Guest Post: Kenzie Michaels with NiKoh’s Chosen Sneak Peek

Thanks for having me today, BC!

WOW….where did the month of April go?   Stress really got the best of me this month.

Planning a blog tour is easy.  Simply find out your release date, then ask people to host you.  Pick out your excerpts and voila, you’ve got it all worked out.

But….one tiny problem.

I don’t know about you, but I really dislike following someone around on tour, with my eye on the promise of free books, swag, etc, and seeing the same excerpt over and over.

I try to mix things up; I interview characters, I tell the ‘story behind the story’, and best of all, try to post different excerpts without giving the entire plot away.  This proves tough at times, and it is a huge undertaking, especially when LIFE throws you curve balls.

Case in point:  I had minor toe surgery last week, only I hadn’t counted on being uber sensitive to the numbing medication.  I was out of commission for an entire day and a half, which totally wrecked my promo-writing schedule!  I humbly apologize to the wonderful people who agreed to host me on these last few legs of the tour, and promise to do better in six months, when I’ll be scheduling another tour.

Yes, you read that correctly.  Book #3 of The Chosen is due out in-wait for it-September or October.  Hard to believe, right?  One of the hardest things I’ve done, besides cranking out original promo posts this month, was signing a contract for four books before they were even written.  Maybe I

need to have my head examined?

It’s been a challenge, one I don’t look to repeat.  When book #5 is released, I may need a week-long vacation at a spa.

But Kenzie, you just said-

Yes, I know.  I’ll go to the spa after book #5’s blog tour is finished!


Still mourning the tragic death of his beautiful mate, could another Chosen one already be waiting for NiKoh SiLah? To avoid what he’s not ready to accept, he throws himself into his work at Planet Security. 

Leaving the Academy behind to follow her dream of working with animals, GiNae SoJae returns home. Preoccupied with work and not ready to take a mate, she’s horrified when her body enters Maturity. GiNae fights the changes occurring within her. But during nightly dreams she cannot control, an unknown man teaches her the secrets of her body.

Will NiKoh and GiNae succumb to the paths they think have been chosen for them or will they discover the true Chosen life that awaits them? 



“NiKoh?” ViShe pulled away and walked toward the bed, her long orchid-colored hair, shot with a few threads of silver, flowed over her shoulders and down her back. She turned to face him, arms behind her back. “I’m not as young as I once was. Would you mind lowering the lights?”

NiKoh did as she asked. “You think you’re nervous?” He smiled and pulled his tunic over his head, dropping it on the floor. “For nearly three months, I’ve been trying to picture myself with your daughter. Thankfully it was just a case of mistaken identity.” NiKoh loosened his slacks.

His mouth went dry as ViShe’s dark dress pooled at her feet, revealing curves he’d not realized she’d had. Large, pear shaped breasts rose and fell with her breath. NiKoh felt his cock strain as he pushed the pants from his hips and stepped out of them. He kicked off his loafers and walked closer. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

A finger traced his engorged penis. “Oh my.”

NiKoh palmed both breasts, loving the weight, shape, and feel of bare female flesh beneath his fingers, then bent to take one in his mouth, hearing her breath hitch.


He suckled while massaging the firm breasts, felt her nipples grow taut. Straightening up, NiKoh scooped her up and laid her on the bed, then lowered himself above her.

“We’re not teenagers anymore.” Her teeth nipped his ear while her fingers curled around his cock. “I don’t require foreplay.” NiKoh felt her knees draw up as she guided him into her snug pussy. “Oh!”

He took his time, she was so tight. “How long has it been for you?”

“Thirteen years…oh yes…that feels good…” ViShe’s hands smoothed down his arms as she sighed and raised her hips higher.

“Ahhhhhh…” NiKoh felt her snug channel relax after he worked his way in. He smoothed her hair from her face. “This does seem right. You’re so tight, ViShe. I’m going to move now.” He backed up, then plunged, taking it slow for a while, then fast, as they learned each other’s rhythms.

ViShe’s moans grew higher in pitch and NiKoh felt her muscles grip as she reached her climax. He worked his hand between them and found her chi, causing her to spasm over the edge with one stroke.

With a shout, he emptied himself fully, then collapsed beside her, stunned at the idea his new Chosen had lived under his roof for sixteen years.

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Thank you again for having me!  I’m holding a month-long contest.  Simply comment with your contact info and after the tour is over, all names will be tossed in a hat for a Grand Prize, a special gift pack full of goodies, along with a free book awarded daily.

Kenzie Michaels resides in the Midwest with her husband, three children, and various household pets. Her fifth-grade teacher showed this avid reader how to write the stories swirling in her head, successfully unleashing her imagination upon the written word.

Kenzie is the ‘wild child’ of author Molly Daniels. They cohabitate nicely inside the brain of a woman in Indiana who’s the mother of three and ‘Aunt Molly’ to the entire neighborhood. A devout chocoholic, her hubby has learned to watch out when the characters in her head take over and not get too upset when the words are flowing and all concept of time is lost. (LOL)

We Don’t Need No Stinkin’ Sick Days!

Colds suck. Your head feels a million times its normal size; your nose has become a faucet with the “Off” broken; and someone has poured hot lava down your throat. All you can do is sleep (when the coughing doesn’t keep you awake) and drink enough tea to drown the Asian continent. What you can’t do, especially if you’re a freelance writer or editor, is stop working.

Jobs get sick days. That is most jobs for companies. The kinds of jobs most people work. Freelancers, while we have tons of freedom to set our own schedules and take time off between projects, is little more than chained to a writing instrument when mid project/s. Clients don’t understand sick days; they understand deadlines and results. Why? Because usually, if they’ve hired a freelancer, they’re under a deadline as well. The need the results, and they need them as quickly as you can get them churned out.

A freelancer is left with little choice but to work, even when they’re sick. Personally I like to create a nest of blankets, pillows, heating pads, and cough drops with my laptop, hot tea, munchies, and reference materials (usually internet cued up on my telly vs on my laptop as a distraction from the document I’m working on). In my little spot I look very much like the junk lady from The Labyrinth. But the important thing is that I’m working.

Being a freelancer requires a lot of discipline and self-motivation, as well as an ability to think outside the box. But it also requires a lot of self sacrifice (even though it can be incredibly rewarding overall). Today, with my boxes of tissues surrounding me, my kettle constantly refilled on the stove, and my cough drops lined up where my gummy bears would normally be, I may be sacrificing a little sleep, experiencing a few aches and pains, but I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that, even with a nasty bug, I kept a promise; I was able to produce quality work before my deadline date. For that accomplishment I suppose I’m willing to look a little like an episode of Hoarders: The Early Years.

BC Brown is the author of three novels and has participated in multiple short story anthologies. Having

committed almost every ‘bad deed’ in the book of ‘How to Be An Author’, she now strives to educate other writers through humor and simple instruction.

Random Rant : Another Random Day

I studied a pigeon today. For no other reason than because it shared a patch of sun with me. Glorious watching its feathers turn from gloomy gray to brilliant teal and blushing pink. But then we passed one another and I was just left with the sun.

A girl caught my eye today. She was of a type I like, of course. I doubt she would have caught my eye otherwise. I noticed how very young she seemed.

What is our preoccupation with youth? We associate beauty with youth more than with age. There are always exceptions, but you understand what I’m saying. Is it some evolutionary predisposition? Do we desire younger mates due to some pre-programming of perpetuating the gene pool? Or is it the innate fear of death? Maybe we seek younger mates, associating beauty and desire with them, because they are farther away from death?

After she caught my eye, I shook my head, dispelling the image and dismissing her. But now, despite the action of forcing her from my mind, by immortalizing her by word, she’ll be in my memory. Which is weird since, even by my own account, she wasn’t extraordinary. Only less ordinary because, for a brief second, she intrigued me. Then I turned a corner and she was gone.

I ordered a chai tea today. It’s the first one I’ve had in ages. I’m trying to be healthier, lose a little weight and tone up. A.K.A. fight the advances of times and the certainty of gravitational effect. Chai tea has a ridiculous amount of calories, not to mention too much caffeine and sugar. And don’t get me started on the oddity of drinking cow’s milk (not something I’d considered before I met The Doctor and he brought it to my attention) where we are literally stealing food from a baby. Although odd that I don’t have the same aversion to cheese made with milk allowed to go rancid or meat, quite literally the baby itself.

I ordered it today though because I’m weak and have distinct willpower issues. Plus hot tea just sounds good when reading, which is what I’m here to do at the coffee shop nearly three hours before the rest of my writer’s group will be here. My tea is too hot to drink at the moment, so I elected to let it cool before I crack a book. Hence why I’m writing another slice of life I’ll probably never let anyone read. But maybe I will. Even though I had something to drink on the train (still Vonnegut, still Hocus Pocus) it feels weird to sit in anyone’s coffee shop and read and not drink coffee or tea or some specialty beverage that has made coffee shops a daily staple in peoples’ lives for the last several decades. Especially since the nineties. That would be 1990s. Just in case someone does read this in, say, 100 plus years from now.

BC Brown is the author of three novels and has participated in multiple short story anthologies. Having committed almost every ‘bad deed’ in the book of ‘How to Be An Author’, she now strives to educate

other writers through humor and simple instruction.

Random Rant 70: #DeafGirl Issues (pt Tres)

A little while back (and even more a little while back before that) I posted about issues I run into as a #DeafGirl (or hearing impaired person). I mentioned how inaccurate closed captioning was a big pet peeve of mine (you can read it here) and how people continuing to try to talk to me after they learn I’m deaf was something that really does happen (you can read about it here). But I’ve recently ran into a series of experiences that I’ve added to my revised list:

Physically/verbally accosting a deaf person who “ignores you” while you try to talk to them.
Seriously. This has happened to me. Recently.
In one instance a male person attempted to catcall at me (apparently). I, unencumbered by my hearing aids (“ears”) that day, didn’t hear him as I strolled across the public library parking lot toward my next destination – a quiet lunch at a fast food style sushi restaurant. The male person (insert the word dick) proceeded to cross the parking lot and move right in front of me, an angry expression on his face. He then started talking to me. Given my particular hearing loss, I caught maybe every third or fourth word he said – angrily. I do (often) piece together what people are saying by partially reading their lips so I tried and couldn’t follow it, it was too fast. (I can’t follow entire conversations this way, mind you, but I can fill in the gaps, if people are talking slowly enough for me to do so, and if everyone is facing me directly.)
I 1) apologized to the guy and said I was deaf and couldn’t hear him, and 2) asked for him to wait a moment so I could put in my hearing aids in order to understand what he was saying since it seemed important. 
Do you know what he did? He actually waited for me to put in my hearing aids so he could call me an “uppity bitch” for being rude and not answering him when he catcalled me. Yeah, that’s right; I’m rude because you’re an immature ass who thinks catcalling a woman is a good way to get their attention.
In the second instance, Phoenix has a lot of homeless. The year-round warmth means that we have more than our fair share of homeless for roughly nine to ten months out of the year. Normally I don’t mind. I’ve been a long time advocate for the homeless. I carry food and water and blankets (during the winter) in my car. I stop and give money (usually only change since I don’t care much cash on me) and food. To me, these people (temporarily down on their luck and without a means to support themselves) are just people. They’re like me, and they just need a break. I like to think that (maybe for some) I’m that break.
I’m not saying this for kudos. I’m saying this because recently one of my confrontations over being deaf was with a homeless person, and I don’t want readers to think I am the type who considers homeless people invisible or invaluable. As The Doctor said in Season 6, Episode 0: A Christmas Carol: “…I’ve never met anybody who wasn’t important before.” 
What happened this time was interesting. I was wearing my hearing aids, but my battery had died in the right one (my most deaf {hee hee} – deafest?) ear. I was on the train to downtown Phoenix, where I planned to buy new batteries at a drug store, when an elderly (although she might have just been life beaten and worn for all I knew) lady, clearly down on her luck, all her belongings on her back or piled in a battered wheelchair, approached me. Reading, my head down, I didn’t hear her, especially since she came at me from the right. All of the sudden she grabs my arm and shakes it!
Startled I dropped my book and knocked my back pack onto the floor, its contents spilling all around. The woman is yelling about me ignoring her. (Apparently she’d asked me a question I didn’t hear, intent on my book and a hearing aid short.) Finally focused on her (and usually having no trouble hearing women – or kids – when they speak) I understood she was mad because I’d ignored her. When in reality I just hadn’t heard her. 
I tried to explain about being hearing impaired, but the woman scoffed and said, “Sure. Whatever. Big on excuses.” Then she dropped my arm and stormed away from me to sit by the door (I was seated in the bike section). A nice teenager helped me pick up my stuff from the floor, even chimed in how mean the woman was, and apologized on her behalf (which was unnecessary but nice).
So, yeah, I guess I have a new pet peeve. Getting angry with someone for not hearing you when you speak. You don’t know why a person didn’t hear you. Maybe they were focused on their task; maybe they were lost in their thoughts; maybe they can’t hear: anyone, at all? Don’t think that because a person doesn’t respond to you they’re being deliberately rude. The world doesn’t revolve around you, and if you think it does:
You’re an asshat.


BC Brown is the author of three novels and has participated in multiple short story anthologies. Having

committed almost every ‘bad deed’ in the book of ‘How to Be An Author’, she now strives to educate other writers through humor and simple instruction.