tone. You’ll have to put me there.”

Tony walked right over the top of the bed. “Okay, man, you wanna pay the landlord for another bed, you go ahead and play hard to get.”

In one step, Tony had scaled the bed and jumped on Rick, keeping him in a chokehold while he wrestled him onto the bed. The bed moaned and caved. “Stop! Stop!” Rick was laughing. “Don’t break the goddamn thing. I yield!”

By now, Tony had his wrists pinned to the bed, and he was straddling the bigger man’s strong body.

“Then turn over, damn it, Rick. Turn over.”

He felt powerful. His cock felt like it weighed five pounds; it felt like a baseball bat. His balls were on fire, and Rick’s muscular chest was rising and falling under him. He didn’t know why it was so important to fuck Rick’s ass, but he wanted to show him how good it could be, how much he loved it where Rick had taken him last night. He didn’t want to be the “one on the bottom” all the time, and Rick needed to learn how he felt.

He lay across Rick’s chest and talked into his mouth. “C’mon, Rick. It’s all good. You won’t be any less a stud if you let me take you sometimes. Like now. I gotta have you right now.”

“Yes, I want to feel it, too.” He quieted suddenly and traced Tony’s mustache with his tongue. “Show me how it really feels, Tone. Make me come if you can.”


Series page:
~Noble Dimensions


Some say that straights have always been the last to understand their gay brethren, and their language is no different. As early as the 1600s in Britain and on the continent, a language called “Polari” sprang up among gays and was heard in open markets, on fairgrounds and in circuses, and especially in the British Merchant Navy. Based loosely on a variant of Italian called “Romany,” it incorporated such disparate elements as slang, circus and thieves’ cant, and later (during World War II) even Yiddish expressions.

The language was widespread, as common as the gay subculture that spread it.  Then as now, gays were eager to distinguish themselves in their own community, and to hide their sexual preferences from a hostile society, by the use of a rich variety of words known only to them.

Those familiar with Gypsies, Travellers and Pavees will find nothing new here!

In doing research for my NANOWRIMO novel Heart to Hart, I’ve found many expressions that were popular not only in Britain in the 1920s, but also in Ireland, Scotland and American urban centers. Many of the following words were “sneaked” onto British television starting in the 1960s; and even though the 60s saw the decline of Polari, it has recently made a comeback on such shows as “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” and in the mouths of contemporary comedians.

In 2002, two books on the subject were published, both written by Paul Baker.  They are Polari: The Lost Language of Gay Men; and Fantabulosa: A Dictionary of Polari  and Gay Slang.

The following are some Polari words and expressions. The ones with asterisks are those I’ve used in my MS, words that I find especially textured and evocative of the complex characters who speak them. They are listed in alphabetical order. Of course, you’ll see many familiar words among these. The surprise is that the words were well known by the decade of the Roaring Twenties, and some of them even hundreds of years before then.

*Basket…The bulge of male genitals as seen through their clothing
*Bitch…Effeminate or passive gay male
*Blag…a pick-up
*Cod…Vile, nasty, naff
Dilly boy..Male prostitute
Dish…Butt, buttocks
Drag…Clothes, esp. women’s clothes
*Kaffies…Baggy trousers
Naff…Ugly, vile, hetero
*Omi-palone…Homosexual man
Trade…Sexual encounter (rough trade… a blue-collar, thuggish, or even a violent sex partner)
Tootsie trade…Sex between two passive homosexuals
*Troll…To walk about, esp. looking for trade
*Zhoosh, zhooshy…(verb) To style hair, the adj. meaning “showy” or tarted up

Erin O’Quinn, author

The Man in Romance blog: https://romancemanlove.wordpress.com

OQ Erin O’Quinn’s Gaelic blog:   http://bit.ly/Jgz6tU
Erin O’Quinn’s Manlove blog:  https://romancemanlove.wordpress.com/
Mainstream Romance:
Storm Maker:  http://amzn.to/O218y7
The Wakening Fire : http://amzn.to/N1Gc6C
Captive Heart:  http://amzn.to/Qm8b1X
Fire & Silk:  http://amzn.to/P6jZtn
What Molly Wanted:  http://www.bookstrand.com/what-molly-wanted

MM Romance:

Warrior, Ride Hard:  http://amzn.to/P2eRDO
Warrior, Stand Tall:  http://amzn.to/WoDkGS
Noble, Nevada: http://amberquill.com/AmberAllure/NobleNevada.html
The Chase: Coming January 26 from Amber Allure

Historical MM Novels

WARNING: The content that follows is considered erotic…intended for readers 18 or over. I have reported it to WordPress as a mature blog. 

What follows are mostly excerpts from my historical MM novels published by Siren Bookstrand.

Erin O’Quinn’s historical MM novels already in publication are the following two works in the Iron Warrior series, set in 5th-century Ireland, published by SirenBookstrand. Warning–they are erotic, rated “scorching” by the editor.

Warrior, Ride Hard…was published  August 8, 2012, available at Siren and Amazon

Warrior, Stand Tall…was published  September 5, 2012, available at Siren

Warrior, Come Again …a gleam in the eye of my muse, a few chapters long

OQ Erin O’Quinn blog…”The Gaelic Spirit LIves Here”:   http://erinsromance.wordpress.com/
Storm Maker: http://www.amazon.com/Ireland-BookStrand-Publishing-Romance-ebook/dp/B00845V8X6
The Wakening Fire: http://www.amazon.com/Wakening-Ireland-BookStrand-Publishing-ebook/dp/B008BKSGES
Captive Heart: http://www.amazon.com/Captive-Ireland-BookStrand-Publishing-ebook/dp/B008K2X1QA
Fire & Silk on Strand: http://www.bookstrand.com/fire-silk

Warrior, Ride Hard is available at this buy link: http://www.bookstrand.com/warrior-ride-hard  and on Amazon at


Warror, Stand Tall:



WARRIOR, RIDE HARD tells the story of three men:  

 Gristle is a tough-as-hobnails former Roman soldier who fell for a man once. After all the hurt of being abandoned has been pushed far inside, he has sworn it will never happen again.

Tristus is a beautiful, sensitive man whose family has been killed by savage Picts and who runs straight into the arms of a very hardened soldier.

Wynn is a young Welshman, a trainer of wild ponies, who has never experienced a woman–or a man–until he meets the aloof and sensuous Gristle.

Be aware that this novel is not a ménage. Tristus appears as a lover only in an extended flashback ten years prior to the action of the main story.

 August 1, 2012….Here is the first scene from the opening chapter of the book.

The Trainer

His eyes, hard as flint, surveyed the shipyards. There was no trace of his trainee Caylith. She was to practice walking on sand. Not in sand but skimming the surface, as a dragonfly hunts on water. Perhaps she was over there, hidden from his sight by shifting dunes, or there, where the currachs were moored, waiting for their voyage across the Sea of Éire. Yes, perhaps she had chosen her own symbol of escape to train alongside…

He began to walk toward the shimmering dunes that changed their contours even as he strode easily across the sand. His white-blond hair stirred around his face with the wind coming off the sea, and the sleeves of his dark deer-skin tunic rustled and slapped as they filled with wind, like currach sails made of stitched pelts.

“Ah, Gristle…sir!”

Without slowing, the man turned his head slightly and regarded the young man slipping and plowing through the white sand. He turned his face again to the dunes. If the pony trainer Wynn wanted to talk with him, he had best keep up the pace. Or learn to walk properly.

Halfway to where the currachs rode their mooring ropes, the young man caught up to his quarry. “Sir! Um, excuse me—”

Gristle stopped and turned to him, saying nothing at all.

“I was wondering if—that is, would ye, um—could we talk a few minutes?”

Gristle squatted easily in the sand, looking up, waiting for the young Welshman to speak. The smooth-faced lad was not bad to look at, the trainer decided, and so he waited and watched. Wynn’s hair was a tumble of gold-brown and russet, with sun-flecked highlights to match his wide eyes. He had a generous mouth that seemed eager to smile. Gristle remembered his throaty laugh the few times he had seen him and Caylith together with the ponies. He guessed the boy was twenty, twenty-one at the most. Half his own age.

He decided that the boy’s sun-brown body, so unlike his own pale complexion, was a mute testimony to his life as a trainer of mountain ponies. He was unaccountably drawn to the subtle gold of that skin, and so he felt his own steel-blue eyes soften a little.

Wynn seemed totally confounded by the older man’s silence. Gristle thought idly that he was ripe for training, starting at the most basic level. Still, he waited for the brindle-haired lad to choke out what he wanted to say.

“I know of ye, sir,” Wynn said at last. “Caylith has told me something of your training. She, ah, she tells me that ye’re an adept in the art of proper breathing.”

Gristle’s chiseled mouth hardly moved when he spoke. He looked directly into the other’s eyes. “I am.”

“What I need to know, is—well, first of all, me name is Wynn. We met briefly in Lindum. I am bound for the land of the emigrants. I have arranged for about forty Welsh ponies to be transported in special boats. What I would like is to train wi’ye. Once we get there, and once we are settled, of course.”

“Is that all, Wynn?” Gristle asked softly. “Why could your—ah, why could Caylith not teach you?”

“I think she could try. But I would rather learn from the best. And not just breathing. Sir…I would know how you walk through sand without a grain in your sandals.” He looked at Gristle’s well-oiled leather sandals. “And—and all the other ways of a warrior.”

“There are many ways of a warrior, lad.”

“Then I would learn them all. From the top man.”

Gristle rose, and when Wynn stood also, he saw that the pony trainer was almost his height, a little over six feet. He might make a good sparring partner, Gristle thought. After intensive training, of course. The boy seemed to be all elbows and knees.

“I will consider it,” he said in his usual laconic style. “As you say, after we are settled in the new land. In a real home.”

Ie. I hardly hoped ye would agree. Thank ye.” He held out his large hand, and Gristle gripped it for a moment, noting the slight hesitation in Wynn’s grasp.

This lad, he thought, is going through some kind of inner tumult. I feel it in his grasp. I see it in his eyes. Perhaps I represent some unspoken purpose in his life. I shall find out.

“Then I shall see you on the other side.”

“The, um—the other side?” He seemed startled by the trainer’s words, and then he smiled. “Of course. In the land of the currachs. Ffarwel.

Gristle stood and watched Wynn struggle through the sand, up the hill to the high-water mark. His tunic, shorter than the style favored in this western part of Britannia, showed his muscular calves and part of his thighs. The strong legs of a rider. Once, when the lad stumbled a bit, the trainer caught sight of his well-formed ass, and his prick stirred under his own tunic. And then his mind snapped closed like a trap, catching only the quarry he was after at the moment—the hellion named Caylith, to whom he was unfortunately trothed as armsman. He strode with renewed purpose toward the currachs.


August 13, 2012…The Pony Trainer   Here is an excerpt from chapter 2

Meet Wynn Talfryn, a Welshman in his early twenties, who has just arrived in the rough port city of Newort, several miles north and west of Deva Viictrix in fifth-century Britania. He has transported forty ponies all the way from the colony of Lindum (present-day Lincoln) and has just literally run away from the girl named Caylith. His thoughts begin to wander to Gristle, the handsome armsman of Caylith, who may agree to be his trainer when he arrives at last in Éire.

He sighed, goading Corwin gently in the flanks, riding toward the little stream where the tall grasses showed off their slender, swaying seed-heads. He dismounted and dropped the reins, letting his chestnut pony seek the stream water. If only she [Caylith] had not pressed him to the breaking point…He turned his thoughts back to the tall, laconic Gristle.

Gristle, he thought, was a man to be admired by men. He was a warrior, a trainer, one who knew when to speak, when to act. He wanted to be that kind of man. And when it came time to take a woman—or anyone he desired—he would know what to do. But why did his prick stir when he saw Gristle? Why did his mind suddenly flood with forbidden images, ones he had never once conjured up with Caylith, even while they were kissing? It was beyond understanding. It was even more strange how he had kissed Caylith, but more and more often, the mouth he sucked belonged to Gristle.

Gristle’s slender muscled body moved with a severe grace born in wolves. His blue eyes could pin an opponent from twenty feet. His face had the kind of haunting good looks that hovered at the edge of his dreams.

Even at that moment, he shook his head to free his mind of a sudden thought. He clearly saw Gristle holding him down in the tall grass, pinning his arms and straddling him from behind while he struggled feebly to free himself. His cock engorged, his testicles burned with an inner fire that needed to be extinguished before he took another step. He stood away from the pony, stroking and coaxing his cock to a point of sudden, sharp release.

Wynn squatted again on the stream bank, scooping water to cleanse himself. He could think a little more clearly, now that his mounting need had been sated for a while.

He sighed again, thinking about last night when the ravening commander Kevan had appeared at their table in the mess tent. The man had told Caylith he was now ready to sail with her—to leave his command, to turn his back on his duties—just to follow her into the unknown. As soon as he and Caylith were alone, he had exploded in anger.

He still had no idea why he was furious that other men wanted her. He should have been relieved. Kevan’s overt attention was just the excuse he needed to drift away from Caylith. Instead, he had made his jealousy so obvious, so overriding that she had fled from him in the night, telling him that she no longer trusted him.

He knew, somewhere beyond understanding, that he had willed their friendship to end rather than confront his own weaknesses. He had manipulated the situation so that she had left him. The finality of their parting was palpable. Taking the ponies away, he knew, would cause her more pain than anything else he could have done.

He set his jaw. So be it. Let him take his darling ponies to the freedom of Hibernia, far from the men who would slaughter them to keep their horse strain pure. Let him seek the haven of Father Patrick—not to beg forgiveness of Caylith, but to reunite with the man who might become his trainer. That thought alone would comfort him during a long night, surrounded by milling ponies, far from the company of inconstant humans.


The Seduction . . .                                  

The British Romance Fiction site is running an explicit excerpt from the book—the scene where Gristle seduces Wynn. The link is




August  17, 2012….The Third Man

On the rough voyage across the Sea of Éire, Gristle contents himself with thoughts of a long-ago lover, the one he once called Tristus, “man of sorrow.” Having barely escaped death at the hands of murderous Picts, he had found his way into the Roman encampment near the wall of Hadrian, ten long years ago,  where then-sergeant Gristle began to take care of him.

The man was young, probably in his early twenties. His hair was blond—not the white-blond of the older man, but a golden blond darkened by streaks of strawberry-red. Like Gristle, he wore no beard. But contrary to the Roman style, this man’s hair was long, almost to his shoulders, in the way of the country folks of this northern region of Britannia they called “Cumbria.”

Gristle took a long draw from his cup, not speaking. The other man had not lifted his head, even to lift his eating knife over his trencher of greasy meat.

“Eat, lad,” Gristle said. “If you join our army, you must be strong and well. Will you finally tell me why you are here?”

The man lifted his head and regarded Gristle. His cautious eyes, under strawberry-blond brows, were the blue of mountain lakes. His lips, Gristle had already noticed, were full and his mouth expressive. He had lain for almost a week in Gristle’s cot, while the older man had tended his needs, bringing him out of unconsciousness, feeding him, helping him stand.

The man spoke in a tongue somewhere between crude Latin and halting Gaelic. Gristle listened quietly to the story of the man’s flight from capture, his desperate survival in the forest land west of the Roman encampment, his late-night entreaties to the garrison sentry that had earned him a rough tumble with an unnamed foot soldier. As he talked, the expert tactician sized up his own chances with the boy. He would be frightened and wary for a long time to come. But given a gentle and knowledgeable cot-mate…

“You may continue to share my tent,” he told the man, whose unpronounceable name became “Tristus” in the Roman’s mouth.

He knew he could train the new recruit in the ways of a Roman soldier—but more importantly, in his own ways. He had not had physical release with another human for years, shunning the rude louts in the emperor’s fifth brigade, and not wanting to seek one night’s pleasure on the long road to Eboracum. But here was a man he would enjoy, before and after they learned each other’s tongue. He grinned to himself even now, relishing the play on words.

It had taken three weeks of quiet conversations—talking at night, slow and murmured in the narrow cot they shared—and another few weeks of patient caresses and bewildered kisses. Finally, one night, his efforts were rewarded. Gristle had thrust his tongue into Trist’s soft mouth, exploring and asking, and suddenly the young man had seized his tongue and begun to suck. Gristle felt the surge of Trist’s prick against his bare stomach, and soon he was under the blanket, and Trist’s glorious cock was moving in his eager mouth. Or was that the second night? God, it was ten long years ago…

Gristle shifted again, remembering. He remembered the abrupt climax as Trist shivered against him, then held himself stiff until the tremors had ended. He remembered slowly turning him over, feeling silk-soft buttocks invade his skin. And even now, he remembered the first time his swollen cock penetrated Trist, how both men could hardly hold back their astonished joy as he exploded in the golden boy’s ass.

Sorrow, Gristle thought, sitting in the currach, regarding the gray-green sea around him as the incessant waves pitched the small craft, and he, too, moved with the waves. He said the name aloud again. “Tristus.” He glanced behind him and saw that Caylith was sitting, knees up, hugging herself in sea-sick misery. He let his mind shut out his own physical weakness, and at last he felt nothing but the sun kissing the back of his neck. Two more days to sail. He would survive. He began to think again about the pony trainer Wynn.

Warrior Ride Hard is available at the following links:

http://www.bookstrand.com/warrior-ride-hard  and on Amazon at



 August 23, 2012….The Pict and the Irishman . . . a story called “ON FALCON’S WINGS.”

Note that this story has not yet been submitted for publication.

I recently wrote a short MM tale about a Pict and an Irishman…not too far fetched, since the Irish of 5th-century Dál Riata, far northern Ireland, were possibly the precursors of modern Scots.

The following excerpt sets up the central conflict, which is to say the fight between Tawn (the protagonist) and his culture–the matriarchal, gay-shunning tribes that ostracize a man for nestling his weapon in another man’s buttocks, unless it’s point-first.

Nechtawn ground his teeth in frustration. For twenty years–his entire life–he had hidden his nature from the settlement of Anghus, sea clad and thriving, taking its kings from the mothers’ side of the clans. He, the son and brother of mother-blessed kings, was to wed in a five-finger span of days. He, the favorite of his mother, would be first a husband, then a father, then a king. He could not dishonor her by refusing.

But what then would become of his newest choice, Sten of the golden hair and blue-pricked horse that rode his slender ass always, even when his lover Tawn could not?

Rising on his elbows, Tawn frowned at the saffron sun trying to break through clouds and clustered pines into a new day. If only he had waited, held his passion until his soon-to-be wife was at the kilns with the other women, or gathered before the great cook-fires with her clanking pots and endless tales. . . .  But no. He had felt compelled to straddle the thrashing horse one more time, for one more ride, before he was shackled to a mate.

Why had he chosen a spot near the river where some sharp-eyed old waggle-jaw might see him on the way back with her wet bundles? Why had he shouted his release to the very skies, as if to call kestrels to his wing-tipped shoulder? It was beyond human understanding.

By the prick of Perth! He ground his teeth until his jaws ached. Then, succumbing to the need to piss, he rose and stood at the side of a half-grown fir. It was no use thinking back on the last satisfying fuck of his life, but he found himself imagining again the firm blue buttocks and finely-webbed hairs on the balls of his last lover. His cock rose, and Tawn fought the stiffness as he tried to empty his full bladder. Failing that, he turned from the tree and cursed again.

 The sun broke through the lowest pine branches, and Tawn remembered to pray for its safe journey. Then his thoughts turned again to his own journey, his miserable plight.One spear, no clothes, and an endless wayfaring ahead on an empty stomach and aching balls. He was banished. Drest had warned him that any who saw the falcon on his chest, or the spiral of feathers on his back, would treat him as an enemy. “One who pierces men will die like the beast he is, pierced by a brother’s spear.” His brother’s last bitter words sat in the back of Tawn’s throat like sour grog, and he spat to rid himself of the taste.



August 28, 2012…Warrior, Stand Tall…Part 2 of The Iron Warrior Series

The second book is a little funnier, a little sexier than the first. 

 Gristle, bad-ass former Roman soldier, has finally found love in the person of young Wynn, a pony trainer nearly half his age. Each man has a secret. For Wynn, it’s the chilling sexual assault that he has suffered by two evil druids. For Gristle, not admitting to his festering jealousies, it’s the dread that any love he admits to will be wrested away by cold Fortuna, goddess of fate.

While the two men are trying to solve their inner turmoil, Gristle finds that his old friends in Wales are being threatened by invasion from ruthless Saxons. Even after they manage to handle the Saxon threat, new trouble waits on the sacred Hill of Tara, where the chief druids to the high king plot to strike again at the heart of Wynn.

Into this maelstrom of danger walks Dub, a striking warrior-scholar whom Gristle recognizes as a potent rival for the attentions of his handsome lover.

The following is from the opening chapter of the novel and is titled “The Deeper Pain”:

The tall, silent warrior stood at the pine, seeming to become one with the rough bark. His student Wynn could almost hear the wind sighing through his white-blond hair, just as it sang through the pine needles above their heads. His trainer would stand there, Wynn knew, until his students betrayed by an eye-blink where they were hidden. It was his nature to become one with the woods if he stood in a forest or one with the rocks or the sand dunes—wherever he was.

Now the trainer stood in the pines, waiting for one of his students to give himself, or herself, away. Wynn was lying along a branch, curving as it curved, invisible even to the finch building an early spring nest a foot from his head. The other student—the irritating girl Caylith—was nowhere to be seen. That fact rankled him.

So far in their training together, more than a month, he thought he had proved himself the superior student. He seemed to be a little more nimble, a shade faster, more skilled at puzzling out a fast solution than the girl. He had to grant that she was lightning-fast when it came to bata practice, both of them wielding the knobby cudgels called “shillelaghs” or “batas.” She was faster, yet he was more forceful.

He continued to breathe in the measured, deep way their trainer had shown both of them. It was more than a centering of self. It was a way almost to crawl under the skin of an opponent, to win the war by the swallowing-up of the enemy’s inner thoughts and intentions, of knowing his intentions before he did.

Now, by subtle movements where there should be none, he knew exactly where Caylith was. Boldly, she knelt in the clearing where their trainer had set up sparring circles, her back to the river, her face bowed to her chest. Her clothing, dark as the river, hid her well enough that she looked from his angle like one of the dark stones that thrust from the bank or lay partly immersed in the water. It was perfect. Unless she moved, Caylith was invisible. But a part of her had moved.

Then their trainer spoke, barely moving his lips. “The stone. The branch. You are both discovered. You may stand down.”

Wynn reluctantly swung down from the branch, and the girl stood, almost sullenly. Now they would have to bear the lacerations of his tongue.

“Wynn. Until you lose five pounds of belly bacon, you need to stay out of trees. Caylith. Even with your rowdy hair in a kerchief, you call undue attention to yourself. Therefore, you have both failed. Next time, I need to take more than five minutes to find you. That will be all until tomorrow.”

Caylith walked with stiff shoulders to her palomino pony, tethered to a rowan branch twenty feet away. Wynn made a move to follow, and the trainer raised his hand to stay him. Both of them stood rock-still until Caylith had ridden into the trees, toward the pathway, out of sight.

Wynn was standing near the pine whose branch he had sought. His trainer walked up to him and drew him by one arm around to the side of the trunk, away from anyone who might walk suddenly through the screen of trees where Caylith had ridden.

In an instant, his body was pressed into Wynn, and his finely sculpted mouth was seizing his lips, taking them into his mouth, biting and sucking them. Wynn’s groin shot up, seeming to hammer against the other man’s erection. “Gristle. I need ye.” He spoke into his trainer’s mouth, moaning, answering his hungry, moving tongue. Both of them sunk to their knees together in the bed of fallen needles, sucking and licking each other’s mouths, their hands searching for the other’s leather belt.

Gristle’s very silence was a source of hot arousal to Wynn. He rarely betrayed his emotions by any words. But his body actions spoke an eloquent language to his student and lover. He had Wynn’s tunic open in a matter of seconds and was fingering his balls, stroking his cock, while Wynn threw his head back and opened his knees, giving his groin to his lover. Gristle lowered his head and began to suck, noisily and wetly, while Wynn held his head close, and his fingers threaded his marvelous hair.

“Now! Now!” he whispered fiercely, and he shot his hot fluids into Gristle’s eager mouth. He held his head there until the tremors eased somewhat. And then Gristle was turning him over. He felt the pine needles on his bare stomach, and he felt Gristle empty his mouth of the thick semen and spit it onto and into his ass.

He could feel Gristle seize his buttocks, hard. The next thing he felt was the slick, insistent length of Gristle’s prick on his asshole. Its bulbous head penetrated a few inches, and then it was deeply inside. He bucked and resisted, he moved and cried, and still it probed deeper. Finally, when he felt Gristle’s balls slapping against his ass, he heard his lover cry out sharply, once. And then it was over, and he was lying on Wynn’s back, sucking and biting the nape of his neck.

They lay together like that for a while, listening to the finch building her nest and the bees questing, then sucking, the most aromatic dogwood flower.

Then, without words, they rose to their feet and drew their tunics closed, belting them while looking at each other rather than their own hands. Then they walked together, close companions, to the river.

The novel is available at a 15% discount until midnight CST, September 12.



September 5, 2012Warrier, Stand Tall is published

I believe that m/m novels, in spite of  their erotic nature, need to tell a provocative story as well as show the heady passion of the lovers. With this in mind, I am presenting the following excerpt to partly reveal the central tension in the novel . . . the guilt and deep uncleanliness that Wynn feels after having been possibly raped a few months before the action of the present novel.

“Two days later …” Here Wynn paused, wondering how to tell the worst of his story. He had been in the livestock byre, saddling his pony Corwin, ready to return to Armagh, back to Gristle and his other companions.

“I had somehow left me warrior senses somewhere on the sacred hill. I did not hear the two men who stood behind me. I did not see the one who struck me on the back of the head.”

Wynn tried to keep the bitterness from his voice. But as he spoke, he realized that he blamed himself as much as the men who had brutalized him.

“I swam in and out of waking. Me head hurt. Not so much a hurt as a center of nausea and blindness. They had thrown me on the back of me pony and covered me with a wool blanket. But I saw who they were, and where they were taking me. To the sacred grove.”‘

The memory flooded back, even as he recoiled from it. The rain coming down harder and harder …the hawthorn tree with hundreds of bright cloths fluttering from the bare branches …the druids dragging him from the pony …his vomiting and seizure of blindness …being bent forwards over the stony wall of the clootie well . . his tunic being ripped from neck to butt. And last, the almost welcome release of falling, falling, into a warm bright place.

He could not tell Gristle these details. He could not face them himself. It was not the pain he recoiled from, but the shame of being violated by evil men.

And so he did not speak of it at all. He kept his eyes on the floor. “When I woke, I found meself lying in a twelve-foot-deep well. The rain water was deepening around me. Me arms were bound behind me. I could tell that me shoulders were probably broken, and me ribs, and me ankle. Me head was about the same as before, when they hit me.

“I tried to escape. I breathed as deep as I could, I gathered all me strength. I pushed me back and me legs against the sides of the well. The walls were slick with mold, and I tried to climb out, inch by inch. But each time, I was betrayed by the weakness of me own body.”

He stopped talking. That was enough. He had survived, thanks to the intelligence and quick actions of his new friend Duane. And now that he was home, back with Gristle, his body could heal to the fullest. He finally looked up at his trainer.

Gristle now raised his head and looked into his eyes. Wynn had never seen the expression he now wore. The man seemed almost suffused with sorrow. “I will do anything …everything in my power to expunge the pain.”

“What d’ye mean?” Wynn reached out and stroked his lover’s smooth, high cheeks. “The pain is almost gone. And tonight ye’ve taken the tremors from me shoulders.”

“And yet a deeper pain remains.” Gristle had been sitting cross-legged in front of Wynn, and now he rose and reached his hand down to Wynn. “Come with me to the water. Let us lie together a while.”

As soon as Wynn stood, Gristle held him close, clasping his hand in a firm grip. “Wynn.”

At the sound of his name uttered by the trainer, Wynn’s knees felt weak. Gristle almost never addressed him by name. His heart began to hammer in his chest.

“Stand tall.”

Gristle’s ice-blue eyes were boring into his. He was telling Wynn something very important, and Wynn knew instantly that this man loved him. Perhaps he could guess the source of his deep shame. Or perhaps he felt guilt at not urging Wynn to share the story of his captivity right away. Whatever his reasons, Wynn knew that Gristle would never willingly let that happen again, to either of them.

Siren is offering this novel at a 15% discount for a limited time. Your link is

Warrior, Stand Tall:  http://www.bookstrand.com/warrior-stand-tall


September 11, 2012… A Prisoner Taken

The love play between Griss and Wynn is complex. Like a couple of antlered bucks in rut, they often vie for top position. Sometimes Wynn seizes the advantage. Sometimes, as now, the former soldier takes his man prisoner, allowing no escape.

Once inside [the tent], Gristle took a small piece of kindling and went outside to light their oil lamp from the fire. He brought it back and set it in the tent, careful to keep the small flame away from the tarred cloth. He drew the  flap closed.

Wynn stood, waiting for Gristle to signal in his own way that he was ready for bed. Gristle bent very slightly and caught Wynn’s lower lip between his teeth, while drawing him nearer with a hand on his butt. “Come here,” he said into Wynn’s mouth.

His pidyn jumped like a dog to the fight, and Wynn moaned slightly, letting his lover know his delight. Gristle gnawed and bit on his lip while Wynn pushed his eager cock into the trainer’s groin, then back, then pushed again, a slow, easy tide…

Both men slowly removed the other’s tunic, their eyes locked. Gristle seized the leather thong that had been around his waist and quickly wrapped it around the boy’s wrists, binding his hands loosely. “Stand,” he growled. “Do not move.”

Wynn’s prick began to throb in anticipation. He loved the times when Gristle, in a special mood, took him as he would take a prisoner, forcing him into submission. Thankfully, his hands were bound in front, and not behind his back, as the druids had done. Those memories were too raw, and he would not tolerate being taken in that way, not yet—even by his lover. Gristle sank to his knees in front of him.

Wynn stood with his knees slightly bent, pushing his groin out invitingly, then retreating as if in escape.

“I said,” the trainer told him severely, “do not move.” One hand began in his anus, pushing in one, then two, then three fingers, wiggling them and withdrawing, then pushing in again.

“Cannot…take more…oh, no, no,” Wynn moaned, pretending resistance, as Gristle’s other hand began stroking his balls at the same time. Just as he thought he would shoot into the top of the tent, Gristle put his mouth entirely over his large prick and began to suck, very slowly. The sucking, the fingers in his ass, the slow pulling up and down on his balls—everything combined into a moment of white-hot desire. As his lover made one more wet, sucking movement up his shaft and over the bulbous head, Wynn came in one ecstatic release. Gristle enclosed the entire shaft, sucking in the fluids. And then he leaned back, looking up into Wynn’s eyes. His eyes, glazed with sensual anticipation, bored into Wynn. “Turn around,” he ordered.

Wynn turned, and Gristle’s face was buried in his ass. He spat Wynn’s fluids up his crack and over his asshole, rubbing it in with both hands, and then with his tongue. Then he stood behind the boy, using one hand to rub his own prick over and into his crack, then his asshole. He seized Wynn’s hips and began to push his cock into the small, yielding anus.

Wynn felt the power, he felt the rubbing along the walls of his anus. He was aware that Gristle’s mouth was biting his neck and his shoulders, harder and harder. In spite of his explosive climax a few minutes before, Wynn’s desire began to build again as he heard his hard-as-anvil trainer moan his name: “Wynn…love.”

His wrists still bound, Wynn seized his own stiff shaft and began to stroke in tempo with Gristle’s frenzied in-and-out. When Gristle began to come, the normally silent trainer shouted, “Oh! Love!” and Wynn climaxed into his own hands, loving this release even more than the first one. 

They stood that way for a few minutes, while Gristle licked and sucked his neck, letting his passions cool. Then he stepped away. He quickly removed the thong and tossed it onto the floor of the tent.

He lay on the spread blanket and looked up at Wynn. “Come. I need you.” His voice was quiet, his eyes were unusually warm. Wynn knelt first then lay along the length of Gristle’s finely chiseled body. His trainer drew him close and kissed his face—his eyes, his nose, his chin and mouth.

“You know I meant no shame to you.”

Ie. I loved it.” He was being honest. The shame he felt had nothing to do with his passionate lover. It would be cured, he thought, if he could return someday to the clootie well. Then he would tell his lover everything, and he would leave his shame hanging from a branch of a hawthorn tree. And when the rain had washed it, and the sun had bleached it, his shame would be gone forever.


September 15, 2012

 Visions: 1

Gristle is well versed in the art of deep breathing, a martial technique that allows a warrior to enter the very skin of his opponent. Here is the armsman’s first lesson with his new student Wynn:

Once inside, Gristle resolutely latched the door. Using the flames from the fire pit, he lit a few candles and set them on his small table.

He could feel a palpable excitement from Wynn. It was the same anticipation he also felt whenever he was alone with the young man. He gestured to a place near the fire pit. “Assume a kneeling position.”

God, I want to suck him and eat him. With an effort of will, he knelt two feet from Wynn, resting his butt on his heels.

“The next half hour will represent your first childlike steps. Have no fear of falling. Only after standing and falling may we begin to stand with strength and purpose.”

He looked hard at the boy who knelt before him almost in supplication. He clearly saw Wynn’s frank admiration of him, and his unbounded appetite for the pleasures he could offer. And he saw a little behind the shadow in his eyes, to the place where the fear and loneliness crouched. No, he did not love Caylith. Gristle saw that. And yet he was loath to release her from the grip he once held. Why? When he and the boy had discovered the reason, perhaps then they would reach a more mature level in their partnership.

“I want you to close your eyes and let this place, this time, flow away. Let your next breath be taken in so slowly that you want to burst with the desire to expel it. And once it is captured in the pit of your gut, examine it. Think about it. Let it escape only slowly…as slowly as you let it in.

“Now do that again. And yet again. Make each breath, in and out, slower than the one that came before.

“After a while, you will come to an improbable place. It is a place that is no place at all. You will sense an unusual time, a time that defies all notion of time. Only when you reach that place, and that time, will your breath become your closest friend. And you will begin to see with eyes you never looked through before.”

Gristle let his voice become lower and slower, and he, too, began to enter the place of no-place. He knew without knowing that the time was no time he had ever experienced. His mind slipped into a vision. It was the young man Wynn. He was sitting in an open field, his legs splayed, his head thrown back. He was chasing the clouds, and his eyes were clear and full of humor. Next to him stood a restive pony, a chestnut stallion with russet mane and tail. The man and the pony began to merge, until the young man’s brindled hair and the pony’s mane were one and the same. They were both young, both free, both filled with a sense of deep well-being.

When he opened his eyes, Wynn was looking at him, a smile toying with his mouth. “I begin to see. To stand.”

“Then come here to me,” Gristle told him.

In one movement, Wynn was sitting with his legs splayed out, and Gristle’s knees were between his legs. Gristle reached out, very slowly, and lifted his short tunic. He saw the impossibly thick penis standing straight up, waiting. Still kneeling, Gristle lifted Wynn’s tunic up over his head, tangling it briefly in his sun-kissed brown hair. He leaned toward the young man then, loosening the tunic from his hair. When he lowered his head, it was to seize Wynn’s lips in his own mouth and bite, then suck.

Wynn moved his mouth, licking Gristle’s lips, then seizing his tongue. “God, I need to take you,” he told Wynn, talking into his restive mouth, and he forced his head and shoulders to the floor, his tongue deep in the other man’s wet, moving mouth.

His fingers found Wynn’s nipples and he played and pinched, all the while thrusting his tongue into his mouth, imitating the final act of love. Wynn moaned and moved under him, and Gristle’s head went lower and lower, until he was sucking velvet-soft balls and stroking the crack of his ass.

“Suck me,” Wynn said, and Gristle’s prick turned to flame at the strangled sound of his voice. He licked and bit and sucked, holding back each time his mouth reached the tip of his dagger-sized cock, until Wynn was shouting.

“Now! Now! Do it now!”

Gristle knew when to suck and when to stop. He knew when to lick and bite and when to hold off. Wynn half raised to him and grasped his head. “Now, goddamn it, suck me hard!”

Gristle finished what he had started, all the while trying not to climax. But when Wynn’s prick started to bubble, then spurt, he lost all control. He came, hard, while Wynn was twisting and shouting his pleasure, emptying into Gristle’s impassioned mouth.

They lay on the floor for a while, Gristle’s mouth close to Wynn’s groin, both of them holding the other in a tight embrace. Slowly, each man released his grip on the other and Gristle moved his head up to Wynn’s. The young man spoke into his mouth, “Ye play me like a mouth organ.”

Gristle’s laugh was more like a deep tremor that welled up to the surface. “A song I want to play always.”


September 23, 2012

Visions: 2

Gristle is teaching Wynn the art of deep breathing. Why is it  that the vision the young man enters has as its center a mysterious, tall man who seeks to comfort and please him? He surrenders to the dream.

He heard Gristle’s voice, but only at the edge of a dream of falling. He was cold, shivering. He curled into himself, drawing up his knees, covering part of his naked body. Tears on his cheeks had hardened into ice, and he lay waiting to die. He was in a place lit by some distant fire, and before he succumbed to the cold he looked up. He was staring into the cold depths of intensely blue eyes.

It was a man, a tall man, wearing a long black cloak. He stood upright over Wynn, almost straddling his huddled body. With one movement, the stranger removed his cloak and wrapped it around his shivering body. His voice came, warm and compassionate. “Lie back. Be comforted.” And Wynn did as he said, unfurling like a new leaf. He felt himself being cocooned in the cloak, rolled more and more until he reached a place of complete warmth and succor, a place of sweet release.

When he opened his eyes, Gristle was kneeling across from him. Even in the faltering candlelight, he could see the trainer’s steel-blue eyes like a piece of sky. He smiled, and he thought his trainer smiled back. “I see,” he said. He suddenly understood what Gristle meant to him—even a bit of how his teacher saw himself. “I stand.” For the first time in his life, he began to accept his own mysterious self. Instead of stumbling like a drunk, he could stand.

“Then come here to me,” the trainer told him. And he went gladly.

As if to make up for this morning’s brief contact, Gristle seemed to toy and play with him, bringing him to the edge, then pulling him back, again and again. Wynn thought he would explode in mid-air, and he pulled the other man’s head hard into himself. He lost all idea of what he said. He might have shouted, “I want you now!” He might have arched his ass so hard, so high, that he was sobbing and swearing in frustration. And then he came, in a shuddering of joy.

He lay for a while rolled in the cloak of Gristle’s enveloping arms. And then he spoke close to his ear. “I would go wi’ye to Tara.”

He knew that being away from the trainer now was totally unacceptable. Even if it were only ten minutes a day, he wanted to kneel at the older man’s feet and learn from him. Even if Gristle never touched him again, he had already taught him a lifetime’s worth of wonders and outright joy.

“Will ye seek me at night?” he asked Gristle.

“I will not let you out of my sight. Ever again.”

Wynn suddenly understood that his lover wanted him, only him. Gristle lay next to him then, his chiseled mouth next to Wynn’s. The boy thought he felt a small smile, a twitch of Gristle’s lips, against his skin. Or perhaps it was merely the prelude to a kiss.


whole damn for blog
I’t’s on fire! A new cover, a new title—almost a new book!  Come Again, My Love is enjoying a kind of rebirth, like a phoenix rising from the flames. Thanks, readers, for your response to my “capstone” Burns! mystery…a combo of erotica, time travel, humor, and mystery. What’s not to love?

🌹Can you save the life of a man who lived 250 years ago?

Trying to rescue a man from the gallows, Thomas & Burns uncover the hidden truths of their own edgy relationship.

#gay #erotic #romance #action #mystery #timetravel #humor (formerly A RAINBOW BRIDGE

The hub of the story is here, in a picturesque corner of Edinburgh just off the main tourist trail…a place called Lady Stair’s Close.

lady stairs close


The novel is full of sex, fun and peril, as Thomas and Burns find themselves in a notorious, filthy prison…on the gallows scaffold itself…racing  through dark wynds of an ancient city…meeting some comical and memorable characters…and of course falling into each other’s, um, arms whenever possible.

Here’s a brief excerpt from the re-named novel, the new cover, and links. Note that it was first published as A Rainbow Bridge.

“Have I told you how much I love…ah, these silk trousers, Burns?”

“Nae, never. Tell me.”

Their crotches, twin cudgels, met; and their tongues tried very hard to fuck each other’s open mouth.

He attempted to answer. “I do.”

“You do what, Thomas?”

“I, ah, I do favor these sexy pants of yours. Just don’t change anything for me, ever.”

Burns’ hands massaged his ass cheeks. “Like what, Thomas Fitzgerald?”

“Any fucking thing at all. Your trousers. Your beard. Your habit of…of making me say very naughty things.”

“I’ve opened your fly several times today already, when you weren’t looking. A frontal attack you never saw coming. Let me do it again.”

Burns’ fingers began to tease the button of his baggy pants.

“Not here .”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Be-because we’d have a concrete floor as a bed. Because this must be the last place on earth you—”

Burns pulled his zipper down and knelt in the dust, lowering the loose corduroys as he did. 

“Talk dirty to me, Thomas. This bed is a sodding cloud. I want to suck your fat cock. I want to lift my ass to you. To unfurl my rosebud. To scrawl our own writing over the tired old story.”

Thanks again for your interest!

CAML newest

#gay #erotic #romance #action #mystery #timetravel #humor (formerly A RAINBOW BRIDGE)

It’s all here, on QRI: #explicit #excerpt, reviews, links, etc. https://www.queeromanceink.com/book/come-again-my-love/


Kindle US http://tinyurl.com/zo6247a

Smashwords (epub) http://ow.ly/cmkP307AMrA


The prior six novellas are on O’Quinn’s new #KindleSeries page: 



burns series all


I made a mistake. When I  titled a certain novel A Rainbow Bridge, I never reckoned that readers would think of a pet cemetary.  Yikes!

So here’s a brand-new title, taken from the closing lines of Robert Burns’ famous “Red, Red Rose.” And here’s a spanking-new cover (so new it’s still perking away in the Amazon meat grinder).

This banner captures some of the story, the mystery, and the tone of the novel:

caml banner for blog

Come Again, My Love… In case you’d like a taste of the contents, I’ve prepared a short excerpt.

They stood together in the shower, lathering each other, expunging every trace of Old Tolbooth from their skin. Thomas’ soapy finger was wriggling up his ass and murmuring some nonsense about wynds and tunnels.

He laughed and sucked the man’s busy tongue. “Come, Thomas. Come to my bed, enter my dream, let me love your hot body and pillage your ass.”

“Do what to my hot body?”

Surely Thomas had understood his words. Or maybe he just liked listening to them.

“Love it.”

“That sounds…like something I want, very much.”

“Tell me again how much you missed me.”

“Bloody hell, Burns. I imagined you in every possible hard place. Including this one.”

Thomas anchored his large body to his own wet skin, and Burns smiled.

“Bring me to the bed.”

That was the way their love affair had begun, with the tall Irishman gathering him into his arms and carrying him like a child to his rainbow-covered bed. And now he craved the ritual, almost as much as he thirsted for the depths of his fine muscled ass.

Thomas climbed out of the tub and picked him up by the buttocks, lifting him into his broad chest and then swinging his entire body around until he lay helpless as a bairn in the man’s arms. The dichotomy excited him—the feeling of lying, vulnerable, in the large cop’s embrace, and his own deep need to turn that same man on his belly and fuck the crap out of him.

Thomas walked with him into the bedroom and laid him on the wide bed, then stood looking down at him. He knew his lover was not a role player…not yet. But he was a quick study, when he wanted to be.

“What now, Thomas Fitzgerald?”

“Now I try to show you how I missed you.”

“Sit on my face.”

Thomas laughed, sexy and low. “You always want it your way. But what about my way?”

He splayed his legs on the smooth bed surface and put his hands above his head, the posture of a supplicant. “Show me your way.”

And here’s the promo I’m running:

caml new cover promo


I hope you’ll enjoy this capstone to the six prior mysteries. It’s a stand-alone, of course. But taken together, the stories form a very interesting tapestry.

#gay #erotic #romance #action #mystery #timetravel #humor (formerly A RAINBOW BRIDGE)


QRI: #explicit #excerpt, reviews, links, etc.  https://www.queeromanceink.com/book/come-again-my-love/


Kindle US http://tinyurl.com/zo6247a

Smashwords (epub) http://ow.ly/cmkP307AMrA


The prior six novellas on O’Quinn’s new #KindleSeries page:



The image that made it through to Facebook was a little too…cracked…for prime time viewership. So here’s a whole new post, with fond farewell to the offending but very nice bum… 

yellow leaf italic glo


“You know…Oisean…your brother gave us permission to be together.”

“This I do know.”

“Do you want it?”

Oisean rose and breached the small space that separated them. Squatting only inches away, he put both hands on his shoulders and raked his eyes with a fierce stare.

“Want you.”

He responded by lacing his fingers through the thong that held up Oisean’s deerskin britches. “Do you know how men pleasure each other?”

“Show me.”

“Stand up.”

With slow fingers, he loosened the knot and pulled his new partner’s britches down over his thighs, and then to his ankles, his eyes fastened on the alarming erection Oisean wore. The man’s cock was rock-hard, and fat, and shiny at the tip with untasted honey. Fergus rose to a kneeling position in front of him…a supplication to some impossible godhead…and fingered the tight smooth balls.

He looked up into Oisean’s face and murmured, “I want to put it in my mouth.”

Oisean nodded.

“I think this will not take long. Not nearly long enough. When it begins to flow, just let it happen. Do not take it away. All right?” 

“All…right Fair-goos.” Hearing his name, a sweet and sensual moan, his stomach lurched in sudden lust. He opened his mouth and began to feast while grasping the stag man’s taut buttocks.

His wounded right hand felt as though all the hounds of Hel were gnashing their teeth on it, but he shut his mind to the pain, kneading and needing that honeyed arse, while he licked and suckled the restless bod. He could feel his own storm building, straining to erupt, and tried to shut that, too, out of his mind.

Oisean seized his head and pulled it close against his groin. He felt the tremors of the man’s thighs arcing against his shoulders and heard a kind of throaty groan…tasted the rush of hot seed into his mouth…and then surrendered. He hid his own sweet release by pulling Oisean down on top of himself and sucking his partner’s thrusting tongue.

“Love, love love.” He could think of no better song to breathe into the mouth of this gentle beast.


Well, the real photo is here. Pretty tame, but enough to put me away for a few weeks for “violating community standards.” Sigh. 


Anyway, I’ve used the opportunity to create a promo, which will only ever be seen right here, right now. I’m cracking up! 😀

watery promo for blog

QRI: links, reviews, #explicit #excerpts, more: https://tinyurl.com/y9537w38

Kindle US https://tinyurl.com/yd2po6zb 

Kindle UK https://tinyurl.com/y8m22n9y  

SeaToSky https://tinyurl.com/ybmtzjyv (pdf or epub)

Smashwords https://tinyurl.com/y7s2n9dh (epub)

sh banner w coverpizap.com15235468623237What is it about ancient Celts that sets my blood to racing? I hope readers by now have followed the extraordinary lives and loves of the Iron Warriors (link below). This current novel flows from the meeting of two men in a recent novel called Warrior, Come Again. In those pages, a scholar-warrior named Dub reunites with a lost soul, a wilding who grew up in the forests of fifth-century Scotland…then called Caledonia…a young boy he left behind twelve years prior. The boy named Oisean is his brother.

In Stag Heart, the boy who is now a man has come to live with Dub and his adolescent son. Now add another man to the equation: Fergus, the bad-boy son of the high king himself.

What happens when an innocent, natural soul is thrown together with a highly attractive but morally corrupt man?

Here is the intro to the novel, just published:

🦌STAG HEART tells the intertwined story of three men.

~A scholar-warrior seeking inner peace in an often brutal world.

~The bad boy son of a king who needs to learn to become a man.

~An innocent, a wilding whose soul stirs in rhythm with raw nature.

These three are forced by circumstance to live and learn and finally survive together on Ireland’s sacred Hill of Tara, where mischief and mayhem lie hidden by ancient stones.


velvet promo

An MM historical romance fantasy-adventure set in The Iron Warrior novel universe.

Kindle US https://amzn.to/2vaHD4d

Kindle UK https://amzn.to/2qACdKz

SeaToSky https://bit.ly/2HzsgVs  (pdf or epub)

Smashwords https://bit.ly/2vhucja (epub)

The Iron Warrior Trilogy is here:


sh banner title1While writing my *latest novel, I fell in love. Again.

Right now, I’m recounting the tale of three men, as follows:

Stag Heart tells the intertwined story of three men who have come together by some kind of divine tossing of the dice.

Dub is a scholar-warrior seeking peace in an often brutal world.
Fergus is the bad boy son of a king who needs to learn how to become a man.
Oisean is an innocent, a wilding whose soul stirs in rhythm with raw nature.

These three are forced by circumstance to live and learn and even survive together on Ireland’s sacred Hill of Tara, where mischief and mayhem lie hidden by ancient stones.

Let me share the opening words with you. But be patient…this is not the kind of gay romance where throbbing cocks take center stage. They will come, but in their very sweet time.

Fadò…long ago, in the forests of Caledonia…
Dub looked up from his parchment, and his quill ceased its swift track across the page. These days, the slightest sound put his every sense on alert, since his brother had come to live with him. He let his awareness seek the corners of the room, where the candle cast only the rippling shape of his own shadow.

He had heard the sound of deep, even breathing, light as wind on water or as snow on snowfall. Someone was here, in his inner chamber—somehow.

He let one hand rest lightly on the hilt of the flint knife in its sheath while his right hand continued its journey on the stiff parchment.

…Where deer and waterfowl and hunter drank from the same dark pool…
As he wrote, he let his eyes trace every contour shaped by the tiny leaping flame until he learned where his shadow ended and another began. Smiling, he dropped the swan’s quill, whose tip had run dry anyway.


The word, with its long “U” and sibilant sheeen, was a poem in his ears, as this young man was music in his eyes. Usheen.

“Let me see you, O Brother.”

oisean w trees
What had been a shadow rose slowly, as a tendril of smoke from a fire pit rises to the ceiling hole. Dub saw a man in his middle twenties with sable hair tumbled over wide shoulders, a youth whose delicate features and restless eyes still inflicted pain in his heart, after all these years of losing his darling, his breath, his Beatha.

Even in the dimness of the room, Dub saw his wife’s eyes reflected in those of her young brother…hazel, with a hint of storm-gray. Those eyes seemed to call forth the very spirit of the woods where until recently Oisean had made his only home. Beatha had always been the breath of bluebells; and her younger brother, the soul of man-shy deer.


sh collageThis article is the opening of  Chapter One, “Dubthach,” to be continued on this blog site.
* Warrior, Come Again, last novel of a trilogy, here:
~The Iron Warrior

One helluva ride: get into The Chase!

The Man in Romance

wwest noose 406


Chase sat staring into his computer screen. He brought up a new document from his iMac “Pages” icon and set the title to boldface, centered.

Buffalo Ryder

He sensed Brew behind him, then felt his warm breath just behind his right ear. Without acknowledging the sudden stirring of his crotch, he began to write the words that had kept him awake half the night.

Crane Ryder felt a deep exhaustion between his shoulder blades, a pain that increased with every step of his horse. It finally curled in his lower back like a rattler, nestled on his raw nerves. The figure in front of him walked with a stiff back that belied his own fatigue. Ryder knew the half-breed Indian was at least as shit-ridden with pain as he was, because he’d walked a few steps ahead of his horse, hands lashed behind his back, the last two days.


View original post 1,885 more words

Leather and Levi’s…pickup trucks and plain settings… Erin O’Quinn returns to her native State.

nobdim covers banner correxMy Nevada novels have finally found a “series page” home on Amazon. A reader can find all three with just one click (see below).

Why is Nevada important to me?

I grew up almost literally on a sidehill on the state’s highest mountain, the daughter of a self-made miner. I was a truant and a tomboy, living like a mountain goat in the highlands of the Silver State.

Both my wild upbringing and my writing background have prepared me to be a recorder of people living in the dark ages (The Iron Warrior series), and in the wildass mountains of my native state, because that’s literally how I grew up—using kerosene lanterns, a well pump, an outhouse, and a wood-burning stove.

My “no frills” attitude has definitely spilled over into these works.

series leather thongHere’s a current promotion which I hope will give a brief idea of each book.

A battered Silverado…a Ram turbo  dualie…a Ford 350…Just some of the vehicles of the men you’ll meet in the Noble Dimensions series.

Noble, Nevada. The affair between them is fast and unrestrained, in spite of Tony’s awkward naivete and Rick’s shrouded history. But the past of both men returns to fracture their present life together. What happens to put one behind bars, while the other runs? If love hurts this bad, can it also heal?

The Chase. Start with a smart-ass gay named Brew, back home in the hick town of Noble, Nevada for a few weeks. Blend in a shy man a few years older named Chase, unsure of his sexuality and buried in work on his dad’s ranch. Throw these two guys together. Stir in a crooked federal agent, a homophobic father…you get an adventure, a chase, and an erotic trip to the “new old west” of Nevada.

A Hard Place (novella). In the rugged Paiute Mountain range some fifty miles from Noble, a game warden encounters two poachers. One is a falconer with feral eyes who’s out to seduce him. The other is out to kill him.

no frills 3 in levisgay romance action- adventure, heat level 🌶🌶🌶🌶🌶

Series page:
~Noble Dimensions



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