100 books like God of Fury

This was the first book I've read in a long time that I finished and immediately re-read. Lucca and Chloe's romance was gradual but star-crossed, safe but challenging. I ate up every word of it and melted whenever Lucca referred to Chloe as Darlin’.

What I loved most is that in previous books in the series, Lucca called other women Darlin’, but in Lucca he promises Chloe that she'll be the only he calls that. That heightened the importance of the nickname, but also proved the lengths Lucca would go to for Chloe, even if it was something that might not matter to anyone else.

This book sparked my love for Carian Cole's books, and I've one clicked on her books ever since.

This age-gap romance between Toren and Kenzi happened organically, and I loved watching their platonic love morph into romantic love. Tor’s pet name for Kenzi was Angel, which was fitting for the kind-hearted, strong heroine.

I think what most impacted me about the nickname was how it transformed throughout the book. At first, Angel was just a sweet endearment, but it matured as Kenzi did. Every time she worried about animals or showed concern for her dad, the nickname felt more and more fitting. 

I cannot explain why, but this book is the book I will always find some reason to recommend. Krit is my original book boyfriend, and Blythe is, if I had to pick, the character I would bring to life to be friends with. Krit calls Blythe “Love,” which always makes me smile.

I loved how simple it was to call her that, but it's not necessarily something we hear often in the United States. It was an endearment that wasn't overtly sexual–sometimes, he would call her that, and it was only to calm or comfort her. I also think it was perfect for the character of Blythe, who unfortunately hadn't felt loved by anyone before Krit. 

Stinger is one of the most original love stories I've ever read, and it's written in Mia's characteristic, heartfelt way.

Carson and Grace were both so easy to like, and they felt real. I'll never forget the scene where they're trapped in the elevator because I felt like an interloper trapped with them. Carson called Grace “Buttercup,” which is, of course, one of the romantic names out there, thanks to The Princess Bride.

When you read Mia Sheridan’s books, it feels like a possible wish–she doesn't write just happy ever afters; she writes dreams come true. 

I was a freshman in college and still closeted about my homosexuality when I found Numbers in an LGBTQ+ bookstore. The description on the dust jacket got my blood racing: in an effort to reclaim his youth, a handsome gay man strikes out to see how many sexual conquests he can rack up during a ten-day stay in L.A. I bought the book and read it in my dorm room when my roommate wasn’t around.

I got more than I bargained for. Along with descriptions of sexual encounters, the novel opened my eyes to the ramifications of internalized homophobia and explored the value of sex among an oppressed people who are persecuted for their carnal desires. This novel written in 1967 spoke to me across the decades. It still can.

Part manifesto, part archive of a fascinating and alluring sub-culture, Geoff Mains's book explores the possibilities of extreme encounters through pain/pleasure, BDSM, and role play in the leather community.

It’s not sensationalist although it examines ideas around sensation. It celebrates performance whilst honoring intimacy. It’s a book that would offer a reader of every sexuality an insight into some of their own fantasies and how to access them safely, and meaningfully.

I read it like I would read an exhaustive and tempting menu – picking out items I might like to taste myself and learning a great deal in the process. 

This book was essential background for my trilogy. What I like most is its descriptions of the different sex practices of the different homosexual “types”—lower/working class men (“trade” or “wolves”) preferred anal intercourse with boys or young men (“punks” or “lambs”); upper class men preferred oral sex with “queens” or “fairies.” Focusing on the Pacific Northwest of the USA, Boag does great research into criminal and court records, which were some of the only records of these “aberrant” activities. A bonus is Boag’s tracing of the influence of the Oscar Wilde trial (1895) on attitudes in the Western USA.

Interest in the German sexologist Magnus Hirschfeld and his Institute for Sexual Science (active 1919–1933 in Berlin) has grown since the television program Transparent included him in its second season in 2015.

Laurie Marhoefer’s new book challenges his status as a queer history hero, highlighting how his views on sexual emancipation, cross-dressing (as drag was then known), and transgenderism were embedded in racism and colonialism. Marhoefer also tells the lesser-known history of Hirschfeld’s companion in later life, Li Shiu Tong, who after Hirschfeld’s death in May 1935 continued his own research on human sexuality. 

Li’s previously unknown manuscript and notes—rescued serendipitously from a waste bin soon after his death in Vancouver in 1993—is a stark reminder of how many histories of sexuality are at risk of being (almost) similarly lost.

This book inspired my own integration of service and Zen. Issan Dorsey is a person who did not hold back. This portrait of a teacher whose creativity, love, honesty, joy, and compassion continues to awaken new possibilities for engaged Buddhism.

One of the qualities of mystery fiction that continues to draw me to the genre is the complex interplay between past and present. Nava’s 8th Rios novel utilizes separate narrative lines that resonate and then, like a parallel perspective drawing, converge in a powerful emotional twist. The first line is the story of Bill Ryan, a young gay man who, after being cast out of his home in Illinois, flees to 1970s San Francisco to discover himself and the gay community. The second line is Rios’s recovery from alcoholism and his investigation of Ryan’s suspicious death during the beginning of the AIDS epidemic. Ryan and Rios serve as foils: Ryan is a man losing the war with his self-loathing. Rios, in contrast, is winning his war.