Ira writes heat-laced fiction that cuts to the bone dark romance tangled with myth, frontier grit, and a pulse of wonder. Expect cinematic worlds, fierce intimacy, and characters who ache toward the light.

The work crosses borders: mythic space opera where prophecy tastes like smoke, modern Westerns where the road hums under a sky full of weather, and romances that aren’t afraid of teeth, tenderness, or the mess between. The stories go looking for power, consent, redemption, and the strange holiness of being known.

Why do I write? Because desire is a map, and I like getting lost. Because some nights the heart won’t quiet down until the page gives it a place to bruise and glow. I write to test edges, where tenderness meets heat, where consent turns dare into play, where shame dissolves into something honest and bright. I want readers to feel held and haunted at the same time: safe in the hands of the story, thrilled by what those hands might do next.

When I’m not writing, I’m out on Wyoming back-roads with a thermos of too-strong coffee and a glove box full of dog-eared maps, chasing storms, collecting rocks, and pulling over whenever the Milky Way tells me to. I tinker with my truck, lift just enough iron to think clearly, and carry a camera that somehow finds lightning and stray cats. I rockhound for jade, scribble lines on gas-station receipts, and flirt shamelessly with sentences that look like trouble. If you see a silhouette parked at the overlook at midnight, windows down, music low, that’s probably me, negotiating with a chapter.

Off the page, I’m a believer in slow burns, clear boundaries, and the kind of heat that leaves you kinder in the morning. Come for the myth and the mess; stay for the kiss that tastes like wilderness and ash.