We have another guest blogger here today..Please welcome Keta Diablo as she shares a bit about two of her current books…Keta, thank you for coming over..It is so great to have you…

Savannah

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CROSSROADS REVISITED
A Gay Fiction Erotica Novella
BUY FROM PHAZE PUBILSHING: http://www.phaze.com
By Keta Diablo
http://ketadiablo.blogspot.com
http://www.twitter.com/ketadiablo

Prologue 

 

Baltimore, Maryland

Present Day 

    Thomas Kincaid sat up in his bed and glanced at the alarm clock on his nightstand. Four AM. What had awakened him? Something, but his sleep-numbed brain couldn’t remember if he’d been dreaming or not. Snoozer didn’t bark, and Lord knows the beloved mongrel yelped if a leaf dashed against the windowpane.

    Ah, that’s right, the yipper accompanied his mother to the cabin for the weekend. He wanted to join them, but promised his professor his term paper, Human Cloning: Catastrophe or Medical Breakthrough?, would be on his desk first thing Monday morning. Guilt shrouded him. He shouldn’t have gone to the bar tonight. Should’ve stayed home and finished the damn paper.

    He paused for a moment, listening.  So slight, he almost failed to hear the subdued footsteps. His heart banged against his rib cage and a surge of adrenaline pumped through his body. What should he do, and where in hell had he left his cell phone? A silent groan left his lips. He’d left it in his backpack on the kitchen table, and the only live phone in the house sat on the bureau in his mom’s bedroom.

    He pushed the covers back and rose from bed. With the stealth of a cat-burglar, he walked toward the far wall and plucked his Little League bat from the wall—the one he used to hit the only homerun of his life. Not much of a weapon, but he felt more secure clutching the bat in his hand. He opened his bedroom door slowly, one inch at a time.

    The bedrooms faced the backyard, and around the neatly trimmed lawn and flowers beds stood a privacy fence. He learned long ago how to scale it. For some reason, he felt certain the noise had come from the kitchen, or perhaps the great room in the front of the house. His choices seemed simple—reach his cell phone or his mother’s room. Somehow, he had to call for help.

    The noise grew louder. Whoever entered the house seemed emboldened by the lack of response from its inhabitants. He slunk into the hallway and warred over which direction to take, left to the live phone line or right to the kitchen. He chose the first.  Better to call the police and climb out his mother’s window. His life held more value than television sets, stereos, or other material items.

    Please God, let it be a thief and not some maniacal killer.

    Every muscle and tendon in his body launched into high alert. He drew several deep breaths and talked himself down. Most intruders came for cash, jewelry, or hot items they could quickly pawn for drug money. Hadn’t he read somewhere most weren’t armed? Even if he hadn’t read it, the thought comforted him.

    He moved down the hallway toward his mother’s room as quiet as a church mouse, his only thought being to get to that phone. Still clutching the bat in his right hand, he slipped into the room, dashed toward the phone, and lifted the receiver with his left hand. At the lack of a dial tone, his heart sunk. Someone cut the line.

    A whisper warned him the burglar stood right outside the bedroom door. He froze and a sickening feeling took flight in his gut. This couldn’t be happening; this only happened to others, strangers you read about in the newspaper.

    Shit! The newspapers. The headlines loomed behind his eyelids?Fourth Student Found Dead in the Patuxent. The door creaked open, the sound reminding him of a scene straight out of Friday the Thirteenth.  A shadow—tall, dark, and intimidating—moved into the room. Through a shaft of moonlight, he saw the gun in the man’s hand, a nine millimeter he thought. In the other, the man held a flashlight and shined it into Thomas’ face.

    “Hello, Thomas.”

    Confusion stormed through his mind. He’d know that voice anywhere. “You! What are you doing here?”

    “And I thought you’d be so happy to see me.”

 Crossroads Revisited: http://www.phaze.com

 

* * * 

CARNAL CRAVINGS
By Keta Diablo 
Buy From Dark Roast Press
http://darkroastpress.com
http://ketadiablo.blogspot.com
http://ketaskeep.blogspot.com
http://www.twitter.com/ketadiablo

 

EXCERPT FROM CARNAL CRAVINGS

A gay fiction erotica novella

“You were instructed not to touch anything in the room, were you not?”

Craven turned abruptly and looked into the ice-blue eyes of the most magnificent-looking man he’d ever seen. Long, black hair touched his shoulders, sleek and shiny; the waves accentuated his olive skin and finely-chiseled features.

“Yes, sir, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“Didn’t mean to, or couldn’t help yourself?” The decadent creature advanced toward him.

Heat crept up Craven’s neck. “I-I, it brought back memories, sir.”

“Did it now?” the Greek God said.

Craven nodded and licked his dry lips.

“Perhaps you’d care to tell me your name and why you were snooping about my private property?”

“Craven Saunders, sir, and we weren’t snooping?”

“What do you call it, young man, agate-picking?” He shook his head, his voice stern. “I detest it when someone lies to me. At least if you are determined to spy on others, be man enough to admit it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir, what?”

Craven’s tone took on the innocent pleadings of a child. “We were spying, Mr. Beresford, but I promise it won’t happen again.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt about that, Mr. Saunders.” He arched his neck, the sleek, black hair gleaming beneath the soft candlelight in the room. “I must inform you that my valet, Higginbotham, claims you’ve been spying for weeks. Knowing Higginbotham is an honest man, I conducted an investigation myself last Friday eve.”

The man swiped a hand across his erotic mouth, the gesture turning Craven’s knees to marmalade and his already dry throat to an arid desert.

Craven hung his head. Damn, he could do nothing but confess. “Your man spoke the truth.”
When Craven garnered the courage to look at him again, the man gave a tiny shake of his head before speaking. “Craven . . . an odd name, is it not?”

“Yes, sir,” he interjected quickly. “It means?”

“I know what it means?weak, spineless, fearful.” The world tilted on its axis when the man advanced and raked him over with those deep, blue orbs. “Do the adjectives describe you, Saunders?”

“No, Mr. Beresford, sir, I don’t believe they do.”

He studied the man, captivated by smooth, silky cadence of his voice. If indeed Beresford stood before him, Anthony couldn’t have been more correct. Magnificently stunning, he oozed primal male virility. The dim light of the bedchamber could not hide it. His mouth full, his nose straight, every feature of his face finely-chiseled face had to have been crafted by a skilled artisan . . . or a patient God. Craven couldn’t drag his gaze away from the man’s luminescent orbs. His stomach somersaulted and he longed to be touched by him, fucked senseless. Had he been out in the sun too long that day?

“Well, we shall see about that.” The man’s slow, languid once-over sent shivers down his spine.
Closing the distance between them, he took Craven’s chin between his thumb and index finger, forcing him to look into those piercing eyes. “What makes you think my name is Beresford?”
“My friend, Anthony, told me Dominic Beresford’s eyes were the color of ocean depths, sir, so I assumed?”

He snorted. “Anthony? The other sniveling brat who, at this moment, occupies my parlor?”
Craven nodded again and felt his knees go weak. Breathing hard, a manly scent, tinged with spice, spiraled up his nose. God, would that he could take back this day.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-one, sir.”

“From where do you hail, and as soon as you answer that question, enlighten me on exactly why you made such a foolish decision to spy on me.”

“I grew up in Charleston, Mr. Beresford, and I, we, made the foolish decision out of curiosity.”

“What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care. William Shakespeare,” he quipped. “Do you know what it means?” He paced before him, the massive build distorting the light and other furnishings in the room.

“Yes, sir, it means curiosity killed the cat.”

Carnal Cravings, Dark Roast Press: http://www.darkroastpress.com