Grab onto your seats and hang on for a dark, fast ride that doesn’t leave you wanting! This is an extraordinary offering from the dynamic duo of Barbara Sheridan and Anne Cain. If you haven’t read their work before, and I admit this is my first, then you are really missing out!
You can read the rest of the review HERE
Interesting to me was a comment the reviewer made on how Dark Whispers contains scenes might push certain reader's "ick" buttons. There's no surprise there especially if you know how rough our boyz like ot play with one another but what got me was that s/he brought up the same scene that Mrs. Giggles was squicked by.
Anne and I and our editor find that particular scene to be one of the tamest things in the bunch.
Can you spot the squicky thing???
Sakurai moved through the darkened apartment, raising his eyebrows at the sparse furnishings. The entryway opened into a living area with only a leather sofa, a glass coffee table and a bar underneath the windows across from the door. To the left was an eat-in kitchen, noticeably missing its refrigerator, not that Sakurai would've used it anyway. Licking at the corner of his mouth, he tasted the bloody remnants of his evening's ”meal” and smirked.
A soft rustling came from outside the window over the bar. Sakurai crossed the room and pulled open the thick drapes. A fat, dark grey cat jumped through the opened window and rubbed against his hand, purring the whole time.
"You were stalking me all evening, sayuri." He laughed. "Did you think I wouldn't notice?" He'd spotted the cat's amber eyes peering at him through the darkness as he first walked past the apartment building in search of prey. The cat followed him through the whole course of the hunt, the only witness to the kill when Sakurai claimed a homeless street musician and drained the wretch as he slept in a doorway.
"Not a very impressive hunt," Sakurai murmured apologetically to the purring cat. "But nothing in this city has impressed me, either, so we're even."
Someone cursed out in the hallway, and the passion---the despair--in it took Sakurai's breath away. He was at the door an instant later, his hands caressing the stained wood as a sense of familiarity washed over him.
What kind of freak am I?
The man's thoughts echoed in Sakurai's mind, piquing the chiang shih's morbid curiosity. There was such anger and lust in this one, the latter maddeningly repressed.
"I'm starting to get the very annoying habit of speaking too soon. There may be something appealing here after all.” Sakurai whispered and chuckled softly.
Meanwhile, the man outside had returned to the elevators, cursing under his breath for having gotten out on the wrong floor. Soon he was gone, but Sakurai stayed at the door, laughing.
What was the thing the mortals said about New York—ah yes, the city is home to some of the most interesting people.
“Well my fur-covered friend—“ Sakurai broke off. The cat was gone, his presence undetectable in the apartment. Breathing a bored sigh, Sakurai decided to indulge in the one modern mortal custom he rather enjoyed—a hot shower.
Some time later, Sakurai sat on the building’s rooftop, his long hair still damp, the ends drying and blowing in the breeze sweeping in from the north. A presence prickled his vampiric sense and he looked over his shoulder. “So you’ve come back to visit, sayuri. And what’s that you’ve brought me?”
The corners of Sakurai’s mouth turned down when the cat dropped a pair of men’s underwear by his hand. But then the wind drifted past again, carrying with it the scents that clung to the black fabric.
Sakurai fingered the garment. Interesting. The odors he detected might very well have come from the person in the corridor. The flavor of the passion he’d sensed earlier was quite the same. His eyebrow quirked when his fingers brushed a wet patch of fabric and Sakurai lifted his fingers to his sensitive nose.
He lifted the pair of nylon briefs and flicked his tongue across the wet spot, savoring the man’s semen. Grinning, he reached out and stroked the fat cat’s head before sucking the bit of cloth into his mouth to extract the heady, violent passion-filled fluid from the fibers. “Very good, my friend. Very good.”