Ready for a (literally) hot take? August is the worst month of the year. There, I said it. And I promise it has nothing to do with all the lovely Virgos and late Leos out there.
It’s too hot and sticky to function, there are no holidays to break up the work week, and as an author? Let’s just say that book sales take a massive dip in August. There’s a reason we call it the “summer slump.”
Every year around this time, I find myself desperately searching for small joys to help me survive until the first crisp morning of fall. An iced banana bread latte. A new-to-me coffee shop with impeccable vibes.
Perhaps a Rocky Horror Picture Show themed Portland Pickles baseball game with your author bestie? Been there, done that.
When all else fails, my favorite escape is simple: find a coffee shop with good air conditioning, order something iced, and disappear into whatever love story I’m working on that day. This time, that escape led me to…
This one’s for all of the spooky babes & goth-adjacent girlies.
If, like me, you’re spending the summer dreaming about sweater weather, swooning over morally gray monsters, and mentally planning this year’s Halloween décor before Labor Day has even arrived, Memento Mori Café belongs at the top of your Portland coffee shop bucket list.
Seeing as my coworking bestie, Meg—the incredible artist behind Fat Girls Smut—lives in Beaverton, and I’m up in North Portland, we often look for spots to meet between us.
Memento Mori Café, a woman and BIPOC-owned coffee shop with a menu rivaling Twyla’s Café Tropical on Schitt’s Creek, has quickly become one of our favorites. And it’s not just because of the gluten-free skulls, though let’s be honest, they’re cute AF.
This specific trip to Memento Mori happened to coincide with a heat wave, so naturally, I had to grab myself a Hell Raiser Gothachino. Think of it as a cookie butter milkshake with a smidge of coffee. I’m not usually a blended coffee girly, but when the time or opportunity arises, I will absolutely take advantage of it.
Do you prefer your coffee hot, iced, or blended? Does it change seasonally? Let me know in the comments below.
Also, and this reference will most likely only amuse the horror fans—and yes, I’m a romance writer who also loves horror—I can’t help but get this image out of my head…
As if we needed one more example of Hellraiser being one of the girls.
On another note, y’all should absolutely check out Meg’s new Members Only Mail Club. She is a HUGE advocate for plus-size romance, and her monthly mail club which includes stickers, original art, and book recommendations reflects that.
And with that, onto this week’s smutty sneak peek…
We’re still about eight weeks out from release day for my queer holiday(ish) novella, Serving Bunt, but if the rest of this year is anything to go by, that time is going to fly by.
Also, if you’re interested in getting your hands on an early copy of Matty and Diaz’s book, keep your eyes peeled… I’ll be looking for ARC readers soon.
Until then, I hope you enjoy this excerpt from the scene that changes these teammates’ relationship forever.
If anybody made sweat look good, it was Peter Diaz.
The guy could sell his by the bottle and make a fortune. Twelve ounces of liquid, salty goodness all for the low, low price of needs to be mine.
Plus, it would pair so well with his candle.
Holy hell, I was one step away from a glorified shrine to the man.
The tiny ball of brown and black fur curled up on my pillow pulled my focus. Mo was fast asleep, snoring like a chainsaw. She hadn’t so much as lifted her head.
“Twirl me,” Diaz demanded.
“Twirl yourself. I’ll just—”
“I don’t think so. You know, your moves weren’t half bad out there. A little stiff, but we can work with that.”
I snorted, crossing my arms. “Oh, we can, can we?”
“Starting now.” He held out his hand, palm up, eyes sparkling with challenge. “¡Dale! One dance. I’ll teach you.”
I hesitated, my pulse ratcheting up for reasons that had nothing to do with the tequila.
We had spent the past several hours dancing around each other, literally and figuratively. Well, he’d danced. I’d feigned indifference while trying—and failing—not to ogle him too obviously.
When I’d finally joined him on the dance floor, it had felt good. His radiant smile, the way his arms fit around me a little too well, a little too naturally. Close enough to feel his heat without crossing that invisible line that we’d drawn since Soren and Clarke’s wedding.
But now, with no one watching? That line felt thinner than ever.
“Fine,” I muttered. “But if I step on your toes, it’s your fault.”
I took his hand and his fingers curled around mine.
“I’m willing to risk it.”
The A/C rattled in the background like a half-hearted metronome, not that Diaz didn’t need it. He started humming again and began the basic salsa steps he’d been trying to drill into me all night.
“Did you talk to Bernice about your A/C today?”
Diaz nodded without missing a beat. “She said the earliest the repairman could come out was tomorrow. Until then . . .”
He batted his eyelashes up at me.
I rolled my eyes, but my pulse kicked up. “You can stay another night. Just . . . behave yourself.”
“What fun would that be?”
He picked up the pace and my heart rate accelerated. It was hard to know if it was because of the dance or the way our nipples brushed together.
“Okay, now forward with the left, back with the right.” Every muscle in my body seized when his hand drifted down my back, dangerously closing in on my ass. “One, two, three, hold four.”
I mirrored his movements, feeling awkward at first. My legs felt too long, too clumsy next to his fluid grace. He was like liquid sex to my uncooked spaghetti noodles.
But he didn’t seem to mind. He guided me with gentle pressure until the rhythm finally began to click.
“There you go,” he murmured. “Loosen those hips, tesoro.”
I stumbled again. Diaz laughed and the sound vibrated through his chest, close enough for me to feel it when our bodies brushed.
“Not bad for a country boy,” he said around a smile.
“You should see me line dance.”
Little did he know, I was a junior line dancing champion in the Southeastern region. None of my teammates were aware of that tidbit, and if it was up to me, they never would.
“Don’t tempt me with a good time,” he teased.
I nailed the next pass perfectly and Diaz whooped, spinning me under his arm like we were a couple in an old movie. I laughed loudly, the sound bubbling out unfiltered.
Fuck, it felt good to just . . . be.
With him, like this.
No cameras or teammates to see. Just the two of us, sweaty and silly in a log cabin the size of a shoebox.
Eventually, our laughter faded, replaced by a heavier silence. His thumb grazed the inside of my wrist, making my dick twitch. It was such a stupid, little move, like something out of one of my romance novels, and yet here I was, seconds away from coming in my jeans like a teenager.
The hand on my back pressed firmer, drawing me in until at last, our hips met.
Diaz’s breath hitched.
There was no way he could miss the hard line of my cock pressing against his front, threatening to break free. His eyes darkened, zeroing in on my lips. We were barely moving now. Just staring, breathing each other in.
I didn’t overthink it. I had spent too much time overthinking this thing, this pull between us.
Fuck it.
Let it have me.
“Matty—”
I crashed my lips onto his.
Thirsty for more? Preorder your e-book copy of Serving Bunt today—paperbacks and audiobook coming soon—and add it to your reading list.
Here’s to a new month, book baddies. As always…
Be feral. Stay dangerous.
xo
Want to join my Facebook reader group, Kelly’s Book Baddies? It’s a welcoming and inclusive space for ALL romance lovers to talk about their favorite books. 🌈
When you subscribe to my Substack, you’ll automatically receive exclusive access to my sapphic shortie, “Love is in the Air.” 🏳️🌈👩❤️💋👩 This spicy short was originally published in the (now out of print) Queer and Cute anthology.
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