luninosity

Things've been busy and I've been forgetting to do these! For anyone on FB,Rainbow Snippets is a Facebook group for LGBTQ+ authors, readers, and bloggers to gather once a week and share six sentences from a work of fiction–a WIP or a finished work or even a 6-sentence book recommendation.

(Because I'm me, it's never just six sentences...)

This week, I've got something a bit special...

...way back when (okay, 2018), A Demon for Midwinter was my first-ever published novel! (Not the first novel I finished writing - that was Prophecy - but there were some delays with that appearing...) And now...well, next month, March 12...several bonus stories and a lot of love later, we're bringing that era to an end.

Because JMS Books is putting out the full complete Demon box set, with new cover art, and the novel, novellas, and bonus shorts all in one place.

And...there'll be one brand-new bonus short in there, just for you. (Well, okay, we're also releasing it separately, for 99 cents, so that no one who's already bought everything feels forced to buy the set again!

It's called "A Demon's Very Good Morning," and it's essentially 3k of Kris and Justin on a lazy domestic morning, being in love. It's also Justin POV, because, well, we needed more of that (and the way he thinks about Kris is a delight).

Here's the beginning...

#

Justin Moore was not a morning demon.

He never had been, and he did not particularly want to be now. He pushed himself up on an elbow, yawning. The silky dark blue tumble of their sheets made a snail-shell around him; he curled back under them, a huddle of warmth lit by his own fiery hair, and thought about what had awakened him, and why.

Kris wasn’t in the bed, and that wasn’t a surprise. Justin tucked one hand under his cheek, and let lazy senses—half human, half not—stretch out and soak up the low purr and hum of Kris’s emotions. Kris Starr was a lusciously strong empath, and a better projector than receiver; it’d been one reason Starrlight had always had such fabulous stadium-filling live rock shows. Kris could drink in the passion, the excitement, the screams, the cheers, and give it all back a hundredfold.

Kris Starr, or rather Christopher Thompson, behind the decades of glitter and spandex and hair, was the very human morning person Justin wasn’t. And, right now, was thinking about something, with hushed and complicated feelings in Justin’s head.

Justin yawned again—eight in the morning was not an hour at which demons should be expected to awaken, especially when they’d been up late working on their second novel, plus having fantastic sex with a rock god husband—and unearthed a leg, and another, and then got up and fumbled his way into vivid purple pajama pants and a loose grey shirt, because the air was cold, and wrapped himself up in the rainbow-striped knit blanket from the end of the bed. And then he wandered out to their living room.

Early June light bloomed palely from the big picture windows, up on their penthouse floor. New York City sprawled out below in spires and glitter, steel and brick and dreams. Home, Justin thought, as he always thought; and he meant the city, and the penthouse, and the man he loved, who looked up and said, “Oh, gods, sorry, didn’t mean to wake you, love!” with genuine dismayed apology.

“I want to be awake if you are.” Justin came across the room, tripped over the edge of his blanket, flopped into an ungraceful heap of horns and lightly pointed claws and long limbs next to Kris on the couch. “Talk to me.”