Spank Me Twice - Wins Best Erotic Book of 2009

Spank Me Twice recently won Best Erotic Book of 2009 at Love Romances Cafe. Here's an excerpt from the anthology written by Tara Nichols, Amber Skyze, Jude Mason and Keta Diablo.

More about Spank Me Twice here:  Noble Romance

And don't forget to read about Spank Me Twice on GLBT Bookshelf

Note: Keta Diablo's story "Lip Service" is a male/male contemporary.

Setup: Bryan is stuck out of town due to a mechanical problem with the plane. More than disappointed, Navarre figures out a way to go to Bryan, but is shocked to find another man in Bryan's room when he arrives.

* * *
Excerpt:

The table is set with our best china.Wedgewood, the Florentine pattern. My hands tremble when I remove the linen napkins from the hutch drawer and place them to the left of the plates. Now, if I can only remember to light the tapered candles.Ocean Breeze, Bryan’s favorite—before he comes through the door.

I so want everything to be perfect as we celebrate our fifth anniversary. Glancing around our condo, I smile. Picture perfect, the way Bryan likes it. Maybe he’s forgotten about our latest tiff in the two weeks he’s been gone. He’d called several times from Japan and didn’t mention the ugly debacle, but I can’t place much stock in that. As lead Fashion Designer at Arpel’s, the man lives and breathes his job, particularly when on assignment. The last thing he’d think about is our fragile relationship. But it hadn’t been fragile until our latest fight. That’s why it’s so important I get everything right tonight.

I pour a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon -- no two-buck-Chuck for Bryan -- and plop into the club chair near the hearth. I allow myself a brief journey into the past, the day I met the most magnificent man God ever breathed life into. I took a job as an intern at Arpel’s under Bryan, and I do mean literally under Bryan. Watching the empty air, I recall the first time we made love. His penetrating blue eyes, that’s what I remember most, and the length and breadth of his cock when I first laid eyes on it.

If I’d had a lick of sense, I should have run. But I didn’t, and something deep inside me screamed, “You know this is what you’ve been waiting for all your life.” I succumbed, and willingly, and have spent every day since wanting more and more. Bryan is like a disease I can’t rid my body of, a shameless, delicious illness for which there’s no cure.

My cell phone vibrates in my pants pocket and draws me from my reverie. Bryan’s number flashes before my eyes and like Pavlov’s dog, my cock responds.

“Hi,” I say, wanting to hear the sound of his voice, yet wondering why he’s calling.

“I’ve got some bad news.”

“What, tell me?”

His voice wheezes with frustration and anger. “My flight got cancelled, some fucking wing flap dysfunction.”

 “Can’t you catch another one?” I ask, trying to concentrate on his words and dispel the sudden image of his magnificent face floating behind my eyelids. Why would God create such a masterpiece? The aquiline nose and erotic mouth, the perfectly shaped brows above the azure-blue eyes that hold ageless mystery and soulful passion?

“Navarre, we’re talking La-fucking-Guardia here, and to make matters worse there’s a National Guard Convention going on with five thousand delegates trying to fly out to Jersey.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying, there are no flights to Massachusetts for two days, and don’t bother asking about a rental car. I couldn’t rent a rickshaw right now.”

I pace my breathing and try to hide my disappointment. “No sense lighting the candles, I guess.”

“Look, I know it’s a special night, and I did my best to make it home, but . . . .”

“You remembered.”

In perfect sync with my shiver, he expels a long breath. How many times had I felt that warm, contented sigh against the nape of my neck?

“Yes, I remembered, and I’d give anything to be there . . . with you. “ The anger has left his voice, replaced by a seductive cadence that makes my cock pulsate with need. “That’s all I’ve thought about for two weeks, being inside you. I imagine you on the bed, on your hands and knees, and me plowing into you until we’re both mindless and spent.”

“Don’t, please. These past two weeks have been a storm of emotion for me. The fight . . . the nights alone, and I was so looking forward to.”

“And you think I’m not going through the same tangled feelings?” He pauses. “I’m sorry about getting on your ass about talking to Jay.”

“Jay means nothing to me; you should know that. It was casual conversation at a party, nothing more.”

“I’m such a dumb bastard, and I know it hurts you when I act like an idiot.”

“You do remember what you said, don’t you?”

“About Jay? Yeah, I said he couldn’t find his way in the dark with NVG’s on.”

“Night vision goggles, yes, you did.” I close my eyes and take my fill of his infectious laugh. “What else did you say?”

“Christ, I don’t remember, Navarre. Does it matter?”

“You said, ‘Two can play this game.’ What did you mean by that, Bry? I can’t get it out of my mind.”

“Listen, I say a lot of things when I’m pissed off, and don’t mean half of them, you know that.”

“That’s the problem; I’m trying to figure out if you meant it about the NVG’s or two playing this game.”

“Well, if I was there with you tonight, you wouldn’t have to wonder about which one I meant.”

My turn to sigh. “Did I hear a half-ass apology?”

A lengthy pause drones on and I imagine Bryan looking at the ceiling and then the floor. Finally, he speaks. “I’m sorry, Navarre, for the ugly words, but mostly, I’m sorry for not making it home tonight.”

“Half-ass apology accepted and I guess I’ll see you in two days then.”

House of Van, by B.J. Scott

INTRO:
Toby had begged Van to come to one of his parties, and now he was finally here. Toby had no idea what to expect, but a blowjob within the first few minutes of his arrival was definitely a good way to get a party going. Toby soon learns that the House of Van is a business, and that Van is very specific about the requirements of the men who work for him. He also learns that pleasing men is sometimes learned the hard way. `All Romance ebooks`; `1Romance ebooks`

EXCERPT:
This was Toby’s first time at one of Van’s parties. He had begged Van to let him come, but Van had always told him that he wasn’t ready yet for one of his parties. Van knew that Toby had never been to a party like the ones he had but if he was so anxious to come, this would be the perfect time for his introduction.
******
The man giving the blowjob started talking to Toby while he continued to stroke the man’s cock which was now soaked by saliva. Toby could see the man’s cock that was huge compared to his own. “Want to watch? It’s a great way to relieve what you got there.” Toby was embarrassed that the man could see his hard cock in the darkness through his pants. “We’ll probably be here for quite awhile. You’ll like what you see.” Toby wasn’t shy really, but wasn’t used to seeing other guys’ cocks and didn’t really want Van’s friends to see his hard cock. The man returned to sucking the guy’s cock, but the guy getting the blowjob watched as Toby started to leave. “Hey, let me see what’s making your pants bulge so much. Pull your cock out and let me see it.” Toby let his cock out so the man could see. “Damn, that’s a nice cock you’ve got there, nice and hard too, I see.” Both men were now staring at Toby’s cock. Toby’s cock was solid stone now and he struggled to get it back inside his pants. The man giving the blowjob returned to his sucking, making slurping sounds as the man sitting on the stool leaned back and watched Toby fighting with his cock. The guy on the stool could see that Toby was having trouble. “Hey there, looks like you’ve got a hard problem. Need some help with it?” Toby almost ran out of the room but wasn’t fast enough. The man on the stool reached out and wrapped his hand around Toby’s cock and slowly stroked his fingers up and down. Toby was embarrassed. He had never had another man stroke his cock before and wanted to run out of the room. The man was not going to let him leave. “You’ve got a nice sized cock there, pal. Come a little closer so I can take care of you better.” He pulled Toby by his cock over to the stool. “That is a really nice cock,” the man said, as he stroked Toby’s cock. Toby couldn’t take his eyes off the man who was blowing the guy on the stool. “I’m Kevin,” said the man holding Toby’s cock. He pulled Toby’s cock to his mouth and squeezed Toby’s ass inside his jeans. Kevin took Toby’s cock into his mouth and Toby moaned as it slid down Kevin’s throat.

Beautiful You, by Shannon Pearce

INTRO:
Joined by fate, Jay and Eli have been together for five years now, enjoying a love that is as natural as nature itself. Jay has planned a very special weekend for his one and only lover far removed from the familiar. Their unity strengthens as their love for each other is renewed, and they are catapulted to a passion which is both physical and nonphysical, a passion which joins them on an ethereal plane.

EXCERPT:
Jay put his arm around Eli and pulled him close to him, burying his head in Eli’s hair and breathing deeply. “I have the entire weekend planned,” he said to Eli. He told Eli how much he loved him, and Eli looked into Jay’s eyes and smiled. Jay was lost in Eli’s beautiful brown eyes, as he was every time he looked into those eyes that were always full of wonder. In those eyes Jay could see and feel their love buried deep within their beauty. Jay breathed softly, and followed the line of Eli’s mouth to his chin. He followed that line to Eli’s soft neck and then further down to his body. He thought how lucky he was to have such a beautiful man to call his own. He thought back to the first day he met Eli, exactly five years ago this week while the two of them were still in college. Eli was the only man that Jay had ever loved, and the only man he was ever destined to love.
******
The sun was just setting as Jay stepped out into the warm night air. Eli walked onto the balcony and smiled as he stepped up to Jay and pulled him to him. They kissed as a light breeze caressed their almost naked bodies. Jay rubbed Eli’s soft, hard flesh with his hands as he recalled Eli’s body, the body which had given him so much pleasure for so many years. Jay moved away, uncorking the bottle of wine that had been delivered. He poured the red liquid into two glasses and handed one to Eli. Jay toasted to their lives together, present and past, and how they may always be intertwined, in body, in soul, and in spirit. They took a sip. Then Eli led Jay back into the bedroom, leaving the balcony doors open. He took Jay’s glass from him and set both glasses down. Eli took Jay’s arm and fell backward onto the bed, pulling Jay onto him. Jay reached to Eli’s shoulders and caressed them as he kissed Eli on his lips. He then moved to Eli’s ear and kissed the lobe, and then gently inside as he teased the inside before suckling gently on the lobe. Eli moaned softly, so quietly that it was almost inaudible. Jay kissed Eli’s chin, and moved down his neckline toward his arms. He kissed Eli’s shoulders and upper arms. He moved Eli’s arm from his side and kissed his fresh armpit, licking it gently. Eli closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the soft white bedspread. Jay moved to Eli’s hardening nipples and licked each one with the tip of his tongue.

http://www.beautobeau.com

Coffee...With a Side of Sympathy -- Rowena Sudbury

A short drabble.

Just when you think everything is going the way you want it to something comes along and upsets the apple cart. Chris sighed as he waited for David to dress.

"Tore the muscle clean off the bone, there's nothing for it but surgery. I know it sucks, you'll be sidelined for months, possibly half the year. The sooner we can get you in the better."

They should have been used to it, hearing news like this. David was anyway, and Chris shifted angrily on the hard bench in the waiting area of the doctor's office. Chris still couldn't wrap his head around David's obsession with building his body, piling muscle on muscle, sculpting himself like a Greek god. Sure, David had tried to explain it hundreds of times, but to Chris it seemed like hiding behind excuses.

There were heated words once they got home; Chris unleashed all the vitriol in his soul.

"Well...this is just business as usual."

David winced as he watched Chris's pinched face. He bit his lower lip, cleared his throat and said, "'Scuse me?"

"Don't," Chris spat out. He turned and strode away. David could tell by the set of his shoulders that he was highly irate. He held his peace as he watched because it was extremely rare for Chris to show his pique this way. Not to say he didn't often get pissed, he just usually didn't get pissed at David.

"I told you didn't I?" Chris's voice was muted.

"Told me what Chris," David said with a sigh. He closed his eyes, willed the pain to ease, willed the blackness to keep from overtaking him.

"That you were working too hard. But no, Mr. Know-it-all says he's just fine. Says he's worked his body this way for years. Says, in essence, that I don't know jack shit about shit."

David didn't open his eyes because he could see Chris's flaming cheeks, lightning bolt eyes, and clenched fists. It would be easy, he knew, to stop the tirade in its tracks. It took a strong will for anyone to corner David this way, and it wouldn't be out of form for him to strike back. But, he couldn't, so he hunched his shoulders and hung his head.

"For fuck's sake David," Chris had come closer; he reached out and roughly jerked David's face upward. "Have the balls to look at me when I'm talking to you. If you had done what I asked you to we wouldn't be in this mess."

"We?" A bit of the accustomed anger made a feeble attempt to course through him. "We aren't in this mess Christopher, I am. I fail to see how it affects you in any way. I'm the one's facing surgery again. I'm the one's on the shelf again. You get to go out, have your drinking parties with the girls."

It was so sudden David wasn't expecting it, but Chris's hand met his cheek in a stinging slap. Whatever air had filled his balloon deflated, and he sunk back, defeated.

"Did it ever occur to you that I miss you when you're down? Is there room in your brain for even a tiny thought that I drink with the girls because it fills the time waiting for you? What the fuck do you expect, that I'm gonna sit in my room and pine away from you while you take yet another four month break?"

The anger began to drain from Chris's face, and he flopped down in a chair with a long expulsion of breath. He reached up and ran an angry hand through his hair. "Don't you ever try to throw this back in my face."

David sat back, kept his face neutral as the sudden shift in weight sent pain tearing through his arm. "I'm not, but I don't want you to make this any worse for me than it already is."

"Too late for that now." Chris spun on his heel, left David sitting in the den alone to stew.

Several hours passed, and David never joined Chris in their bed. At last he flung himself from the bed and grabbed up his robe, went to investigate.

David was still in the den, lying on his side on the futon. Even though Chris knew he would be there, he didn't expect to find him this way, curled into a ball of abject misery.

Chris wanted to keep the anger, wanted to tell David that he flat didn't care. That he brought the whole thing on himself. He was selfish, and careless, and fucking stupid.

Even though Chris had seen David cry before, it was the little tear that ran down from the corner of his eye that was his undoing. He stripped out of the robe and curled in behind David, pulled his cold body close and held him while he cried.

"I'm not made of steel," Chris thought, "his sorrow moves me."

In the morning David had eased somewhat, but Chris could still see the melancholy. Chris roused myself, stood up, gazed down at David.

"Can I get you anything?"

"Coffee."

Chris gathered his robe and left David in the den while he gathered what David wanted.

Sympathy...with a side of coffee.

A Chance Taken, by Shannon Pearce

INTRO:
A Beau to Beau short story
Sensual and Sexual, with Passion, Pleasure, and Longing

Friends for years, Greg and Mike have laughed together, cried together, and learned together. Although Greg has now reached the pinnacle of his career, failed personal relationships have left him feeling empty and alone. The one person who knows him best understands Greg’s emptiness and knows exactly who can replace this emptiness with love and passion, and leads Greg to a life and love he would have never thought possible.

EXCERPT:
Greg was the chef of the group and had gone to Mike’s house early in the morning that day to prepare his prized prime rib with his special seasonings. Greg had stayed awhile afterward for coffee with Mike, and then had come over quite often during the day to check on the prime rib and to share another cup of coffee with Mike each time. Mike thought nothing of these frequent visits at first but as the day went on, he suspected that Greg wanted something more because he would linger a bit longer each time he came, just wanting to talk.
******
They were now standing face to face, their naked chests just inches apart. Mike gazed into Greg’s eyes as yet another tear slid down his face. Mike whispered, “Show me, Greg, you can do it.” Mike put his hand on Greg’s naked, hot shoulder, his skin warm against the hardness of his muscles. Greg moved closer to Mike until the hairs of their chests mingled, the heat of Greg’s thick hard chest muscles warming Mike’s own skin. They fell into a bear hug, with Greg’s face burrowed into Mike’s shoulder, as Greg began to sob quietly. Mike took Greg into his arms and held him tightly with one hand holding his head next to him, as he felt Greg’s chest heave with his sobs, his tears wetting Mike’s shoulder.
******
Slowly, Mike rubbed his hands across Greg’s back and down to his butt cheeks, exploring the huge muscles underneath the cloth of Greg’s pants as he felt Greg’s strength and his heat. Mike pushed Greg back a little, took his hands in his, and hooked Greg’s fingers into the waistband of his shorts. “Strip me, Greg,” Mike whispered, as he pushed his hands down, starting to slide his shorts over his hard cock and full and eager balls. Greg looked down at Mike’s cock emerging from the cloth, and he crouched to pull Mike’s shorts completely off, then freeing them from his feet, and then returning his gaze to Mike’s now completely naked manhood, his cock head oozing pre-cum, his shaft pointed toward the ceiling and throbbing to the beat of his own heart. Mike took Greg’s hand again, and placed it on the shaft of his cock. “Feel me, Greg,” Mike whispered. “I’m all yours.”
******
Slowly, Mike pulled Greg to the floor until he lay flat on the rug in front of the fire, his legs splayed open framing his hard, pulsing cock which rose high above the thick mass of his curly hair that surrounded his cock and balls, trailing up his hard, rippled abdomen into the curly matt of hair covering his hard chest. Mike straddled Greg’s head, his own hard cock now dancing above Greg’s hairy lips, his balls dangling down above Greg’s eyes. Mike’s lips explored Greg’s chest of thick hair and his tender nipples which stiffened to a hard bud as Mike sucked and licked each of them, rubbing his beard against Greg’s chest hair and across the hard buds until Greg moaned with desire each time Mike tasted his tender, hot nipples.

http://www.beautobeau.com

The Why Not by Victor J. Banis

11:59 A.M.Saturday Morning

His body was very near mine, its warmth permeating the sheet that lay over us both."Are you there?" he asked, and I answered, "Yes."In the semi-gloom of the bedroom, his hand reached out to touch mine, and our fingers clasped. "I thought that you had gone," he said. I said nothing, and held my breath, and wondered who he was.My eyes turned in the other direction, unwilling to look upon him just yet, not until my thoughts became more lucid, not until I was ready to face a morning-stranger’s face. A clock stood on this side of the bed, safely within my range of vision. It was morning, then, Saturday morning; or rather, just barely morning; for between the small hand, pointing piously at twelve, and the big hand, there was only space enough for one tick of the mechanism. The shaft of black crouched, poised and tense, waiting to spring upon the dot marked twelve, and so end another morning in its tedious life.Saturday morning came after Friday night, and Friday night was a time for the Why Not, for drinks that lasted long into the night and, hopefully, a rendezvous with passion that lasted well into the morning.So then, it was not so unusual this noon—now that the hour had struck—to find myself in a strange bed, hearing a strange voice, my hand still clasped in unfamiliar, urgent fingers.I stirred finally, turning on my back, and saw the mirror crudely attached to the ceiling, my own likeness scowling down at me, a solemn jury of self-examination. Turning further, toward him, trying to focus my sleep-weary eyes: a wave of golden hair rippled over the pillow near me, too near to see really well; a face, watching me with something almost frightening in its expression: a half smile, meant perhaps to be friendly, or seductive, and succeeding in neither goal. It was not a bad face, this collection of eyes, nostrils and swollen lips that lay in front of me. I had seen worse, at closer range. On Saturday mornings, especially, I had seen worse.He was waiting, no doubt studying me in the same surreptitious way in which I studied him. My lips automatically smiled, a reflex action, my eyes half-closing as I edged closer to the face, sought the swollen lips. His breath was sour and unpleasant, tasting of cigarettes and stale booze, his mouth less yielding than one would have liked; his body, molding itself now to mine, was rather too soft. Obediently, mechanically, my sex hardened, reaching out and up for him, seeking its prey.Tonight, I told myself, tonight I would go again to the Why Not; seek another face to find on my pillow the following morning. But for now, the long empty afternoon stretched before me, a wasteland of time and tedium, and here, for the moment, was an oasis of relief.#By day, the Why Not was not so much depressing as dull, a building lacking in its exterior any trace of character or expression. Its front, painted red—but a lazy red, not one of those lively, hot shades—crowded rudely against the sidewalk, glaring petulantly at the street before it, pushing itself against the Laundromat on one side and the empty storefront on the other. It might have been a convenient stopping-off spot for the men of the neighborhood except that, during the day it remained stubbornly, snobbishly closed. Like its patrons, the bar was a nighttime creature.Under the cover of darkness, however, even its faded exterior took on a new charm, the dull red reflecting the glow of the aged neon that proclaimed its name, the door curtained but congenially open to the stream of young men—and so rarely, women—who hurried in, leaving behind the darkened street to be caught up in the swell and flow of the crowds within. At night, on almost any night, the crowds were vast, shuffling feet blotting out the uneven, sawdust-covered floor, littered with cigarette butts, matchbook covers, sometimes dropped and unnoticed money; and, too often, discarded dreams.The counter of the bar itself was packed, a shabby wedge of flypaper littered with swarming bodies that leaned on it, stood before it, sometimes sat on it. It was not so much a room as a cloud of flesh and faces. The faces caught the glow from the strands of lights, tiny Japanese bulbs confiscated from some forgotten chest of Christmas ornaments to be hung about the ceiling and posts without apparent pattern or purpose.There were mirrors, too, that caught and multiplied the faces—one stood smiling at a stranger who proved after all to be only oneself smiling back—and a bit of netting which, together with a cluster of dusty artificial leaves, was intended to create a Polynesian effect. An embarrassed and self conscious décor that was, at the same time, inherently right, so unreal in itself that it lent an air of reality to the moods and the people contained within the room.

The Why Not by Victor J. Banis

11:59 A.M.Saturday Morning

His body was very near mine, its warmth permeating the sheet that lay over us both."Are you there?" he asked, and I answered, "Yes."In the semi-gloom of the bedroom, his hand reached out to touch mine, and our fingers clasped. "I thought that you had gone," he said. I said nothing, and held my breath, and wondered who he was.My eyes turned in the other direction, unwilling to look upon him just yet, not until my thoughts became more lucid, not until I was ready to face a morning-stranger’s face. A clock stood on this side of the bed, safely within my range of vision. It was morning, then, Saturday morning; or rather, just barely morning; for between the small hand, pointing piously at twelve, and the big hand, there was only space enough for one tick of the mechanism. The shaft of black crouched, poised and tense, waiting to spring upon the dot marked twelve, and so end another morning in its tedious life.Saturday morning came after Friday night, and Friday night was a time for the Why Not, for drinks that lasted long into the night and, hopefully, a rendezvous with passion that lasted well into the morning.So then, it was not so unusual this noon—now that the hour had struck—to find myself in a strange bed, hearing a strange voice, my hand still clasped in unfamiliar, urgent fingers.I stirred finally, turning on my back, and saw the mirror crudely attached to the ceiling, my own likeness scowling down at me, a solemn jury of self-examination. Turning further, toward him, trying to focus my sleep-weary eyes: a wave of golden hair rippled over the pillow near me, too near to see really well; a face, watching me with something almost frightening in its expression: a half smile, meant perhaps to be friendly, or seductive, and succeeding in neither goal. It was not a bad face, this collection of eyes, nostrils and swollen lips that lay in front of me. I had seen worse, at closer range. On Saturday mornings, especially, I had seen worse.He was waiting, no doubt studying me in the same surreptitious way in which I studied him. My lips automatically smiled, a reflex action, my eyes half-closing as I edged closer to the face, sought the swollen lips. His breath was sour and unpleasant, tasting of cigarettes and stale booze, his mouth less yielding than one would have liked; his body, molding itself now to mine, was rather too soft. Obediently, mechanically, my sex hardened, reaching out and up for him, seeking its prey.Tonight, I told myself, tonight I would go again to the Why Not; seek another face to find on my pillow the following morning. But for now, the long empty afternoon stretched before me, a wasteland of time and tedium, and here, for the moment, was an oasis of relief.#By day, the Why Not was not so much depressing as dull, a building lacking in its exterior any trace of character or expression. Its front, painted red—but a lazy red, not one of those lively, hot shades—crowded rudely against the sidewalk, glaring petulantly at the street before it, pushing itself against the Laundromat on one side and the empty storefront on the other. It might have been a convenient stopping-off spot for the men of the neighborhood except that, during the day it remained stubbornly, snobbishly closed. Like its patrons, the bar was a nighttime creature.Under the cover of darkness, however, even its faded exterior took on a new charm, the dull red reflecting the glow of the aged neon that proclaimed its name, the door curtained but congenially open to the stream of young men—and so rarely, women—who hurried in, leaving behind the darkened street to be caught up in the swell and flow of the crowds within. At night, on almost any night, the crowds were vast, shuffling feet blotting out the uneven, sawdust-covered floor, littered with cigarette butts, matchbook covers, sometimes dropped and unnoticed money; and, too often, discarded dreams.The counter of the bar itself was packed, a shabby wedge of flypaper littered with swarming bodies that leaned on it, stood before it, sometimes sat on it. It was not so much a room as a cloud of flesh and faces. The faces caught the glow from the strands of lights, tiny Japanese bulbs confiscated from some forgotten chest of Christmas ornaments to be hung about the ceiling and posts without apparent pattern or purpose.There were mirrors, too, that caught and multiplied the faces—one stood smiling at a stranger who proved after all to be only oneself smiling back—and a bit of netting which, together with a cluster of dusty artificial leaves, was intended to create a Polynesian effect. An embarrassed and self conscious décor that was, at the same time, inherently right, so unreal in itself that it lent an air of reality to the moods and the people contained within the room.

A Man Lay Dead in Winter part 9

The rest of the parts are linked here.

“I would not have you condemn the man out of hand. Any of these things could be explained away…” Horace’s voice faded uncertainly but he was heartened by the look in the Sherriff’s eye.

“They could indeed, and I will not make any assumptions. First of all I shall go and talk to the man whose cottage this is, and that granddaughter of his. I do not think that they will dissemble before me. Perhaps I might find your runaway there, too, if he’s not over the Severn and away by now. Only time will tell, but I will not harass or condemn an innocent man, you have my word.”

The body was by now safely strapped into the litter and Dinmont prepared to mount his own horse and go to find Kenwyn’s kin. He would take his stoutest man, both in spirit and in physique, with him to carry out this task. He didn’t want to end up another body by the wayside.

“I wish you success, sir.” Horace held out his hand in parting and nodded his gratitude at the men who were to bear their grizzly burden down into the city.

“And I wish you a blessed Christmas, both of you. Please God the New Year will bring us better times.”

“Amen to that.” Johannes said, with true feeling, as he watched the party move off along the path.

***
The sky suggested that the journey home should be less hazardous than the outward one had been; there seemed little risk of snow this day.

“You said that you had an excuse for misplacing your bridle. Would you care to lay it before me?” Horace’s spirits were low, this business—one of his own men perhaps a murderer—had hit him hard and he sought for any refuge from his dark thoughts. As always he found it in speech with his dearest friend and ardent lover.

Johannes sighed and made a concerted effort to raise both his own morale and that of his friend. “I was simply distracted. When we’d ridden in from Gloucester two days ago and I had been meaning to hang the thing where it would normally go. But while I saw to my horse—and yes, I know we have stable lads to do that but I was too long on crusade to let any other tend my mount, except you naturally—I saw such a look in your eye. The fresh air and the fine winter sun had raised your spirits enormously and that expression made me think, well, it diverted me from the matter in hand and kept me distracted until events had run their natural course.”

Horace blushed, remembering the wondrous conclusion of the evening. “Can I be so much of a distraction? That an old warrior neglects his gear, thinking of an amorous liaison?”

“You are more than a distraction, my love.” Johannes laughed, an incongruous sound after the happenings of the last day.

“And you are incorrigible. And…” Horace found himself smiling and laughing too, intoxicated by this creature at his side whose smile could dismiss all sorrow, “you have not told me the answer to the riddle.”

“The riddle? Oh that. You should be ashamed of yourself, finding a solution to a murder but not solving a children’s puzzle.”

“But a man can’t ride into a place on a feast day then stay less than a week and ride out on the same feast day. You must be mistaken.”

“And you are being too literal. He rode in on Lady Day just as you ride on Hugon. It was his horse, Horace, and he rode out on it again some days later.” Johannes grinned and took a deep breath of the sweet air that blew through the trees, smelling of snow and a distant hearth. “Have I rendered you speechless? I must try that more often.”

“You are a knave, sir, and a rascal.” Horace spurred his horse on. “We need to be getting home. I don’t like the look of that sky again.”

“Look of that sky, my grandfather’s beard. I know why you want to be home; you may fool all the rest of the world but you cannot pull the wool over my eyes. Perhaps I should dawdle a bit.”

“You do and you’ll find the gates locked to you, snow or not.”

“Come then, let’s negotiate the hill and then I’ll race you over the plain if the snow permits. First one home sets the next riddle.”

Horace took a look over his shoulder at the place they had lodged. It could no longer be seen but he felt its presence keenly. It had been the first place they had shared a bed, of sorts, outside his own demesne and irrespective of the bitter memories it would bear, murder and betrayal of trust, it would always have a special place in his heart. “I will take you up on the wager. And I’ll find a conundrum so hard you’ll never deduce it.”

The two lovers laughed and nudged their horses on a little faster.

Midnight Dalliance by S.J. Frost

I'm excited to announce the release of my newest short story, Midnight Dalliance! Now available at Torquere Press.

Excerpt:

As he gazed at the horse, Dalton remembered the first time he'd seen Sweet Revolution, eight years prior. He was only fifteen at the time, still living in his hometown of Ashford in Kent, England, and watching a show jumping competition on television, dreaming of someday competing at the same level with the world-renowned Grand Prix riders. He felt hypnotized by the horses' sleek coats, their fluid movements, their power as they flew without wings over the jumps. Bays, grays, blacks, and chestnuts came one after the other, and then the announcer called out a new horse with his unknown, twenty-year-old rider.

The moment Sweet Revolution stepped into the ring, the crowd had fallen silent, as if struck speechless by the stallion's beauty, with his tobiano coat of glistening black and winter white, his mane and tail a blend of both colors. When he cleared his first jump that day, it was the beginning of his legend. It turned out "Revie" was aptly named, as a revolution is exactly what he caused in the eventing world. He brought attention to it like no other horse before him and became adored by people around the world, but for more than simply his flashy pinto coloring. Graceful and fearless, no jump could intimidate him. Show jumping, dressage, cross-country -- there was nothing the stallion didn't excel in.

Dalton, too, became a devoted fan of Sweet Revolution, but for more than the stallion's amazing ability. Also on that day, as the camera zoomed in on a smiling Kelvin Crofton praising the horse for the clear round they'd just jumped, he felt something deep inside him respond.

Dalton strove to learn everything he could about the American rider and discovered the Crofton family owned a large ranch in Texas. They were famous on the Quarter Horse circuit for the fine cutting and reining horses they bred. Despite Kelvin having diverged from his Western roots to English riding, part of it continued to hold onto him. He had gained the nickname "Cowboy" among those on the eventing circuit for the beige cowboy hat that never left his head except when he entered the show ring. Before going in, when the hat was still in place, Kelvin presented a rather mismatched image in his formal show attire of white riding breeches, white shirt with white stock tie, black jacket, and tall, black English riding boots.

Dalton thought Kelvin's ways were incredibly charming, even though they'd never actually met. He'd ridden all his life, but breaking into the same level of world-class competition as Kelvin was no easy thing. First, it took money, a lot of it, something his family didn't have. Second, he needed an extremely talented horse, which also took a lot of money, or at the very least, high connections with people who owned quality mounts, another thing he didn't have. When he tried to make those connections, no one was willing to put an unproven rider on their priceless horses, for which he couldn't blame them. Horses of such caliber were of far greater value than his own meager life.

But those days were behind him now that he owned Midnight Dalliance.

At least, he hoped those days were behind him. A tendril of doubt snaked through his heart as the image of his black Hanoverian stallion came to his mind. It'd taken every bit of the inheritance money from his grandmother to purchase the horse, so much so that he couldn't afford to get the stallion back to England, forcing them both to remain in the States, which he didn't view as a bad thing. Upstate New York had been a beautiful place to live, and he had a feeling that, from what little he'd seen of it so far, Kentucky would be lovely to call home for a while. What troubled him was that he'd thought the stallion was destined to be a champion. After four months of working together, now he wasn't so sure.

Dalton exhaled a hard breath to expel the negative feelings inside him. It wasn't the time to worry about that. This was the first, and probably last, time he would ever see Sweet Revolution in person.

Kelvin brought the stallion to the center of the jumping ring. He unbuckled his riding helmet and removed it, extending it to the side as he bowed in the saddle to raucous applause and blinding cameras. He'd done nothing more than canter the stallion around the ring, but he could've just won gold in the Olympics again for all the celebration. He placed his helmet back on his head, not bothering to buckle it, and with a subtle touch to the stallion's left side, he turned Sweet Revolution away from the crowd toward the gate leading out of the ring.

Dalton stepped back to join the gathering of riders and trainers waiting for Kelvin and Sweet Revolution. He hastily combed his fingers through his short, dark blond hair. As the pair exited, Dalton flashed a bright smile up at Kelvin, but Kelvin's gaze remained focused downward. He seemed oblivious to the cheers and calls around him. Dalton turned in place as they passed by, watching Sweet Revolution slowly walk away, wondering why there were tears in Kelvin's soft brown eyes.

HOME SWEET HOME by Clare London : Excerpt

 Out today at Amber Quill Press!

The attraction between Chaz and Ryan is as strong as ever, but they’ve taken a relationship break, frustrated by each other’s lifestyle. Chaz is a drifter, casual to the point of carelessness. Ryan is a control freak, preferring order and organization. It just wasn’t working between them. When Chaz moves apartments yet again, the project is fraught with chaos and plenty of breakages. Despite Chaz’s determination to be independent, Ryan comes to help out. Chaz admits he’s grateful for the friendly support. Or at least, that's how it starts.

EXCERPT:

I took a deep breath. “I think I was meant to be changing my own behavior as well. I think I made promises, too. About growing up, about remembering I might have someone else’s interests to consider. Right?”

There was wary gratitude in his eyes. “Yes, you did. You were going to watch yourself, as well.”

We did some more of the staring thing. “Haven’t been too good at it so far, have we?”

“No.” He shook his head, eyes rueful. “Control freak…you said that, plenty of times. I was sweating the small stuff. Chill out, you said. Back off.”

I winced. “Yeah, I can talk shit, too.”

He smiled, genuinely amused I think. “Look, I said before, I don’t want you to be different—”

“No,” I interrupted. “I know that, too. Wouldn’t work anyway, eh? But it wouldn’t work with you, either. You are as you are.”

“Yes—”

“And that’s just how I like you, Ryan Crawford.”

He went very quiet. I couldn’t hear a breath, couldn’t see his chest moving. He worried his lower lip again and I couldn’t take my eyes off the gesture. My gut was still disturbed, but it wasn’t an entirely unpleasant feeling. I suspected I knew where this discussion was leading, too.

“You like…”

“Yeah,” I said, more firmly. “You. As you are. Liked you the first day I met you.” Fell for you shortly after. “Whatever crap I say to the contrary, it’s good to know I can rely on you. Good to know you look out for me. Yeah, you drive me mad. But…” What should I say? How should I say it? He could take a joke like the next guy, but this was something else. “You’re a challenge to me. It’s exciting.”

“You mean the differences?” He was looking at me from under half-lidded eyes.

I held his gaze, trying not to blush like some idiot. “More than that. You…yourself.”

He nodded. Didn’t answer.

It was still my spot on stage, I knew. “So, I can see that this lifestyle of mine is a problem for you.”

“You can?”

“Yeah. And I’m sorry about that, I genuinely am. I guess it wouldn’t hurt me to be a little more responsible. It wouldn’t hurt me to admit that just concentrating on me doesn’t always get me where I want to be. That sometimes I have to backpedal for a bit, and mop up a few mistakes. That sometimes I wish…”

Ryan’s mouth opened slightly and he moistened his lips. “Chaz…”

“I wish sometimes I’d thought things out a little more carefully.”

He looked startled. “You mean, like the moving?”

“Uh-huh.” But that wasn’t actually what I was thinking about. I was suddenly more concerned that I’d let some pushy blond with cute manners talk me into a separation that—if I’d ever had the sense to realize it—I’d never wanted. I did like the way he looked out for me, provided the anchor for my occasional turbulence. Yeah, I blustered about it but, yeah, I’d missed it. And if I’d put some kind of careful thought into the whole separation suggestion, rather than the arrogance I wore like a badge of honor, I might have been able to bring some compromise to the table, rather than a shrug and a surrender. It was a two-way street. Or so someone once told me.

Ryan’s face was a picture—a picture of strange, shocked hope. At least, I hoped that’s what it was, and not permanent hemorrhoids from sitting on the damp, crappy stools that I was sure I’d thrown out after the last move.

“I can see things a little more clearly, too,” he said. His voice wasn’t hoarse anymore. It was soft and low, issuing from those soft yet firm lips of his. Ryan spoke a lot of sense, of course. He could be a fool, same as I could, but I knew it was plain cussedness that often prevented me from distinguishing between the two. “I guess I can see that it’s not the end of the world, not having a plan.”

My turn to be startled. “No?”

His face twisted in a wry smile. “Guess that’s something from a control freak like me, eh? Sometimes I like the carefree, the sudden. The spontaneous.”

“You do?”

“I’m working on it. You’re worth it.”

Dammit. That sly grin of his infiltrated my defenses like a rat under a fence. I took another of those deep breaths. “Ryan, I want to do something fairly spontaneous right now, but I’m just not sure how close you are to that coffee machine, which will either explode in your face or you’ll want to beat me off with it—”

He beat me to it, instead. He took two more steps forward, slid his hand around the back of my neck, pulled me forward and kissed me. Hard. His lips were at the firm stage, his palm was slightly sweaty—just how I liked it on my skin—and he smelled like the most delicious thing I could think of, if I’d been able to think clearly at that moment, if his tongue hadn’t been sliding into my mouth, if he hadn’t been whispering against my cheek such incoherent sounds of need, such gasps of please…

It wasn’t only the cute manners I was a sucker for.

Clare London, Author

Writing… Man to Man
http://bookworld.editme.com/clarelondonbooks

http://www.clarelondon.co.uk/
http://clarelondon.livejournal.com/

DRESSING DOWN by Clare London

A FREE Valentine's Day story for you all!

DRESSING DOWN (adult content)

Did you ever read about the group of hapless friends in my Halloween Sip  The Mask? Well, Joey and his friends are back, but this time they're attending a Valentine's fancy-dress Party, following that familiar theme of "Tarts and Vicars" (or is that just a British pastime *hehe*?).

Vince is as good-looking and arrogant as ever and has acquired a rather snarky girlfriend. Bren and Cody are still the happy, uninhibited lovers, though Bren is struggling with looking after his cousin Ginger, and Cody seems to have uncharacteristic aspirations to a religious life. And, of course, Joey and Gaz are dating now. Joey is truly smitten, and he and Gaz have a plan for Gaz to overcome his nerves in a rather astonishing fashion.

They do say that clothes maketh the man...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

DRESSING DOWN

LINK to the file because it's nearly 4k words and I'm not good enough at Blogger to get it all set out again in this format :)

Clare London, Author

Writing… Man to Man
http://bookworld.editme.com/clarelondonbooks
http://www.clarelondon.co.uk/
http://clarelondon.livejournal.com/

Excerpt from Better Than Cupcakes by Lenore Black

Summary of Better Than Cupcakes in the Shot Through The Heart Taste Test from Torquere Press:

Mitch thinks there has to be a better way to spend Valentine's Day than working, even if he does like his co-worker, Augie. Everyone thinks Augie is a little odd, but Mitch thinks Augie might be far better than a cupcake.

Excerpt:
Being mauled by a bear. Scrubbing the mold off really ancient bathroom grout. Open mic night at that karaoke bar out on the highway, around three a.m. when people are so drunk they think their squawky version of “Free Bird” is an important contribution to the history of music. Mitch Dunnigan had been keeping a mental list all day of worse ways to spend Valentine’s Day than what he was currently doing, manning the security desk at VitamineRegimen, a supplements manufacturer with its corporate headquarters in a strip mall in suburban Terre Haute.

“Watching paint dry. Well, depending on the shade, I guess.” He realized a second too late that he’d actually said that out loud.

He darted a glance over at his partner, Augie Meyers, but Augie remained hunkered down over his notebook, chewing thoughtfully on his pencil, not giving Mitch so much as a what-the-fuck look. Augie was, to put it mildly, eccentric; it was going to take a lot more than Mitch talking to himself to make him raise an eyebrow.

Augie had been with Sure-Thing Security a few months now, but his real passion was inventing. He carried around the same ratty blue notebook everywhere he went, crammed full of diagrams and chicken scratch no one else could make out. He was always working on some thingamabob that was going to make him a million dollars and take him far, far away from VitamineRegimen, Sure-Thing Security, and the entire state of Indiana.

Most of the other guys at the security company hated working with him. That’s one squirrelly little dude, Ray Jenkins would say with a shake of his head whenever Augie’s name was mentioned. If he comes in one day and goes postal on our asses, I won’t be surprised at all, Herb Ritter would chime in.

Augie did have a way of getting worked up about things. Mitch suspected it all went back to his childhood. Augie was a little guy, short and slight, and no doubt he’d been a prime target for schoolyard bullies. It had given him an attitude, the way that often happened with little guys. Beneath the hard-ass façade, though, there was a good person. You just had to get to know him--that was what Mitch thought anyway. Whenever the complaints started up, Mitch just shrugged and offered to switch schedules, so he was the one paired up with Augie.

It made him something of a hero around Sure-Thing, which gave him a good laugh, since he’d rather work with Augie than those other guys any day. Ray Jenkins smelled like old cheese, which was not a fun way to spend a twelve-hour shift. Herb Ritter couldn’t shut up to save his life, which might not have been so bad if he weren’t the most boring man on Earth. Mitch had only heard the epic tale of how Herb had acquired each and every one of his power tools a good billion times.

At least, Augie was colorful. Not to mention easy on the eyes, although Mitch did his best to keep that thought under wraps.

“Hey, buddy, what are you working on over there?” He craned his neck, trying to sneak a peek.

Augie curved an arm protectively around his notebook. “Why?”

Mitch held up his hands to show he meant no harm. “Just curious. I’m not trying to steal your big breakthrough or anything, I swear.”

Augie narrowed his eyes, as if trying to decide if Mitch could be trusted. Apparently, he passed the test, because Augie scooted the notebook over where Mitch could see. The page showed some kind of diagram, hand-drawn, with arrows and measurements and scribbled labels Mitch couldn’t decipher. He had no idea what it was supposed to be.

Augie waited expectantly for him to say something, and when Mitch didn’t, he snatched his notebook back in a huff. “It’s a portable chair that folds up into a backpack. ShamWow and that stupid Slap Chop have nothing on this. Just wait and see. It’s going to be all over the infomercials. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life at this stupid job, staring at these stupid monitors until I’ve got drool running down my chin.”

Mitch nodded. He’d had dreams once too. Football had been his ambition. Ever since his father had taken him to his first Bears game when he was five years old, he’d wanted nothing more than to spend his days on the gridiron. He’d starred on his high school team and earned a scholarship to Notre Dame and managed a season and a half as the third-string cornerback on the Bills before washing out. He’d spent several years doing odd jobs, whatever he could find, while he trained his ass off, hoping to catch on with another team. When that didn’t pan out, he set his sights a little lower, on semi-pro ball. Four years playing in civic centers, to sparse crowds of people who didn’t have anything better to do on a Wednesday night, and all he had to show for it was a pair of busted up knees that let him know whenever it was going to rain.

He hoped Augie’s dream worked out better for him.

Augie went back to his scribbling, a pinch of concentration between his eyebrows, not even pretending to pay attention to the monitors. “Who in their right mind would ever break into this place?” he always asked whenever their supervisor handed out new and improved security guidelines.

Mitch had to agree. He half-heartedly glanced at the bank of screens. A guy working late trudged down the hall to the men’s room up on the third floor. Mathilda, the cleaning lady, pushed her cart toward the next office to be tidied up. Mitch yawned widely.

To keep himself from nodding off entirely, he studied Augie out of the corner of his eye. Honestly, the guy didn’t much resemble an “Augie,” at least not to Mitch, who got most of his ideas about such things from third-rate cop shows. On television, Augie was the beefy hired muscle called in by an organized crime boss to teach his underlings a lesson when he caught them skimming profits from his illegal gunrunning enterprise. Mitch’s Augie was maybe a hundred forty pounds soaking wet, with a peaches and cream complexion any woman would kill for, baby-fine blond hair and blue eyes so big and wide they made him look just a little bit startled.

Mitch had asked him about his name once.

“It’s short for ‘August’.” Augie had made a face. “My mother’s a big Faulkner fan.” At Mitch’s blank expression, he’d added, “You know, ‘Light in August’? I used to ask her why she couldn’t have just named me ‘Joe’. She said I should be glad she hadn’t called me ‘Christmas’.” The corners of his mouth turned down sourly.

Mitch hadn’t really followed too much of that. His own tastes in reading material tended more toward Sports Illustrated and the occasional owner’s manual when he bought a new DVD player or something. The story had given him the idea, though, that Augie wasn’t the only colorful character in his family.

Buy it now from Torquere Press

See more from Lenore Black

My Married Lover, by Shannon Pearce

A Beau to Beau short story
Sensual and Sexual, with Passion, Pleasure, and Longing

INTRO:
Each longing for the love that for years they had kept hidden somewhere deep inside them, Davin and Marcus find themselves together for a week without the intrusions of their own lives or the expectations of others. They find themselves alone with only their feelings for each other.

EXCERPT:
Davin and Marcus had been good friends, best friends in fact, for as long as they good remember. They had gone to college together, and Marcus had been the best man at Davin’s wedding, a wedding which Davin had agreed to as an expected part of his future. Marcus watched with envy as Davin took his vows. He was envious of the bride. Marcus would have done anything to have been standing in her place, vowing to love Davin for the rest of his life. He knew that he would anyway.
******
Marcus was staying for only a week this year and on Thursday before his scheduled departure, he and Davin were enjoying the breeze of the Pacific and sharing a bottle of wine. Davin never used to drink so much, thought Marcus. It was beautiful out here with clear skies and bright stars. When the wind brushed against Marcus’ skin, it made him think how great it would be to sit there naked with the wind flowing over their bodies. He hadn’t realized that he had said this out loud until Davin turned to him and said, “Let’s do it,” with that gorgeous smile of his shining as brightly as the stars. Davin stood up and stripped his clothes off, and Marcus once again saw that youthful enthusiasm in him that he feared was gone forever. Marcus stood up and tossed his clothes aside as well. Maybe it was the wine or maybe it was the fact that Marcus had felt alone for a long time, but he suddenly had the overwhelming urge to hug Davin. Marcus walked over to Davin and put his arms around him which Davin accepted, and hugged back longer than Marcus had expected. Just as Marcus was ready to break the hug, he felt Davin’s arms slide firmly up and down his back, sending electric charges through his body. Davin’s arms finally rested just above Marcus’ ass. To Marcus’ surprise, he could feel Davin’s erection pressing against his stomach and he began thinking the thoughts that he hadn’t in quite some time, of him and Davin together as a couple. Marcus leaned back slightly and looked at Davin’s face and saw a look of total contentment which he hadn’t seen before. Davin’s eyes were closed and his lips were slightly open, smiling. When Marcus brought his face back close to Davin’s, he could feel Davin’s breath on his cheek. Marcus kissed Davin’s cheek and then slowly moved to his mouth. Their mouths met in the most tender kiss that Marcus’ had ever experienced.
******
Davin was shaking as his legs began to give out. Marcus eased him down and laid him on the floor. Davin’s heart was pounding. Marcus laid his hand on Davin’s chest and lay beside him. “It’s okay, Davin,” he whispered. Davin’s body quieted as Marcus lay next to him. Davin whispered to Marcus whose head was on his chest. “I love you, Marcus. I want you to know that.” Marcus rubbed Davin’s chest. “I want you now, Marcus, more than ever, more than before.” Marcus looked up at Davin. “I love you too, Davin.” Davin looked at Marcus and knew that he had meant what he said. They saw passion in each other’s eyes and a longing for what they had never had, until now.

Conquest by S.J. Frost

I'm beyond ecstatic to announce that my novel, Conquest, it up for Best Contemporary in the LoveRomance Cafe Best of 2009 Awards! It's in the company of some wonderful books and amazing authors, and to just be included is an incredible honor for me. To celebrate its nomination, I thought I'd post a little excerpt from it :-)

In this scene, superstar singer, Evan Arden, sees main character, Jesse Alexander, singing for the first time in a little dive of a bar.

Blurb:
As the vocally gifted lead singer of his band, Conquest, Jesse Alexander refuses to let anything hold him back from achieving his dream of becoming one of the greatest performers to ever hit a stage. Evan Arden was thought of as a musical genius when at the height of his career, he vanished from the spotlight. Together, their relationship is just as intense as their music careers, but with the pressures of success and fame pushing down on them, Jesse must decide what's more important to him, his life of music, or his life with Evan.

Excerpt:
Evan paid the coverage charge to get into the bar, listening to the last jumble of notes to a fast rock song come to an unsteady halt.

“If that’s the best band in Chicago, this town needs help,” he muttered to himself.

The crowd quieted in anticipation. Evan looked up on stage. The lead singer had his back to the audience, waiting for the keyboardist to move. The keyboardist hopped back, and Jesse took over at the instrument facing the crowd. He announced the next song as titled “Shattered,” then followed with the opening soft notes from the keyboard. He closed his eyes, his fingers drifted across the keys, his honeyed tenor rose with the first verse of the ballad,

“I yelled for you as you walked away,
My voice a whisper…in the crowd…
And I watched our memories fall with the rain,
Breaking…on the ground…
I want to take it all away,
And believe the truths in the dark.
I want to live the fantasy,
The sweet delusion,
And keep you in my arms.

What can I do?
Don’t leave me to drown
In these shattered memories.
I want to scream,
But I can’t breathe,
I’m falling away.

Can’t you see,
That I’m alone,
And I’m slipping away?
I can’t stop myself.
Can’t catch myself.
Take my hand,
Pull me out,
Please save me.
I’m shattering,
Breaking…”

Evan stumbled back a step and bumped into the wall behind him. He stared up at the stage, his breath lost. Jesse had his white shirt fully unbuttoned, showing his smooth chest coated in a light sheen of sweat. The stage lights surrounded him in a halo of golden light, making him shine.

“Sir? Are you okay?”

Evan blinked at the female voice close to him. He turned to see the bartender giving him a concerned look. He pulled his Yankees cap down to hide his face more.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’ve just never heard a voice like that before.”

Nodding in agreement, the bartender leaned on the bar, resting her chin in her hand as she gazed up at the stage. “I hear that. He sings and looks like an angel. He’s got it all.” She glanced at Evan with an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I know guys don’t like hearing a girl gush over other guys. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Guinness, please.”

She ducked away and returned with his beer. Evan took his beer and began working his way through the crowd. He managed to inch to the front of the stage as Jesse wrapped up the piano interlude. The guitar joined in with the drums following, a good two beats behind where they should be. The keyboardist came to take Jesse’s place, and Jesse stepped toward the front of the stage with his mic in hand.

Evan caught the irritation that flashed over Jesse’s face when the keyboardist obviously hit the wrong notes. He smiled to himself. The guy was a perfectionist, he could see it. And with the talent he had already shown, why shouldn’t he be?

Jesse bent down at the front of the stage to a group of swooning young women. They reached out, desperate to touch his hand. He floated his fingertips from one outstretched hand to another.

Evan watched him, his fingers tingling with the desire to feel Jesse’s soft touch on them. From under his black hair, a droplet of sweat rolled down Jesse’s temple, past his indigo eye, and over his elegantly raised cheekbone to linger on his delicate jaw before dripping away. He stood up straight, his white shirt slipped from one shoulder. He tipped his head back as he raised his mic, singing the second verse and chorus,

“Now I’m sitting all alone in the darkness.
Listening for your voice in the silence.
All I have left are illusions and dreams.
Your phantom body lying next to me.
Another memory trickles down my cheek,
And I slip a little bit more.

What can I do?
Don’t leave me to drown,
In these shattered memories.
I want to scream,
But I can’t breathe,
I’m falling away.

Can’t you see,
That I’m alone,
And I’m slipping away?
I can’t stop myself.
Can’t catch myself.
Take my hand
Pull me out,
Please save me.
I’m shattering,
Breaking…”

Jesse stepped back from the front of the stage as the song finished. He bowed to the crowd and flashed a stunning smile.

Evan started breathing again. He staggered back to the bar and dropped down on a stool.

“Need another beer?” the bartender asked.

Evan shook his head, still in a daze. “No, thanks.”

“He’s some singer, isn’t he? I tell ya, with all the crap on the radio these days, if ever there was a band that deserved getting a record deal, it’s them. I really hope they make it someday.”

Evan nodded. He sat motionless for the rest of the night, not drinking, not speaking, his eyes focused on Jesse. When Conquest finished their set and Jesse and his band disappeared into a room at the back of the bar, Evan headed out to the black Cadillac Escalade Marcus had hooked up for him. He climbed in and stared at the steering wheel, Jesse’s beautiful voice resounding in his head.

Free Story: The Hostage Heir by Lenore Black

Summary: Christopher Lucas is hired for the summer to provide security for Jason Keller, heir to the vast Keller fortune. But all is not what it seems. (Loosely based on the fairy tale "The Twelve Dancing Princesses.")

The Hostage Heir
by Lenore Black

"You're here for the security position." The man behind the desk raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"Um, yes, sir." Christopher Lucas tried not to squirm under the weight of the scrutiny, resisting the urge to wipe his clammy palms on his pants, doing his best to forget that the man behind the desk was one of the wealthiest men in the state. Langston Keller puts his pants on one leg at a time, just like anybody else. It sounded feeble, even in his own head.

Mr. Keller tented his fingers beneath his chin. "The job is to look after my son Jason, to keep him out of trouble."

Christopher wasn't sure what kind of trouble a person could get into in Blue Cove—and he'd lived here all his life—but hey, a job was a job.

"Yes, sir," he answered. "I understand, sir."

After a moment Mr. Keller nodded, as if Christopher had passed some sort of test. "You're never to let Jason out of your sight, not for any reason. You'll work as part of a team. Mr. Walsh will fill you in on the details." He waved his hand in dismissal.

Apparently, Christopher was hired.

A forty-ish man in glasses, wearing a weary expression, was waiting for him out in the hall. "Bill Walsh, head of security here at the Kellers' summer house. So?"

"Mr. Keller said you'd tell me what to do?"

Mr. Walsh let out his breath. "Thank God. Half the people don't make it past the 'eyeball test,' as the old man likes to put it. And I can't keep good help because— Well, anyway, come on. I'll show you to Jason's room, and you can get started. Call me Bill, by the way." He set off briskly down the hall.

Christopher hurried after him, kind of wishing that he'd flunked the eyeball test. Not that babysitting some rich guy's son was the end of the world or anything. It was just a crappy way to spend the summer. Christopher would much rather be out on the boat with his brother, helping with the family fishing business. But since their dad had died three years go, money had been tight. So here he was, stuck with the Kellers until Labor Day.

"This way," Bill said, turning down another corridor.

Like most Blue Cove natives, Christopher had mixed feelings about the summer people who turned their town inside out every May. He had often been curious, though, about the grand homes up here on the promontory. Now that he was actually inside one, he couldn't keep his mouth from dropping open. The marble floor was shiny enough to see his reflection in it. There were so many paintings linging the walls it looked like a museum. Windows stretched all the way to the ceiling, making the sky and sea seem like part of the decor.

"So, here's the deal," Bill said, as they hurried along. "You'll be two hours on with Jason, two hours off doing general patrolling of the grounds. Jason lives to make our lives as difficult as possible, so don't trust him for a second. Don't believe a word he says. Never leave him alone. You'll only get one chance here. Slip up, and you're out."

"But—" Christopher frowned. Why would Jason Keller want to give his own security people a hard time? Weren't they there for his protection? Shouldn't he be glad about that?

Before he could get out any of these questions, Bill added gravely, "I'll try to keep you on day shift, but if the old man decides you're on nights, you're on nights." He stopped outside a door. "Here we are." He clapped Christopher on the back. "Good luck, kid."

You're going to need it hung unsaid in the air.

Bill went striding back down the hall, leaving Christopher to fend for himself. He hesitated outside the door, finally working up the courage to knock. There was no answer, and he stalled there, not sure what to do. He could go after Mr. Walsh, but he'd been very clear that Jason Keller wasn't to be left alone. Christopher took a deep breath and barged on in.

He found himself standing in a living room filled with impossibly expensive things. The rug beneath his feet was so thick and plush it felt like walking on air. The furniture looked to be antiques, covered in pale, fragile-looking fabric. Silk maybe. Christopher wasn't sure. He just knew it was something his fisherman's hands probably shouldn't touch.

"Hello?" he called out.

Still no answer, and he drifted further inside.

In the next room, he found acres of books in floor-to-ceiling bookcases. There was even a sliding ladder, like the one at the town library. A desk sat facing the windows, as if its owner liked to look out at the cliffs. The desk was covered with yet more books, photocopied articles and sheaves of handwritten notes.

Christopher continued on into the next room and stopped in his tracks. In the middle of the space stood a veritable fortress of a bed, with thick wooden posts, an ornately carved headboard, and a wrought iron canopy hung with heavy panels of green velvet. It was the kind of bed, he thought, where a prince should sleep.

"Being stared at is not the most pleasant way to wake up." The voice came from deep within the shadowy recesses of the bed hangings.

Christopher practically jumped out of his skin. He hadn't realized there was someone actually in the bed.

"Oh, um, sorry?" he managed feebly.

The covers rippled, and a young man sat up, fixing Christopher with a resentful glare. Christopher sucked in his breath, possibly loudly enough to be heard. He wasn't sure what he'd expected from Jason Keller, but certainly not the kind of beauty that felt like a punch to the gut—wild chestnut curls and cheekbones sharp enough to cut, creamy skin and big, dark blue eyes.

Jason sighed. "I don't suppose there's any hope of you going away." He threw back the covers and slid out of bed.

Christopher was too busy staring to answer. The top of Jason's black silk pajamas hung open, showing off nipples the color of dark pennies, a flat belly and strong chest. The pajama bottoms barely clung to his hips, like an invitation to... Christopher swallowed hard.


Read the rest of the story at Lenore's blog.

ROCKSTAR by J.M. Snyder

Rockstar by J.M. Snyder

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BLURB:

Adam Blue is destined to be a rockstar. As lead singer of Viral Blue, he knows it’s just a matter of time before he’s on his way to fame and fortune. If he can just get a studio to sign his band and get his songs on the radio, he knows he’ll make it big.

When they land a spot onstage at a popular nightclub downtown, Adam hopes to get noticed. But he doesn’t expect to meet sexy Paolo Raucci, owner of Raucci Entertainment, a local studio looking for fresh talent. Paol likes Adam’s sound and, more importantly, likes Adam, as well.

But when Paol brings the band into the studio, his partner Lewis isn’t quite as taken with Adam’s rockstar attitude. Lewis doesn’t want to sign the band until Adam proves he’s willing to work. Unfortunately, the band takes second priority to Adam’s growing interest Paol … an interest that has nothing to do with his musical career.

The stress of recording their first studio album threatens to tear the band apart, and Adam’s ego further drives a wedge between the members of Viral Blue. Paol does his best to keep the band together, but ultimately it’s Adam’s call.

Adam wants it all ~ his band, his first record, and his new lover. Now that his dreams are finally within reach, what does he have to do to make them come true?

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EXCERPT:

Adam leans against the bar and looks around. There’s no one here he wants to get with tonight and absolutely no reps unless they’re changing their style nowadays. When he and the guys started playing these gigs a few years ago, the studio people were easy to spot in a crowd like this. They were usually fat men, ample guts hanging over cinched belts and tight pants bulging at the seams they had somehow managed to squeeze into like overripe fruit. They always sidled up to Adam from behind and placed sweaty palms against the small of his back, and they always smelled super sweet, as if all the candy they had ever eaten oozed from their pores. They had greasy hair and an oily grin, and were always looking for a quick suck off in the bathroom, without fail, queer or not. They all wanted his mouth on their cocks in exchange for a contract. What the hell was up with that?

Adam thinks he could force himself to do it, if he has to, for the right contract and if it’s dark in the bathroom ~ God, it has to be pitch black ~ but it hasn’t yet come to that. Most of these studio scouts just want a free blowjob and don’t have the credentials to back up their offers of fame. They dangle the lure of a recording deal and call him pretty names, say they like his music, but when he doesn’t put out immediately? They disappear.

That’s the type he’s looking to avoid tonight. Steff told Trace there’d be sharks here, and Adam can swim with the best if he sees them coming. Tonight he wants them to come, circle around Viral Blue’s fresh sound and offer Adam some studio time … tonight he’ll take the bait. Hell, Trace is doing Steff for this gig, right? So Adam thinks he can take one for the guys if he has to. If only someone was offering …

Damn slut lied to him. Adam traces designs into the condensation frosted on the side of his soda. It’s all the bartender would give him without an ID, which he stupidly left at home. Steff was wrong ~ there are no execs here, studio or otherwise, unless there’s a new breed of scum out on the streets and if that’s the case, Adam isn’t even sure he’d recognize one if he were approached …

Behind him someone purrs into Adam’s ear. “Hey there.”

Adam feels a hand trail across the words studded into his back pockets, kiss this, and warm fingers slip into the waistband of his jeans. He looks down with a frown at the strong hand at his waist, then his gaze follows the arm up to see who’s hitting on him. The first thing he sees is a wide grin and, above that, pale blue eyes as clear as the ice cubes in his drink. Those lips are so sexy, so disarming, Adam can’t help but return the smile. “Hey.”

The guy’s about Adam’s age, maybe a little older. When he steps closer, into the light, Adam adjusts that ~ he’s closer to thirty, maybe even a little over. His olive skin has a dusky hue to it that gives him a Mediterranean look, and there’s dark stubble on his chin that might be the start of a beard or might just be where he forgot to shave this morning. Adam imagines running his fingertips over those bristles, feeling the raspy skin beneath his touch, and wonders what that would feel like against his own cheeks, or on his lips, or between his legs.

Suddenly the night just got a whole hell of a lot more interesting.

Leaning on the bar beside Adam, the guy turns his full attention onto Adam, right where it belongs. “I heard your song,” he says. He has a soft voice, mellow, that Adam has to lean forward to hear above the din of the crowd. In the lights of the bar, his hair is a tangle of blue-black curls, mussed and disheveled, falling effortlessly around his narrow face. Where the guy’s hand is tucked into the waistband of Adam’s jeans, Adam swears his skin burns. “You guys are pretty tight. Adam, right?”

Adam wants to ask how he knows but it’s part of the act, isn’t it? Telling the crowd who he is so they won’t forget. “Yeah.”

Because he hates that it sounds like he’s caught off-guard, he laughs. He moves a step away, just enough so the guy’s hand tugs at his jeans to keep him close. Adam looks at the hand again, then back at the stranger’s face. He notes the blue camo pants, baggy in the legs. The tight, sleeveless shirt, similar to Adam’s own, which pulls across firm chest muscles Adam thinks would taste good beneath his tongue. The shirt exposes arms he can imagine licking during sex ~ he sees himself biting into those fleshy biceps until he leaves teeth marks. How wide would that mouth open then? Maybe he’ll get lucky tonight after all.

Taking a sip of his drink and wishing the glass contained something harder than soda, he asks, “Who are you?”

The guy answers with a question of his own. “Can I buy you a real drink?”

It isn’t a reply but Adam’s been waiting to hear those words all night long. He orders a rum and Coke and the guy flags down the bartender to make it two. When the drinks arrive, he lets go of Adam’s jeans and holds out a business card that’s appeared in his hand as if by magic. Adam is duly impressed.

“Paolo Raucci,” the guy says with another smile, introducing himself. He pronounces it PAH-oh-lo, and Adam mouths the word under his breath to try to get it right. “With Raucci Entertainment. Call me Paol.”

“You’re shitting me,” Adam says before he can stop himself.

The grin widens, if that’s possible. “Nah, man. Everyone calls me Paol.”

With a laugh, Adam takes the card. “No, I mean ~ a guy like you ain’t with a studio.”

But he angles the card under the bar lights to study it in the amber glow, and damn if it doesn’t read, Paolo Raucci, Raucci Entertainment. A division of RVA Productions. Below that, there’s an address in the city and a slew of numbers ~ home, work, cell ~ followed by an e-mail address, a Facebook page, and a Twitter feed, to boot.

Damn. Adam can’t believe it. “No fucking way.”

Paol laughs as he sips at his drink. “What? Don’t I look the part?”

His eyes are like the crystal glasses behind the bar, row after row of alcohol that catches the light and reflects it back in a million faceted shards. They’re deadly like shattered glass, and Adam wants to stare into them to see if his reflection is mirrored in their depths. Just as he’s beginning to stare, Paol winks, “Did I mention I liked your sound?”

Two steps bring Adam back into the span of Paol’s arm, closer than he was before. Paol’s arm eases around Adam’s waist in a proprietary manner as Adam sticks the business card into his back pocket, brushing his fingers up along Paol’s arm to rest in the crook of his elbow. There Adam rubs the soft skin, thinking he won’t need much to convince him to do this rep for a contract. Hell, he’ll go down right here, right now, if that’s what it takes. If Paol asks, Adam will suggest they find someplace quiet. And if he doesn’t ask, Adam’s going to think it’s too crowded in here soon.

Leaning into Paol, Adam murmurs, “I think you might have said something along those lines.” He likes the coyness he hears in his own voice. He grins in that way he has that makes him seem impossibly young and inexperienced, and a thrill flushes through him when Paol grins back. “But tell me again.”

“I like your smile,” Paol says instead.

Adam thinks that’ll work, too.

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The Why Not

11:59 A.M.
Saturday Morning
His body was very near mine, its warmth permeating the sheet that lay over us both.
"Are you there?" he asked, and I answered, "Yes."
In the semi-gloom of the bedroom, his hand reached out to touch mine, and our fingers clasped. "I thought that you had gone," he said. I said nothing, and held my breath, and wondered who he was.
My eyes turned in the other direction, unwilling to look upon him just yet, not until my thoughts became more lucid, not until I was ready to face a morning-stranger’s face. A clock stood on this side of the bed, safely within my range of vision. It was morning, then, Saturday morning; or rather, just barely morning; for between the small hand, pointing piously at twelve, and the big hand, there was only space enough for one tick of the mechanism. The shaft of black crouched, poised and tense, waiting to spring upon the dot marked twelve, and so end another morning in its tedious life.
Saturday morning came after Friday night, and Friday night was a time for the Why Not, for drinks that lasted long into the night and, hopefully, a rendezvous with passion that lasted well into the morning.
So then, it was not so unusual this noon—now that the hour had struck—to find myself in a strange bed, hearing a strange voice, my hand still clasped in unfamiliar, urgent fingers.
I stirred finally, turning on my back, and saw the mirror crudely attached to the ceiling, my own likeness scowling down at me, a solemn jury of self-examination. Turning further, toward him, trying to focus my sleep-weary eyes: a wave of golden hair rippled over the pillow near me, too near to see really well; a face, watching me with something almost frightening in its expression: a half smile, meant perhaps to be friendly, or seductive, and succeeding in neither goal. It was not a bad face, this collection of eyes, nostrils and swollen lips that lay in front of me. I had seen worse, at closer range. On Saturday mornings, especially, I had seen worse.
He was waiting, no doubt studying me in the same surreptitious way in which I studied him. My lips automatically smiled, a reflex action, my eyes half-closing as I edged closer to the face, sought the swollen lips. His breath was sour and unpleasant, tasting of cigarettes and stale booze, his mouth less yielding than one would have liked; his body, molding itself now to mine, was rather too soft. Obediently, mechanically, my sex hardened, reaching out and up for him, seeking its prey.
Tonight, I told myself, tonight I would go again to the Why Not; seek another face to find on my pillow the following morning. But for now, the long empty afternoon stretched before me, a wasteland of time and tedium, and here, for the moment, was an oasis of relief.
#
By day, the Why Not was not so much depressing as dull, a building lacking in its exterior any trace of character or expression. Its front, painted red—but a lazy red, not one of those lively, hot shades—crowded rudely against the sidewalk, glaring petulantly at the street before it, pushing itself against the Laundromat on one side and the empty storefront on the other. It might have been a convenient stopping-off spot for the men of the neighborhood except that, during the day it remained stubbornly, snobbishly closed. Like its patrons, the bar was a nighttime creature.
Under the cover of darkness, however, even its faded exterior took on a new charm, the dull red reflecting the glow of the aged neon that proclaimed its name, the door curtained but congenially open to the stream of young men—and so rarely, women—who hurried in, leaving behind the darkened street to be caught up in the swell and flow of the crowds within. At night, on almost any night, the crowds were vast, shuffling feet blotting out the uneven, sawdust-covered floor, littered with cigarette butts, matchbook covers, sometimes dropped and unnoticed money; and, too often, discarded dreams.
The counter of the bar itself was packed, a shabby wedge of flypaper littered with swarming bodies that leaned on it, stood before it, sometimes sat on it. It was not so much a room as a cloud of flesh and faces. The faces caught the glow from the strands of lights, tiny Japanese bulbs confiscated from some forgotten chest of Christmas ornaments to be hung about the ceiling and posts without apparent pattern or purpose.
There were mirrors, too, that caught and multiplied the faces—one stood smiling at a stranger who proved after all to be only oneself smiling back—and a bit of netting which, together with a cluster of dusty artificial leaves, was intended to create a Polynesian effect. An embarrassed and self conscious décor that was, at the same time, inherently right, so unreal in itself that it lent an air of reality to the moods and the people contained within the room.

Loving Nate by S. Wales of Beau to Beau Publishing

We have a new author at Beau to Beau. S. Wales writes young adult gay fiction. Cover design by Dvorak Designs, www.dvorakdesigns.com. Book is available to 1Romance ebooks and All Romance ebooks.

Excerpt:
Nate lived in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in Omaha, Nebraska, attended a private school, drove a BMW, and could pretty much have anything he wanted. His father had inherited the family commodities investment firm and his mother spent most of her time in aerobics classes or attending various social activities. Nate had never thought of his life as mundane or meaningless; that is, not until last summer. Last summer had changed Nate forever. As he looked around at his classmates, Nate realized what it was that he had learned during his summer vacation. Nate had learned about the human condition and the human spirit; specifically, the resilience of the human spirit. Nate had also met a friend, a confidante, a boyfriend.
******
Tate showed Nate to his room that they would be sharing and showed him the drawer he had cleared out for him. “Thanks,” Nate said, and set his stuff down. Tate sat on the bed while Nate unpacked. “What’s it like up north?” “It’s not that much different from here, I guess. It’s not as warm and Omaha has lots of hills. We have a river but it’s not as big as the Mississippi.” “What do you do for fun?” Nate sat on the bed with Tate and showed him his Nintendo DS. “I’ve got games to play on this,” he said. “Do you have one?” Tate shook his head. “Do you have a Wii?” Tate shook his head again. “How about the Internet?” “No, but sometimes we use it at school,” Tate explained. Nate showed Tate how to play one of the Nintendo games and before long he was a pro. “For not having one of those, you sure did catch on quick,” Nate said. “Thanks,” he said. “Here’s my Blackberry. You can play games on it, too, and download books from the Internet.” Tate looked confused at Nate’s last remark. “You can buy ebooks and read them on your cell phone, like this one.” He showed Tate some of the books he had on his Blackberry and he quickly began reading one.
******
As they worked together, Nate’s sponsor couldn’t help but notice the budding friendship between two boys from two very different worlds. Nate liked Tate. He could tell him anything without fear of disapproval or that he would tell everyone he knew. Of course, Nate knew no one here, but still, there was something honest and pure about Tate that Nate had not seen before.
******
The two boys walked past five or six houses until they reached the end of the cul-de-sac. It was dark, but the stars lit up the night sky with their brilliance. The two boys sat on the mound of dirt that would soon be Tate’s new home, and looked up at the stars. “I’m really glad you came here this summer, Nate.” Tate reached over and placed his hand on Nate’s as it lay on his thigh. Nate didn’t know what to do but knew that he couldn’t look at Tate right now, so he looked straight ahead. He didn’t withdraw his hand, and he rather liked the feeling of Tate’s hand on his. After what seemed like a lot longer than it was, Nate placed his free hand over Tate’s, and looked at him. “I’m glad too, Tate.” He quickly looked away again, but neither boy withdrew their hand.
******
Nate reached out and placed his hand over Tate’s. “Before this summer, I thought that friends were people you had to impress or have as much stuff as they did in order to be their friends, but I don’t think that’s true anymore.” Tate said nothing for quite awhile, thinking about Nate’s words. “Are you my friend because you have more than me?” Nate sat up and leaned on his elbow, not taking his hand off of Tate’s. “Oh, no, Tate. I didn’t mean it that way. I meant that the guys I know don’t like people who don’t wear designer clothes or who don’t go to a private school or drive fancy cars. They’re just really superficial, that’s all, and they use people to get what they want.” Tate didn’t understand “using people” but was beginning to understand the other stuff. Nate continued. “You weren’t like that, Tate. You were nice to me from the start even though you didn’t know me and didn’t know if I was rich or poor, and your mom hugged me when she first met me. My own mom doesn’t hug me.” Nate lay back down and looked up at the stars. “Your mom likes everybody, Tate. She doesn’t judge others.” “No, she would never do that, Nate. She believes what the bible says about not judging others. She says it’s not our place as mere mortals.” Nate swallowed hard. It seemed that he lived in an entirely different world than Tate, and Tate’s was a loving world, a world that Nate liked a lot. The two boys looked up at the stars for a long time saying nothing, with Nate’s hand on Tate’s. Nate was almost asleep when he felt Tate’s lips on his. It was a quick kiss, and then Tate lay back down. Nate was definitely awake now. “What was that for?” “I’m just glad you came here, that’s all.” “Oh,” said Nate, and they slept until morning, their hands never leaving the others’.