Winners? Did somebody say winners?

Yes, I did. Winners.  Lovely word, don't you think?

I apologize at taking so long to announce the winners of my two giveaways - the Hop Against Homophobia, and the Backlist Blog Hop. Granted, being without power for three days didn't help, but who am I kidding? I'm always late announcing winners. But better late than never, right?

First, the Hop Against Homophobia.

Three winners will receive their choice of anything from my backlist. The three winners are:

Jen B, 4bafec and koozebane!  Yay!

Now the winner of the $10 Amazon GC.....

Urb!

Congratulations to all the winners. I'll be contacting you via email soon!

Now for the Backlist Bloghop and more suspense!

The two winners are:

Debby and adoffae!

Congratulations again and stay tuned, the 4th of July blog hop will be here before you know it!

And the Winners are....

At long last, I'm here to announce the winners in two of my giveaways. Sorry for the wait. I had a temp job this week that drained  my energies. Had, as in past tense. I found out yesterday I don't have it any more. I didn't know enough Excel for them. They made no attempt to teach me, so I could utilize what I do know and strengthen it, but there you go. I'm unemployed again. Back to focusing on my writing, my editing and my blog! Good things come out of bad, right?

So let's not think about the bad and just move on!

Before I begin, let me tell you that I'm visiting at author Pat McDermott's blog, Across the Plain of Shining Books, and talking about Revelations. If you get a chance, please stop by and say hello!

First, my Blogiversary giveaway. The winner to receive a choice of anything from my backlist is:

Sherry!  Yay, Sherry!  Way to go!

And now for the Backlist Blog hop. For that we have three winners:

The two winners of a choice from my backlist are Kimberly and Kayla!

And the winner of a $10 Amazon GC is.....

Magic5905!


Congratulations to all the winners and thanks to everyone that stopped by my blog and participated. I appreciate each and everyone of you. I have two blog hops scheduled for February, both on February 14th, so be sure to keep coming by! I'll be in touch with the winners shortly!

Until next time, take care!

♥ Julie

Backlist Bloghop Continues!

Good morning and welcome to the third day of the Backlist Blog hop! Hope you're having fun, connecting with familiar authors and discovering new ones! Today I want to talk about a couple of other books on my backlist, and tonight I shall select a winner. Well, probably tomorrow morning lol  You  have until then to enter. Just remember to comment and leave an email address so I can find you!

I talked before about my first published novel, To The Max. Today I'd like to introduce you to two other stories, that are also published at Dreamspinner. First one is Sweet Dreams, My Love. I received the cover for this story first, a beautiful one by the very talented Dan Skinner, and I was to write a new m/m version of Sleeping Beauty.

I had fun writing this story, and I hope you enjoy it. It's about dreams and love and finding the love of one's life.

 Blurb:

Can love conquer all? Is there such a thing as Fate? Do dreams really come true?

To help pay for his mother’s convalescence, Jakob Kohl leaves his musical studies in Germany in order to be a paid companion to his distant cousin Albert. It’s not a pleasant existence, but Jakob does get to travel to Paris, where he meets a beautiful man who asks for his help… a mysterious man no one else can see. Jakob soon fears he may be going crazy, because he finds himself falling in love with Damien, who says they were brought together by Fate—Jakob is the only one who can rescue Damien from the shadowy world where he sleeps and waits for his dream of everlasting love and freedom to come true.

Excerpt:

The click click click of Toulouse Lautrec’s cane was a measured accompaniment to the perambulations of the artist and his youthful companion. The streets of Montmartre were uneven, cobblestoned, and given to steep inclines. Even the short distance that Toulouse and Damien had to traverse was difficult on the artist, but he never let it show, and his protégé was young and too intent upon their destination to notice.

The artist had not been born with this disability, but during his youth he had suffered from problems with each leg which, exacerbated by the close genetic tie between his parents, who were first cousins, had stunted the growth of his limbs even though the rest of him continued to grow, causing the legs to not be in proportion to the rest of his body. Although the stories that were told about Toulouse were quick to affirm that nature had not shortchanged him in the areas which were of immense interest to his lovers, perhaps by way of compensation for his lack of stature.

“Pere Toulouse, will I be allowed absinthe this night?” Damien leaned in toward the artist, slumping a bit to ease communication between them, to compensate for the eight or nine inches he towered above. For although the young man had been raised, as were most French youngsters, used to the consumption of wine, albeit watered, the green liqueur had always been off-limits. Tonight was a very special night. This was Damien’s eighteenth birthday, and it was also the night of his coming out party. And he was going to spend it with his twelve fathers at the infamous Moulin Rouge nightclub.

Twelve fathers? A biological impossibility! Naturally. And indeed, none of the twelve could claim the actual title of pere to this beautiful young man. But spiritually, all twelve of the artists who titled themselves the Dreammongers were his sires, for they had raised him among themselves ever since the fateful night, just eighteen years ago, when he had come into this world and their lives, while the Dreammongers were holding their annual revelry at the Moulin Rouge.

“Mais oui, mon fil,” the artist said with a nod. “Tonight you shall.”

Damien smiled. He could hear the sighs of the nighttime ladies of the Montmartre as he walked by, could feel their eyes upon him, aware of their attraction to his pearlescent beauty. He was very, very pale, a soft pallor which invited touching, and his platinum hair hung in lazy waves down to his broad shoulders, while his eyes were the green of sea foam, with traces of gold in their liquid depths. His full, rose-madder lips wore a perpetual smile, one which simply begged to be kissed. Damien was a very happy boy, and he loved his life here in Paris, and he loved his dozen fathers very much.

And now the nightclub itself lay just before them. That infamous den of iniquity.

Electric sex. That’s what came to Toulouse’s mind each and every time that he glimpsed the slowly rotating blades of the red windmill. The Moulin Rouge. Debauchery personified. Electric sex beckoned to him; it called his name and begged his participation. Lithe young limbs and warm embraces. Passion and music. Absinthe and opium. The Moulin Rouge was a purveyor of dreams. And Toulouse Lautrec was a most willing dreamer. He was an habitué of the most infamous nightspot in Paris, spending more time entangled in its spider web of sensuality than anywhere else besides his studio. The Red Windmill was the ambrosia with which he fed his muse, the nectar for his passions, and the fellow dreamers who frequented it became the impressions upon his canvases.

Toulouse paused for a moment, jostled by a pedestrian whose path bisected his own, also headed toward the nightclub. The gentleman in question had his head bent, his hat pulled low over his brow. “Pardon,” he muttered before disappearing inside.

From within, the sounds of gaiety spilled into the night, fingers of frivolity designed to ensnare the interest of the casual passerby. Toulouse paused, temporarily taken aback. For just a moment he had thought… but no, that was not possible. He would not dare to show himself here. Not after all this time.

Damien held the door for him, and the two men entered the Moulin Rouge, intending to pay their respects to the regulars before going to their private party.

Sweet Dreams, My Love is available from Dreamspinner Press

The second story is The Prince Wore Pink Stilettos. It was released as one of Dreamspinner's Nap Size Dreams, and therefore has no cover of its own. This story was inspired by something a friend of mine told me. She works for Kohl's, and one day she said her department was all in a fluster because a guy had walked in wearing a black skirt and pink high heels. Well, my imagination took flight, and the result was Prince!


Blurb:
I was eighteen and gay and working on prom night, a Cinderella without a prince, when a vision appeared in the coffee aisle: He was wearing a short, black skirt, a pale cream shirt that exposed his bare midriff, and upon his feet were a pair of very pink, very high stiletto heels. And he was my very own high school wet dream, Rob Marshall! Whodathunkit?

Excerpt:

It was toward the end of my shift, as I was adding some boxes to an end cap near the front of the store, making sure that each box was perfectly aligned with its neighbor—not that it would stay that way, of course, human nature being what it was, but I was determined that it at least start out that way. I wasn't paying attention to anything around me 'til suddenly I  heard my name being hissed, and I glanced around, startled, to find one of the checkers, at the nearest stand to where I was working, hissing at me, and motioning to me to come over. Her name was Michelle, and the only reason that she wasn't at the prom was that her boyfriend was grounded, but she was planning on sneaking over to his house after work anyway. I liked her, even if she was a bit ditzy. I straightened up, dusting my knees off, and made my way over to her, curious to see what had gotten her so excited.

"He's here. He's here again, that guy I was telling you about…." 

Guy, what guy? I vaguely remembered something she had talked about, but I hadn't taken her seriously at the time, as I believe I was wallowing in self-pity at that particular moment. Oh yes, the one that dressed oddly. Him. Skirt and heels, or something. "The one with the high heels?" 

I asked, just to make sure I wasn't imagining what she had said.

"Yeah, him. He's over there in the coffee aisle. You need to go sneak a peek," she said, giggling. "If it wasn't for the skirt, he'd be damn sexy. Oh, and the shoes too. But, yeah, go look. Betcha never saw something like that…."

Undoubtedly not, I thought, and I'm not even sure why I thought I wanted to, other than it was something to do, and I was feeling agreeable. It was almost time to go; there was little left to do, so why not, right? Or was it some sort of curiosity on my part to see a real cross-dresser, even though that term wouldn't exactly have entered my head. I cut a path down the detergent aisle—sometimes I hated to go through there, the heavy perfume scent bothered my nose; it could be so damn cloying at times. But I wanted to come up and around and nonchalantly stroll by the aisle where this person was, without appearing conspicuous. Serendipitously, I came across a stray can of Folgers which some considerate shopper had changed her mind about and thrust onto the nearest shelf. That would give me an excuse
to be in that aisle without appearing to be a gawker. I'd no wish to make anyone feel uncomfortable, after all. I'd waltz the can back into place, take a casual glance, and waltz
away again. Simple, no?

No.

Not simple at all.

Especially not once I had turned the corner into that particular aisle and found the object of my curiosity standing right in front of the Folgers cans—examining one with particular interest. From where I was, I could see he was looking at the medium roast. My own favorite.

Okay, first things first. He was wearing a skirt—black and short—beneath which his long bare legs could be seen, smooth and muscled, and very shapely. The skirt accentuated the fact that he had a very cute ass, as well. The shirt he wore was a pale cream color and bare midriff, so that I could see that his stomach was indeed flat. And upon his feet were a pair of very pink, very high stiletto heels. But it was obvious to me, from the first glance I got of him, that he was used to wearing them, as he rocked back and forth steadily, intent upon what he was doing, totally unaware of my presence. Or so I thought. I moved closer, trying not to be too obvious, my mission being to return the can of coffee in my hand to its proper home. But he must have heard me, for he turned his head…

…and oh my God, I found myself staring into the devastatingly beautiful face of Rob Marshall.Whodathunkit?.

Prince is also available at Dreamspinner Press.

Thanks for taking part in this Blog Hop! Hope you had fun! Come back soon, I have two more planned in February!

Until next time, take care!

♥ Julie

Backlist Bloghop!

A new month begins, a work week ends, and we' re having a bloghop! Yes, it's time for another backlist blog hop! First, let me say don't forget to visit the other authors on the hop and see what's up with them.

Second, let me tell you what I'm offering for my share of the blog hop. Two commenters will receive a copy of anything from my backlist, and one person will receive a $10 Amazon GC. Before you ask, I've not forgotten about my Blogiversary giveaway. That announcement is yet to come, so you have time to comment there too.

Now, let's talk about backlist. Granted, mine only goes back as far as March 26, 2010. That's when my first novel was published - To the Max - with Dreamspinner Press. So, what could be more appropriate than to bring my two boys here to talk to you about what's been going on with them, and maybe sneak a little peek into the future? They do have a sequel, For Love of Max, which was once published but is now homeless. But I intend to rectify that situation. Those of  you who own that edition, hold on to it, maybe it'll be worth something one day, as it is out of print!

Of course, the two men I'm referring to are Max Montague and Richard Burke. Come on out, guys. I beckon to them to join me in my den. I've already started a fire, 'cause it's more than cold outside and I remember how much Max hates to be cold. Just like me.

Richard, the blond, takes a seat on the couch, while I'm sitting in the arm chair. He pats his lap invitingly, but Max only blushes and takes a seat beside him instead. I can't  help but  notice they couldn't be any closer unless Max sat in his lap. Maybe later. I smile.

"I'm glad you were able to take time out of your busy days to join me."

"Well, it's not hard to do when you work at home." Max laughs. "You know I don't punch a time clock, and neither does Richard."

"Very true," I concede. "But not everyone here knows what you do, so why don't  you tell them?"

Richard speaks before Max has a chance to respond. "Quite simply, this is Max Montague, syndicated columnist, known throughout the world for his column, To the Max." Max looks a little disconcerted at such high praise. He's a rather modest man, somewhere in his mid forties. Richard's about the same age.

"And this is Richard Burke, well-known award-winning photographer."

That about covers that. "So,, have you guys been together a long time? You live together, right?"

Max nods. "Over twenty years. And we have our own little cottage in St. Charles, Missouri. That's near St. Louis, just across the Missouri River."

"We live right above the river, on a bluff," Richard adds. "In the woods, actually. We have a marvelous view and a lot of privacy."

"Oh yes, privacy. Something that's very important to me."

"Why is that so important to you, Max? Having privacy?"

He gives me a look, and then glances down. I watch Richard take his hand and squeeze it reassuringly. "It's all right, Max."

Finally, Max raises his head and looks me right in the eye. "It's because I'm a werewolf. I wanted to be sure that I wasn't a danger to any one on certain... nights."

"That's very commendable of you," I praise him. "Can I assume this is not common knowledge?"

"Not outside my family, and a few friends."

"Speaking of family, tell me a little about your mother, Juliet."

Richard laughs and Max rolls his eyes. "My mother is... something else. She finds it easier to accept my... lycanthropy... than my being gay. In fact, she likes to ambush me with blind dates of the female persuasion."

I try not to giggle as I can tell that won't sit well with Max, so I move on. "What about your father?"

That produces a scowl, as Richard shakes his head, as if warning me off the subject. I press on, anyway.

"Is it true that  your mother was..." Is there a delicate way to put this? I think not. "Raped?"

Max nods, and Richard steps in. "He has a half sister Diana who's priceless. She has a son of her own. His name is Jackson. He's a student of video games," he adds, mischief in his eyes. At least that has brought a chuckle to Max's lips anyway, and the tense moment has passed. "Max also has a cousin named Sebastian who can't stand me, and he hates to see public displays of affection." Richard's grin is downright impish.

"Let me guess. You love to give him lots of PDA's?"

"You know it."

I give  him a thumbs up and Max offers a kiss. Ah, how sweet.

"What about your mother,, Richard?" I turn to him inquisitively. The smile disappears, replaced by an affectation of nonchalance. Did I say something wrong? I look at Max.

"His mother is... different," Max supplies. "Her name is Moonsong."

Moonsong? Is that even a name? "That sounds... cultish."

Richard manages a laugh. "Out of the mouths of babes..."

I'm not quite sure how to take that, so I let it pass.

"She's not really a part of our lives," Max goes on. "She's off... doing her own thing."

"Oh, I see. One of those free spirits that refuse to be tied down?"

"Something like that," Richard remarks wryly.

The atmosphere just got a little depressing. Tiime to cheer it up. I know how!

"Hey guys, I made a cake. Chocolate, of course."  I see Max perk up at the news. "How about cake and coffee? And no more questions?"

"Sounds like a plan." They both nod.

So I guess that's it for today. Maybe I can coax them back on Sunday for a little longer. Now we're going to just relax, I suggest  you do the same.




We'll see you all later! Until next time, take care!

♥ Julie

Follow Friday and a Contest Winner

Happy Friday! TGIF, right? Today, I'm going to have a Follow Friday, AND I'm going to announce the winners of my backlist blog hop, so stay tuned for both!

Q: When you step out of your USUAL genre what do you like to read? Best books in that genre?

In all honesty, I do not have a usual genre. I read whatever appeals to me. I read mysteries, romances, yaoi, manga, history, crime drama, sci fi, classics, horror... just about anything. So what don't I usually read? I guess science books of the non-fiction type fall into that category. I'm not big on science, per se, but I am interested enough to read books on astronomy or genetics (yes, I find genetics fascinating). Best books? Off the top of my head, Cosmos comes to mind, by the late Carl Sagan. Not sure if this is science, strictly speaking or not, but I also enjoy criminal psychology. Just saying.

And now for the moment you've been waiting for, the winner of my recent Backlist Blog Hop. Drum roll please....

Yvette!  

Congratulations to Yvette! I'll be contacting you via email shortly!  The Howloween Blog Hop is coming up soon, so another chance to win!  Have a great day!

Until next time, take care!

♥ Julie

Let's do the Blog Hop Again

It's just a jump to the left... and then a step to the right... Oh wait, that's not the Blog Hop, that's the Time Warp! My bad!

But speaking about returning to the past...

I wasn't? Well, I should be, because this weekend is the Backlist Bloghop, courtesy of my friend and fellow author Sharita!   See the end of my post for more details about the hop. Right now, I think I'll mention some of my backlist and have a contest. Yes, a contest! I love contests, don't you? I'll choose two people to receive a copy of anything from my backlist. Plus, if I get at least fifty replies, I'll double that and make it four! All you  have to do is comment, and don't forget to leave  your email address!  Simple, right?

Also, I'm spreading myself thin today. I'm over at Cate Master's blog, so go see what's up there, why don't you?

A Special Christmas 

Blurb:  Christmas is coming to Prohibition era Chicago, and two young immigrants are about to have their world rocked.  When Florian and Nick meet by chance in a speakeasy in Romeoville, their worlds will never be the same.  Is it Chance, or has Destiny brought them together?

Excerpt:  Florian Donati could charm any woman with a single glance. One flutter of his fabulous baby blues was enough to induce cardiac arrest among the strongest females. One warm glance could halt all traffic within a thirty yard radius, never mind that disarming smile. His lips alone could make a nun regret her vows of chastity. Black wavy hair, free from artificial intervention, and a dimpled chin completed the perfection that was the twenty-year old Florian.

Florian remained blissfully unaware of his charms, for he was possessed of an almost child-like innocence, set within the body of a god. He was graced with a sweet and generous disposition, and the patience of a saint. As well as an undying love for the greatest singer who'd ever lived — the late Enrico Caruso.

When Caruso died, in August of 1921, the sixteen-year-old Florian had been devastated. He'd wanted to attend the funeral, in order to pay his respects. But that was logistically impossible, as services had been held in Naples, in the old country, home to his family for many generations. So Florian had to content himself with holding a private memorial service at the dry cleaners which his family owned and where he worked, in Cicero, Illinois. The only other person in attendance also worked there — his co-worker and friend, Loria.

The Donati family were long-time friends of Johnny Torrio — and in Cicero, that meant a great deal. The crime lord had been instrumental in their being in the dry cleaning business. He had brought them from New York with him where he had given them the funds for their first store —Donati's Dry Cleaning Emporium, on South Whicker— and they were very grateful to him. He helped them to buy the store in Cicero, and recommended the establishment to all of his colleagues. When circumstances forced Torrio into taking early retirement in 1925 (after nearly being killed by a would-be assassin, he decided that Florida possessed a certain charm), his business interests became the domain of his associate, the amiable and well-dressed Alphonse Capone. And just as Capone inherited Torrio's territory, so did the Donatis inherit Capone's dry cleaning.

The silver bell attached to the shop door tinkled whenever it was opened, signaling the advent of a customer. During the summer, the front door, as well as the back, remained open, mostly due to the heat from the equipment in the back room where the actual cleaning and pressing was done. This heat would build up until it virtually flooded every nook and cranny of the emporium with an intense warmth that was almost infernal. But during the winter, the store provided a welcome respite from the fierce Midwestern cold without.

Florian did not work the equipment, although he'd been around it all of his life. That was Loria's job. She also waited on the customers who came into the store, took their clothes and tagged them, checking them carefully for rips and tears, loose buttons that might otherwise meet an untimely end if not taken care of, and she supervised the dry cleaning that was actually going on in the back. She retrieved the clean clothes for returning customers, and she took their money. Florian's job was to keep the floor swept and the windows clean, keep fresh flowers upon the counter, and to help Loria with heavy lifting should she require his assistance. But his primary duty was to radiate sunshine, to make the customers feel at home — and to sing. Although he was no Caruso, and he had no desire to follow in his idol's illustrious footsteps, he had a sweet untrained voice, somewhere in the baritone range, and he was the delight of everyone that stepped foot inside Donati's.

Loria had been bugging him all morning about his singing. Not that she disliked it, far from it. She loved to hear her friend sing, she would listen to him twenty-four hours a day if she could. No, it was nothing against his ability to carry a tune; it was his choice of material. For here it was, almost Christmas, and he refused to sing any Christmas carols, preferring instead to favor her either with selections from his favorite operas, or with the Italian melodies he had grown up with.

"Uccello," she protested, leaning against the counter, watching him sweep the already immaculate floor. He was such a perfectionist. Uccello was the nickname he had acquired as a young child, when first he began to sing. Uccello canterino bello. Pretty songbird. "Uccello, just a little something for Christmas, for me?" The thirty-something blonde reached out as he came within reach and punched his shoulder lightly, in her typical Loria manner.

Florian was an accommodating guy, but he also had a bit of a mischievous streak in him. In fact, he was a very playful fellow. Pausing in his work, he wound his arms about the broom, as if it were a lover, and began to serenade her in his native tongue.

"Sul mare luccica, l'astro d'argento," he crooned, his beautiful blue eyes so expressive that Loria seemed about to cry. He sang to her of the sea, and the wind, and a silver star. By the time he got to the chorus, his heartfelt "Santa Lucia" did indeed bring tears to her eyes. She wiped at them unabashedly with the corner of her work apron. This was the nature of their relationship — nothing romantic, simple friendship. At times, Loria was like a second mother to Florian, having known him since he was just a boy.

The shop bell tinkled, but Florian continued to sing. He was used to an audience, and most of the customers were used to his singing, never interrupting his arias for something so crass as business. They invariably preferred that he finish before they proceeded. This customer was no exception.

Only when the last note was reverberating through the cozy shop, did he turn to find himself the object of admiration of a swarthy, elegantly dressed man. This man was flanked by two others in dark suits, obviously subordinates. Their professional glance never stopped moving about the shop, as if they were anticipating an ambush. The jagged scar, which cut diagonally across the first man's cheek, made his identity a surety.

For Love of Max  

Blurb:  Life is truly beautiful!  Richard actually asked me to marry him, do you believe it?  Of course there’s a small hurdle we have to cross – namely that gay marriage isn’t legal here in Missouri.  But it’s a start, right?

Things are looking up for us, now that I know the truth about Richard.  Our careers are doing well, we’re blissfully happy together, and Mother has given us her blessing!  My sister Diana is going through boyfriends like some people change clothes, I wonder if she’ll ever find Mr. Right? Cat’s cousin has turned out to be a real interesting character, and the most interesting thing is – he’s a werewolf!  And more disturbing than that, I think that maybe my father (that shadowy figure who’s never figured in my life) might just be someone named Jason.  It’s a long story.

Just when I thought I had things figured out, they change, and I find out that what I thought I knew was just so much nonsense.  In other words – lies.  Who can I trust?  Other than Richard, of course. And what should I believe?  And why does it seem like the world is trying to shake me out of my lycanthropic closet?

What’s a gay werewolf to do?

Excerpt:  "Max, quit wiggling and stand still!" Richard admonishes me, "or I'm going to get mascara in your eye, and that won't feel good at all. Not to mention it might get infected." Obediently, I still my movements. I don't relish having that wand shoved into my wide open orb. Or anywhere else, for that matter. And as squeamish as I am about germs, I've no desire to find myself fighting some sort of ocular infection either.

I'm not very sure about this, not sure at all. Yet I've allowed myself to be talked into it. Naturally. My silver-tongued boy of mine can talk me into just about anything. This can't be news to any one of you, whether you've been following this tale from the beginning, or arrived at any point in between. Max in Richard's hands is simply Silly Putty.

"There!" he exclaims with satisfaction, standing back to admire his handiwork. I can see by the gleam in his eyes he's very pleased with the result. Lust exudes from every pore as he scans my form. I pirouette prettily for his inspection and delectation as we stand together in our bedroom. I'm garbed in an ensemble consisting of a red silk corset, black garters, strategically torn black fishnets, and black platforms which if I'm lucky I won't fall from. I also have a face full of cosmetics—white foundation, blue shadow, kohl mascara, and eyeliner enough for several people. I draw the line at lipstick, though; I find the texture of it abhorrent on my lips. I don't even care for ChapStick. Richard accedes to my wishes. Says he prefers my natural shade anyway. It makes it that much easier to kiss me, which he proceeds to demonstrate. And if you haven't guessed from that description what we are about, it's Rocky Horror Picture Show night, and I'm dressed as Doctor Frank-N-Furter. Richard's been trying to get me to do this for some time now, and I've finally given in. Or given up. Surrendered. Cried uncle. However you want to say it, I've done it. Richard will play Rocky, of course, in a tight gold lamé Speedo which makes my blood pressure rise just looking at it, causing other things to rise as well.

"You're sure it's not too cold for that?" I ask, nodding at his skimpy costume.

"I have you to keep me warm, sweet thing." How can I argue with that? I can't, of course.

Not that I intend to let him walk out of the house like that; he's going to wear a long coat over the requisite white bandages, both of which only come off inside the theatre itself, and only to the gaze of the Rocky Horror aficionados. I myself have a black cloak, ala the mad doctor, and I won't take it off 'til then either. Unless I regain my sanity in the meantime, and refuse to take it off at all. Is that very likely? You tell me.

"You know something," he says, his eyes continuing to caress my costumed figure blatantly, "I think if you offered yourself up for the Virgin Auction, you'd probably fetch a good price. I'd certainly bid on you."

"Fat chance of that," I snort derisively, "I know better now. And besides, I no longer qualify as a virgin, as you very well know."

He smirks at me in return. "I've quite taken care of that, haven't I?"

"Very funny, that's not what I meant, and you know it. Besides, I wasn't a virgin when we met, if you'll recall. You didn't seem to object then, now did you? No, I was talking about the first time we went to see Rocky Horror, which would be the only time that we were actually virgins. In that respect, that is."

He moves closer, his arms sliding around me, his hands caressing my buttocks through the medium of the silken material between us. "You wouldn't even dress up," he remembers, a soft smile gracing his face.

"No, I wouldn't." No argument there.

"No, you wouldn't," he echoes, his lips running softly over mine, "and if you want to be technical, we didn't even get to see it, did we?"

No, we didn't. All my fault. That time.

Don't forget - less than fifty comments, two lucky winners. More than fifty - four winners! You have until midnight Sunday to enter!

Now, on to the Blog Hop!