2023 Top Ten Gay Romance is now live!!! Every year, JMS Books puts together an anthology with the ten best-selling gay romance short stories of the year, and it’s now available in the shops 🥳
2023 Top Ten Gay Romance
2023 Top Ten Gay Romance brings together the best-selling short stories published by JMS Books that year.
From first love to true love, from submission to sensual, from heat to sweet and everything in between, the couples in these stories are sure to keep you turning the pages as you fall in love with them.
With stories by T.J. Blackley, Holly Day, Nell Iris, Shawn Lane, Eve Morton, K.L. Noone, Charles Payseur, Glenn Quigley, Mere Rain, and Ellie Thomas, this head-over-heels collection goes beyond bedtime reading. Whether happily ever after or happy for now, there’s an ending for everyone in here!
Contains the stories: The Wedding by T.J. Blackley, Saved by the Bear by Holly Day, After Marcus by Nell Iris, Loving the Boss by Shawn Lane, My Roommate Kyle by Eve Morton, December Beginnings by K.L. Noone, Fieldwork by Charles Payseur, The Great Santa Showdown by Glenn Quigley, Nice and Vicious by Mere Rain, and A Christmas Engagement by Ellie Thomas.
Buy links:
Gay Romance: 120,104 words
JMS Books :: Amazon :: books2read.com/2023TopTen
Excerpt:
(From After Marcus by Nell Iris)
Marcus Nyman 1972 – 2018. Beloved husband.
“Hey you,” I say, caressing the headstone, knowing he’d be so pissed off at me for driving on a pitch-black December night and in such awful weather conditions.
What’s so important you need to risk your fucking life?
“You.”
A dead guy is never more important than your life, precious.
Precious. He never used endearments unless he was being ironic or upset at me for some reason.
“I needed to talk to you.”
His imaginary voice in my mind is right, though. I was irresponsible driving here, barely paying attention, after not sleeping at all. I’m lucky I managed in one piece.
It’s past four in the morning and the winds have picked up, sneaking underneath my clothing, whirling the falling snow around me until it finds its way into my ears, underneath my scarf, attacking me from every direction. I need to stand up right now and leave, or I won’t be able to drive home.
But I remain in my spot, needing to be close to him.
You’d be closer to me in our home, my treasure. These are just my cremated bones, they’re not me.
I know. His presence still lingers everywhere in the house we bought ten years ago when we needed to get out of the city. The people, the cars, the constant noise levels were all stressing me out, making it impossible for me to focus on my writing. When Marcus got a job offer from another university, we leaped at the chance to get out. That’s when we bought the house.
We met Joar the second day after our moving truck had dropped us and all our belongings off in our new home in the forest.
Marcus was the first to spot him as he came walking through the trees. “Oh-oooh, here comes trouble,” he said, and when I joined him by the window, I could understand his concerns.
“The trouble” my husband referred to of course Joar and even at a distance, he was huge, and he was dressed from head to toe in camo clothing. His long legs ate up the distance between the forest line and our house, and as he approached, I noticed the rifle resting in the crook of his elbow. But the weapon was open, the double barrel pointing down, and even though his face was serious, he didn’t look angry or menacing.
“Stay here,” Marcus said and stepped out onto the porch.
I snorted. His protective streak was ridiculous, but he knew better than to try to get me to stay put like I was a spoiled lapdog. I followed him outside, stepped into his space, close enough for our shoulders to touch, and slid my hand into his. Together, united as always, we waited as Joar approached.
Joar didn’t blink an eye at us holding hands. He just introduced himself, told us he lived further up the road, and welcomed us to the neighborhood before he left again, disappearing into the forest to go hunting.
“He was unexpectedly nice,” Marcus said after Joar left.
“Don’t be a judgmental jerk,” I said. “He doesn’t have to be a bad guy just because he looks a little rough.”
“Yeah, but the rifle didn’t help the impression that he’s not going to be on Santa’s nice-list this year.”
“Well, look at you. You look like a perfectly respectable, dry professor in your tweed jackets, but you’re definitely on Santa’s naughty list.” I pinched his ass.
“I am a respectable, dry professor.”
I stepped into his space, so close our noses touched, and grabbed his crotch. “You’re a professor, yes. But you won’t be dry,” I gave his dick a good squeeze, “when I’m finished with you.”
Marcus chuckled. “Seriously, Ossian, you need to work on your seduction technique.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
I flipped open his jeans and shoved my hand into his briefs.
I jerk out of the memory and shake it off; it feels wrong to think about things like that in a cemetery. Is it even allowed?
Don’t be a prude, Ossian. It’s not like you.
No, I never was a prude. I couldn’t keep my hands off Marcus, not even after being with him for close to twenty years. His body, his mind always excited me in a way that no one ever had before I met him. And all those feelings died with him. When he was no longer around, my body shut down.
My grief counselor said it was natural, that it was a part of the process, but I never really believed her. I was so certain I was going to live out the rest of my life like a dry husk, feeling nothing but pain and sadness. I’d never experience closeness again, or the exhilaration of being turned on by another person.
Seems I was wrong.
I don’t know when things changed, when my body started thawing, even warming up to someone else.
It seems to me you’re more than warmed up, baby.
“Shush,” I say without heat. But I need to know. “Would you mind?”
You know I wouldn’t.
I do know. He said it once, one night as we were cuddled up together after making love. “If I die before you, I want you to find someone else.”
At the time, I was furious with him. “Don’t say shit like that, you’re not gonna die.”
“Everyone dies, Ossian. And I don’t want you to be alone.”
Oh God, I’m so alone. I don’t want to be alone.
Ofelia Grand 