Erin’s Kilt Complex

I have refrained from highlighting my own works on this blog. But I have a problem. I’m confronted with two different works, both about Scots and Nevada men, both entirely different … and yet they both are appearing at the same time. Confused? I am too. Here’s my chance to clear up the problem.

NEVADA HIGHLANDER  was published by New Dawn Press on December 10, 2013. The cover is by talented CA Rebecca Poole, owner of Dreams2Media. It’s a novel around 180 pages which is set in the “Wilderness Trail” universe of Eastern Nevada.

Some readers have wondered about Rory’s kilt. He wears it both at the beginning and the end of the book. In between lie the Levi’s and, frankly, nothing at all.

for 3x5 sizeHere’s a very short blurb:

Dressed to kilt …

Nevada Highlander is already an All Romance Bestseller  …

This is the tale of a larger-than-life Scot, Rory Drummond, who takes his talents to Nevada. Imagine a gorgeous 6’5” Highlander in a pair of tight Levi’s and a cowboy hat. Foogin irresistible.

The Highlander meets reticent, sexy State Trooper Alex who has been appointed to keep an eye on him. Rory doesn’t know that. What happens when the Scot falls arse-over-alligator boots for a man who’s being paid to … um … tail him?

Contemp. gay romcom action/adventure

~  ~  ~




Enter book number two. COWBOYS AND KILTS is published by Amber Quill Press. It’s a short story, a fantasy, around 17K words, written in response to a challenge from my publisher. Write a short story with the emphasis on a tattoo, and in the story show how that tattoo plays an important part in the relationship of two men. Whew. Did I succeed?

A short blurb is in order:

CowboysKilts 4x6

Lanky Hugh MacPherson wears his tattoo and his cowboy boots all the way from Nevada to his ancestral home in Scotland . . . only to find a clansman named Graeme Guthrie has a subtle way of claiming the boots, the tattoo, and the man who wears them.

On a tour to the sites of Pictish stones, Hugh meets the Laird of the Castle in the oversized, handsome body of Graeme, a man who traces his ancestry back as far as the tattooed Picts who carved those very stones.

What happens when two gorgeous men first lock eyes, then bodies, and at last their very spirits as foretold in the mysterious tattoos they wear?

Cover by Creative Director Trace Edward Zaber. This link will get you a naughty excerpt and bits of two 5-star reviews, not to mention an instant purchase.

The image below shows a kilt roughly the same tartan colors as Clan Guthrie. It’s not the same … just having a little fun.

kilt sitting

Now an excerpt from the story, told from the Nevadan’s point of view:

…Graeme stopped talking and started making love as though he’d done it his whole adult life. With Hugh lying on his back, he drew up his knees and spread his legs, then moved his balls a little and began to lick the gooch between the base of his testicles and his anus. Slow, slow, up and down, as though caught up in a mystery he was bent on solving, Graeme’s tongue, lapping, found his anus. Hugh moaned, an inarticulate plea for more.

He pushed Hugh over on his side, then maneuvered him until he was lying flat out on his belly, his legs spread. Hugh had just showed him how to rim an asshole, and now Graeme began to show his coach what a fast learner he was. He felt his lover’s thumbs spread him, and the first intrusion brought his entire ass off the bed. Graeme plunged and withdrew, wiggling his tongue, then sucking the entire length of his ass crack.

He heard his own voice, almost a banshee wail, pleading for more. And it happened. Graeme straddled him and entered. What filled him was a fucking Loch Ness monster, seeking the bottom, then resurfacing, until the sides of his tunnel vibrated in frantic lust and pain. Hugh pushed his ass at the monster, attacking it, mutely crying for more. A lushness of warm fluid, a sudden drowning wave filled him as his prostate thrummed and sang the music of the deep. He was home. He felt Graeme’s hot cum shoot inside his grateful ass, and he could not stop coming.

Afterward, they lay on their sides, curled into each other, both totally spent. He began to run his free hand along his lover’s muscled shoulder. Shit. They must have to tailor-make every jacket, every shirt for this giant. His own private Nessie.

The dark tattoo was almost a surprise. Not that having a Pictish mark was shocking, but he was astonished he hadn’t noticed it earlier tonight. It started partway down his left shoulder and ran halfway to his elbow. There was a sinuosity, a shape to it that scraped his memory, but right now he couldn’t make the connection.



“The tattoo. The sea monster. I felt it a while ago.”

He felt the sudden stiffness in Graeme’s arms and shoulders.

“What do you mean?”

“Hell, man. You mean you don’t know?”

Graeme’s face, framed by tousled red hair, lifted from his chest. “Tell me.”

“I have known this monster. Intimately. And now he is mine.”

In an instant, Graeme was sitting erect, his brows drawn as though he were angry. “You need to explain, Hugh.”

Now Hugh was a little rattled. He should have known that a fellow who’d kept to himself in an isolated castle, in a forlorn cradle of cold mountains, was not exactly your boy-next-door type. Right now, he exuded that same menace he’d sensed when he first saw him.

“I meant…your monster of a cock. Inside me. I see it again, riding your shoulder, as though you mean to tell me…something. Never mind, Graeme. Let it go, okay?”

“I need to know why you call it a…a monster. I have never seen it that way.”

Hugh put out a hand and touched Graeme’s darkening chin, feeling the cobwebby bristles. “Only a lover would see it that way. A creature of the deep. A fucking marvelous, twisting, hard-hitting warrior of a symbol. And I see it as being you. You, my warrior. My lover. Is that so hard to take?”

~  ~  ~

got kilt

Here’s an explicit excerpt from Nevada Highlander told from the point of view of the Scot Rory. Can you tell the difference between the two Scots Graeme and Rory? One is new to sex; the other is an old hand. But both are exuberant and fully aroused.

Rory had to admit, he’d fucked dozens of men. Big, small, and in-between … and that was their cocks, not their height and weight. He’d taken weak and strong, burly and thin. He’d seduced young sprouts, those his own age, men much older than himself. Rich and poor, educated and non. Now, for the first time, he emphatically wanted not to fuck. He wanted to make love. If only his whisky-riddled body would allow it.

He could not explain to himself why this reticent young man—a serious stranger not bent on finding a sex partner—why Alex should have roped him and pulled him in like he had. Was it the man’s very reluctance to admit his attraction? Could it be the passionate eyes, promising more than Alex could possibly realize? Whatever it was, Rory had never felt like this before. He was not simply attracted. He needed Alex Rodriguez at a level which might have scared him, he admitted, if he weren’t so bloody drunk.

The man he carried in the black night of a foreign place was almost as large as himself. And yet, in spite of the bulk in his arms and his pinched feet in the cowboy boots, he strode easily to an unseen bed, never loosening his mouth from Alex’s insistent hold, sucking a tongue threatening to choke him.

In a few steps, his knees felt the edge of a bed. He bent and laid his new lover on the surface. He wanted light, he wanted to watch that mobile face as he undressed him, needed to see those eyes that had rendered him helpless from the moment he’d jumped in and was drowned in a riptide.

He heard his own voice, rough with passion, as his lips traced the delicate edge of his ear. “Don’t move. Never go away.” He’d been in so many hostels, inns, hotels and other places of one-night relief that he knew he had only to roll a little and grope for a night stand. He did that, and found the push button on the bedside lamp. At a touch, pale light revealed his partner lying in his jacket and vest, trousers and hiker’s boots.

Alex was staring up at him, silent. Rory saw his chest rise and fall, ragged, uncontrolled. His eyes were pools of dark lust. He twisted his head, shut his eyes, and Rory saw the man try to swallow, then gasp, try again. “I can’t—”

Rory bent over Alex, cupped his face, again lowered his mouth and let his lips move on his lover’s. “Yes, yes, Alex. Alejo mio. You can, we can. Let me undress you.”

First he kicked off his own bloody boots. Still in the uncomfortable Levi’s, he took a few minutes to peel them off and to strip the shirt too, unmindful of buttons, his fingers becoming tangled in the goddamn tassels that hung everywhere, undulating in tune with the blood pumping and pounding in his cock. He straddled Alex with naked thighs burning to touch flesh to flesh.

Removing the jacket, then the vest, he talked his way down the shirt front. “I am not … a nimble-fingered man … when it comes to foogin buttons and seat belts.” Christ, the man had a chest the envy of any martial artist he’d ever encountered. The swells of his breasts, the peaks of the strawberry nipples, demanded his mouth. And so he bent and began to nip and pull, bite and lick, his erection feeding on the grunts and moans Alex was trying to suppress.

The metal button on the Levi’s finally yielded to his clumsy attempts, then the bloody zipper. He pulled the offending trousers down, met the resistance of his boots. Bloody hell! He somehow unlaced and removed the Timberlands, then pulled the Levi’s off completely. Still riding him as though he were a wild horse, Rory paused to admire the man beneath his pinioning thighs.

Alex’s hips were moving in the ageless rhythm of ungratified need. And his thick wedge of a cock was stiff, purpled. Needing him. The man still said nothing, but the canyons of his eyes begged for satisfaction, his mouth moved with inarticulate longing, every inch of his superb body screamed for release.

Rory tasted the cheap whisky churning in his gut, grateful it was slowing him down. Because on a normal day, with a foogin devil of an angel trapped under his thighs, he might have fountained already just looking at the high cheekbones and full, sulky mouth of an impossibly sexy lover. Even altogether drunk, he felt a ragged electric charge skip along every nerve, threatening to make him spill his cum, just watching Alex mouth his name.

kilt crop


6 Responses to “Erin’s Kilt Complex”

  1. Two sets of kilts. This is so not a problem…

  2. I don’t see a problem. Both stories sound super hot and delicious. Well done!

    • Hi, Ana, and thanks! Your words give me hope that readers will be able to distinguish one from the other. I hope you will find yourself among the fans of my boys … 😀

  3. Problem? Yup, there’s a problem. NOT ENOUGH KILTS!!!!

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