From Morocco to Paris

Blurb: Zane Reed dreams of being a director, but first he has to learn the ropes by taking every crap job in the movie industry. Employed as personal assistant to actor Elliot Butler, Zane hopes to further his education when Elliot works with famed director Saul Brennan. However, Zane gets an education in something else entirely when he meets Davey Alexander, one of the production’s costumers.

Davey, vivacious and erotically-charged, shakes reluctant, sexually-confused Zane down to his core. The two begin a torrid affair that leaves Zane wrestling with demons from his past as much as wrestling with Davey in the sheets. During filming, from Morocco, to Cairo, to Paris, the two struggle with desire and muddled emotions. In the end, Zane will have to overcome–and define–himself, if he wants to keep the most intriguing, passionate man he’s ever known from walking out of his life.

Excerpt: The lights of the city stretched out in the distance, fading toward the shadowy mountains on the horizon that arched against the blackened sky. Zane stood at the window, the cool night air on his skin, a forgotten cigarette burnt to the filter in his hand. He heard shifting on the bed behind him, then the sound of feet slapping on the floor. Hands slid over his chest, a warm body pressed to his back.

“This suits you,” Davey murmured.

Zane wore his djellaba, fastened only at the waist. He shifted, noticed the cigarette, and ground the butt out in the ashtray on the windowsill.

“So I’ve been told,” Zane said.

Davey roamed his hands lazily over Zane’s chest, over the djellaba, beneath the soft folds.

“I’ll miss this place too,” Zane said softly. “I’ve never been anywhere more beautiful.”

“Me either.” Davey’s warm breath seeped through the fabric over Zane’s shoulder.

Davey quit moving his hands and rested one lightly on Zane’s chest, over his heart. They were silent for a few minutes, the stillness broken only by the sound of the wind and the subdued noises of the midnight city.

“Davey,” Zane finally said softly. “I can’t do this, you know I can’t.”

“Why?” Davey asked, just as softly.

Zane felt panicked now, having his emotional barriers kicked down. “I’m too scared. Of the future. Of the past. I just…can’t. This isn’t how it was supposed to
be. It was never supposed to go this far.”

“But it has.”

“But I can’t take it any further, Davey. Sex is fine, but things are getting complicated.” Even as he said these words, trying to make them sound confident, his heart twisted.

Davey was silent a moment then he said, “It doesn’t matter.” He rested his cheek on Zane’s shoulder, and his voice vibrated against his back. “You do what you need to, and I’ll endure it. I’m not asking anything of you.”

“That makes me a horribly selfish person. It’s not fair to you.”

“Unrequited love is as old as humanity.” Davey lifted his head and removed his hand from Zane’s chest. “You’re not doing anything that hasn’t been done by a
million people before you.”

Zane tried to turn but Davey stopped him, playing with his hair.

“And people have gotten over it since the beginning of time,” Davey said. He tugged Zane’s hair gently and released him. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head over it.”

Zane turned and watched Davey walk back to the bed, his bed, watched him crawl under the covers.

“Davey, I just — ”

“Stop talking about it. Everything will be all right; I’ll make sure of it.”

The dull light through the windows glowed softly on Davey’s face, and he smiled before settling down. No invitation to come to bed, no entreaty. Simply a bare pillow and an open spot Zane could take or leave as he chose.

Zane stood at the window a while longer, not looking at the city but with his hand over his eyes, elbow resting on the wall. Tomorrow, Cairo and the end of their crazy, exotic romp, if he had any say. Soon he’d have his head about him again, concentrating on his work, concentrating on his education. Soon he could go back to sleeping alone, instead of crawling into bed with Davey.

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Impasto (part of the 'Mine' anthology) by Lydia Nyx

Blurb: Alexander is a vampire and his human lover–and dearest possession–Laurent has finally agreed to be turned. While in London so Laurent can visit his mother one last time as a human, Alexander sits in the darkness of their hotel room contemplating Laurent’s beauty in post-coital slumber. Alexander endeavors to paint a portrait of him in words in his well-weathered notebook, but despite observing all the trappings of their lives together, and Laurent himself, he finds only one word can encapsulate him: mine.

Excerpt: Now came the centerpiece of the painting, the object that would tell the observer exactly what had happened here, if they hadn’t already guessed. Most likely they had, but were wondering with who, and why. The ‘who’ was simple enough, the ‘why’ a bit more complicated, and had been, for nearly two decades.

The sheets on the bed were white cotton. They were soft and had smelled of industrial detergent. They’d been wound around Alexander’s bare legs earlier, before he’d gotten up and pulled his pajama bottoms out of his suitcase. Atop the sheets was a cream-colored blanket, then a green and white comforter with pink flowers printed on it. Both were tangled, twisted. Pillows were scattered at the top of the bed, one on the right propped against the headboard and slumped toward the edge of the mattress. The smell of detergent had been replaced by the scent of sweat and sex, skin and musk, and just a little blood, that sweet, coppery odor. Alexander fancied he could smell it still, even over the damp air and lingering cigarette smoke.

On the left side of the bed, the fire behind his inspiration lie tangled up in the sheet. He was on his stomach, his bare shoulder blades angular and sleek, his arms sprawled out to either side and his right hand lost amongst the mounds of pillows. The left dangled off the bed, fingers curled against the box springs, swaying slightly with his breath. The comforter was draped over one leg and the other rested atop the blanket, long and muscled and bare, the light picking out downy hair on the back of his calf. Across the white pillow beneath his head, sable curls were flung scattered and wild, a few clinging to the back of his neck. One tumbled onto the smooth, pale skin of his back, a dark, tempting ringlet on a bed of creamy velvet. Alexander felt the urge to go over and pluck it up between his fingers, curl it around his knuckles, press it to his lips.

Beneath the sheet, the shape of his lover’s body was exquisite, long and slender, a sloping back and narrow hips, jutting hipbones and slim thighs. The swell of his ass was subtle, the sheet so far up his bare leg Alexander could just see the soft round beauty of one cheek peeking out.

How could anyone capture such glorious beauty on canvas? Michelangelo would have thrown his brushes into the Tiber upon seeing him, knowing he could never replicate such a thing in pigments and oils.

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Merger by Lydia Nyx

Blurb: Paul Malkovich and Damon Trussel have just sealed a major deal: the merger of their respective companies, textile manufacturers on either side of the Big Pond. After the obligatory high-society celebration, Damon expresses to Paul he’d like to cement their business union with a more personal one. They take a steamy limo ride around London, during which Paul teaches Damon something even better than business politics.

Excerpt: Paul was twenty-four and had just started working under his father when he met Damon. Damon, several years older, worked under the head of his own company, and was a prodigy out of the London School of Economics and highly respected among his peers. Paul developed an instant fascination for the charming, sophisticated, and quite business-savvy Brit. Paul’s father told him to keep an eye on Damon, because he knew he would be in charge one day. Paul kept two eyes on him. Sometimes, Damon reminded Paul of his own mother: hardworking, sophisticated, smart, but also highly personable. Paul imagined his father had been most attracted to his mother because she could be a social and professional dynamo but also put people at ease with her charming, laid-back personality. Paul often heard men fell for women most like their mothers. But again, maybe a woman wasn’t what he needed to look for.

Over the years, he and Damon found themselves often in correspondence and physically together on multiple occasions. Paul’s fascination and appreciation for the man slowly turned to attraction. When their friendship took on a coyly flirty air—and then eventually a blatantly seductive tone—Paul nonetheless proceeded with caution. He personally preferred men over women, even if this fact took a while for him to accept, but he also knew Damon had a wife. Damon married young, and Paul heard people joke he did so to get the obligation out of the way.

“Where’s Ellie?” Paul asked.

“At the party.” Damon looked down at their hands. “She said to have a good time. She knows me better than I know myself.” Truthfully, Damon loved his wife and Paul knew this full well.

“So she’s all right with us being together tonight? No jealous wife trying to murder me in my sleep?” Paul chuckled, though he worried, really. He didn’t know Ellie as well as he did Damon, had in fact made a point not to get too close to her.

“Of course not.” Damon looked up, flashing a charming, squinty-eyed grin. “This isn’t the first time we’ve done this.” He paused. “I don’t mean that to be callous. I only meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Paul said gently. “You’re lucky to have such an open-minded wife.”

“Yeah, well.” Damon continued to smile. “I’ll tell her all about it later, and she’ll tell me about that photographer following her around tonight.”

“Never let things get boring, hmm?”

“That’s how a marriage lasts as long as ours has.” Damon’s focus seemed to be on their hands, still joined, his idle rubbing. “She’s a wonderful woman, and she makes me happy. But I’ve been curious for a long time. As a man gets older, his tastes broaden. I’m not as uptight as when I was younger. She wants me to go explore. And report back with my findings, of course.” He looked back up at Paul.

“So that’s what all this flirting all these years has been about.”

“I can’t recall you ever rebuffing it.”

Damon had him there. “Why me, Damon?” Paul had to ask the question. “And why tonight? I know we’ve had a connection in the past, but—”

Damon cut him off. “Why not you, Paul? I think you’re brilliant. Self-confident.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “Don’t tell your father, but I always thought you had a better head on your shoulders than he did.”

Paul smirked. “That isn’t a reason to want to sleep with someone.”

“It’s better than any other superficial reason.” The light glinted in Damon’s dark eyes. “Would you be happier if I said it’s because you have a tight arse and a good tailor?”

Paul laughed. “And you think this is the best night for it?”

“It’s a new beginning. New territories opening up for us. I think it’s the perfect night”

Paul mused they were being so very professional about the situation, hashing the details out as though they were making a fiscal plan—but then, they would hardly be inclined to behave any other way. He did have some concerns though, a list of cons to bring to the table. “If you think it might ruin our professional relationship,” Paul said haltingly, “I don’t want to risk that.”

“I don’t think this could ruin our relationship, only make it stronger. I want to. Now. Here.”

“In the car?”

“Yes.”

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Fire in the Desert by Lydia Nyx

Blurb: Garrett Thomas is one of the world’s leading cryptozoologists. When he gets a tip a dragon—the holy grail of his field—has been spotted in the Sahara desert, he jumps at the chance to locate and document this elusive creature. As further incentive, his old college friend—and lover—Keegan Richards is currently on an archeological dig in Egypt. Keegan possesses a powerful supernatural ability called the Mystic. When Garrett sees his old flame after a year of separation, he finds not only has Keegan’s power increased so he has full command of the element of fire but he’s grown a thousand times more beautiful and exotic. After Garrett has a strange and erotic dream about him, Keegan inexplicably grows cold and tries to send Garrett home with his mission unfulfilled. Garrett stays in Egypt, however, and when he finally enters the dragon’s lair, he finds what he’s looking for—but not the way he expected.

Excerpt: Two weeks before venturing to the desert, Garrett received an email from a colleague who told him a group of nomads saw what they claimed to be a dragon in the Egyptian Sahara. Garrett, one of the world's leading cryptozoologists—a title meaning little, according to his father—jumped at the opportunity to investigate such a claim. No known lizard-like creatures in deserts grew to the size described, so even if the animal wasn't a dragon it was certainly a new species. In a magnificent coincidence, he received a letter from Keegan a week before the email saying he was on his way to Egypt. Garrett hadn't seen him in nearly a year and hoped he could contact him when he arrived in Cairo. Contact him he did, and Keegan agreed to lead him into the desert with a band of nomads who had taken him on as a sort of shaman. Garrett was ecstatic at the news. His own adventures with strange creatures paled in comparison to Keegan's tales of the world—though, the strangest creature Garrett ever met, really, was Keegan.

By evening, Keegan had bathed, eaten, and spoken with the people, who'd gathered around him like children around a storyteller. As Garrett sorted through his pack—carefully examined for scorpions beforehand—in the tent he and Keegan shared, Keegan entered. Garrett wore a sweatshirt and jeans, as night in the desert could get very cold. Keegan seemed unaffected by the temperature. He wore linen pants, a pair of sandals, and nothing else. Garrett wondered if his power kept him warm.

"Cold?" Keegan asked with a smirk. He knelt by his own pack, his back to Garrett. A tattoo crawled down his spine, starting somewhere beneath his long, sun-bleached hair and extending downward to the top of his pants, the work exquisitely intricate, an interwoven design of many colors. A torch outside the tent flap cast flickering light on Keegan's skin, making the colors shine iridescent. The lines moved with the subtle flexing of Keegan's muscles.

"That's new," Garrett said.

Keegan looked over his shoulder. "Huh? Oh, my back?" He looked away. "Yeah."

"When did you get that done?"

"A few months ago." He rose and turned. He held a shirt but didn't immediately put it on. The torchlight twinkled off the twin rings through his nipples. Those were new too. Garrett tried not to focus on how attractive he was, even more so than when they were in school together. Garrett had a job to do, after all—even if he had come there hoping for a little something else.

"Still working on your canvas I see," Garrett said. "Every time I see you it's a new tattoo or piercing. You'll never get a job in the real world." He said the last bit with a mock-fatherly tone.

Keegan rubbed a hand over the snake around his arm. "I don't think I'm going back to the real world. As much as I love archeology, I'm leaving the field."

Garrett looked at him in disbelief. "You are?"

"There's much more to this world than we ever imagined at Cornell." Keegan pulled his shirt on, a plain white t-shirt, so tight it clung to the sculpted landscape of his chest and abs. "I think you know that better than anyone, Garrett. I can't work in a structured system anymore."

"What about your travels? Your adventures? You couldn't give those up; I know you! You want to see the world."

"The world is bigger than what I can see now, working under measly grants." Keegan grew stoic. "You shouldn't have come here, Garrett."

Garrett's bewilderment increased. "Why not? This is what I do. And besides, I get to see you. I haven't seen you in ages!"

"It's dangerous."

Garrett laughed sarcastically. "I've been handling dangerous creatures for a long time, Keegan. A dragon? That's the holy grail of my field! My grants come from people with "special interests," but if I found a dragon and could document it? The scientific community would come crawling back to me to apologize! I wouldn't need to beg on the doorsteps of eccentric millionaires."

Keegan shifted his jaw. His gaze met Garrett's, the gleaming blue depths of his eyes capturing the torchlight, and then he looked away. "I just don't want you to get hurt," he said.

"Keegan, I know what I'm doing." Garrett rose, smiling, and grasped his shoulders. Indeed, he felt warm. "Trust me."

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In Love and War by Lydia Nyx

I put this up as a free read on GLBT Bookshelf. When you're done reading the excerpt, click the links at the bottom to get the WHOLE thing for FREE!

This story takes place on the eve of advancement before the Greek-Roman battle of Heraclea in 280 BC. The main characters are Macedonian and part of the allied army of Macedonia who advance with King Pyrrhus of Epirus. I tried to be largely realistic pertaining to the sexual conventions of the time, which makes it a little less typical than most erotic fiction.

Blurb: On the eve of the Greek-Roman battle of Heraclea, General Karanos of the allied Macedonian army enjoys the hospitality of his old friend and once-lover Nikanor. Nostalgic for old dalliances, he quickly learns Nikanor has a new dalliance of his own: a beautiful, fierce young man named Amyntas. However, old passions are not so easily quelled--nor are new ones.

Excerpt:

Time passed and Karanos sunk deeper into the cushions of the couch, his limbs heavy with wine. The dancers sat upon the men’s laps and laughed, their voices tinkling with the music. A few tried to draw Nikanor’s attention but he waved them off. When Zeuxis finally rose and went to another couch Nikanor sprawled out, one foot on the cushions and the other on the stone floor. He wore a simple unadorned chiton without a cloak, no special dress for his farewell celebration. His feet were bare. Karanos felt a fondness deep inside him and smiled. Nikanor’s lack of convention made him ironically more appealing, to everyone. Nikanor stared at the ceiling, head reclined on the arm of the couch, his hands folded and resting upon his stomach.

One of the dancing girls came by, swaying her hips, and stopped beside Nikanor’s couch. She reached down and put a finger to his chest and Karanos heard her speaking lowly. Nikanor drew her down by the arm and whispered something in her ear.

Thetima spoke. “Women love my son, but he does not suffer them well.”

Karanos glanced at her, and then back at Nikanor. The girl suddenly stood upright, frowning petulantly, and moved away from him. Clearly, whatever Nikanor had said did not please her. Nikanor stared up at the ceiling again.

“He has no time for such pursuits,” Thetima said, never looking up. “Love for a woman is weakness. Do you love your wife, General Karanos?”

Karanos blinked, his cup hovering near his lips again. “I do. She has borne my son.”

“And does your wife understand your life? Your life of war and killing?”

“Of course not. But I do not ask her to. I would rather she not realize the truth of such things.”

“So I think Nikanor feels, that any wife he took would suffer.” Thetima gave a soft sigh. “He could not bear to expose her to it and yet he could not keep it from her. For it is who he is.”

Karanos thought on that. “I understand. But it is lonely without a wife. Even if they do not understand, at least they are there.”

“Is she here?” Thetima paused in her threading. She held a shell up to the light and examined it. “Is your wife here to ease the loneliness?”

Karanos did not speak.

“Of course she isn’t.” Thetima rested the shell on the cloth again. “She is not here because you would not expose her to it. And so you are lonely, when you sought not to be. This is the problem Nikanor knows full well. He could only ease his loneliness with one who understands his life. So it is with many men of Macedon. You lay with each other to share wisdom, but it is not only that. ”

Karanos was surprised to hear her speak so.

“Do not look so startled.” She glanced up at him, her eyes as calm as a windless sea. “Long have I been in the midst of men. Long have I heard tales and jests when they thought it did not matter if I heard, for I was only a woman. I do not fault you for it. You must take your peace where it is offered. I know of men and their ways.” She drew a small pouch from her side and from it, dumped a pile of glittering glass beads. “Loneliness must east itself where it may.”

Karanos wished for more wine in his cup.

“You desire my son,” she said.

It was bold of her to speak of such a thing and he had to restrain himself from chastising her, for she was not his mother and it was not his place. Nikanor sat up suddenly on his couch, placing both feet on the floor, and leaned down to retrieve his cup near the leg of the couch.

“I know men your age do not desire one so old as my son.” Thetima began stringing the beads with the shells. “I know this desire only arises from a need for understanding and companionship. But you have a past with him, one that you do not speak of.”

“Why do you say this!” Karanos was finally unable to withhold his outrage. “Do you seek to shame me?”

“No, my intention is not shame. It is a warning.”

Karanos frowned, studying her profile. “A warning?”

Suddenly, a draft passed through the hall. It made the lamps flicker and the fire burn brighter for an instant. Karanos felt a warm tingling on his arms and wondered how much wine he’d truly drank.

“How long has it been since you last saw Nikanor?” Thetima asked. “Five years? Six?”

“Too many.”

“Things have changed a bit since then.” She glanced up.

Karanos turned to see where she was looking and his gaze fell upon the doors. They had just opened, accounting for the draft. A young man entered the hall. He wore a deep blue chiton that fell to mid-thigh, pinned twice at the shoulders so they peeked through the resulting gaps, narrow and golden. His legs were long and lean, bronze as the rest of his skin, the laces of his sandals lashed to the knee. He wore his hair long like Nikanor’s, though it was darker and straighter. Around his neck hung a shelled necklace similar to the one Thetima wove. He was Amyntas, son of Timandros, and Karanos had known him as a boy. Thetima cared for him after his parents were stricken down by typhus and in letters to Karanos, she often spoke of his growth. He was going with them to see his first battle.

“Amyntas!” Karanos lifted his cup, though it was empty, to the youth in greeting. Amyntas nodded in return. The firelight on his skin and in his eyes made him glow like a bronze-cast sculpture.

“So potent he is,” Thetima murmured. “Do you not feel it?”

“What do you mean?” Karanos asked softly.

“He is young, and full of power. He is also as the lion that adamantly guards its territory. Beware, Karanos. Study well before you assume old dalliances. He was but a child when last you saw him. He is a child no more.”

The other men greeted Amyntas, and he them. Nikanor made no sound or move. He remained lounged on the couch, tugging idly at a lock of hair. Amyntas came near him and stopped. Karanos gazed upon Amyntas and wondered at Thetima’s words.

Clear they became when Amyntas fell elegantly upon the couch and draped his long, sleek legs decisively across Nikanor’s lap. He held his hand out for a cup from one of the serving girls. His eyes fell on Karanos, and though his smile was friendly, his gaze was fierce.

As fierce as a lion’s.

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The Game in Spain by Lydia Nyx

Blurb: In Madrid, Spain, during Carnival, gorgeous Spanish gymnast, Alejandro Salvador, leads his trainer, Gabriel, and his ex-boyfriend Sebastian on a wild and sexy chase through the streets. Promising the one who gets to him first gets him as their prize, he thinks he runs the game he's playing. Little does he know, the two men, both in desperate lust with him, will realize competition isn't necessary when they can have twice the fun working together.

Excerpt:

"Why did you come?" Sebastian asked accusingly.

"He left me a letter." Gabriel placed his hand defensively over his jacket pocket. "He kept talking about the Carnival. He told me to come."

"He left me one too." Sebastian put a hand on his hip pocket. "I'll be in Plaza Mayor—"

"Catch me if you can," Gabriel finished. "Get here first and I'm yours. I wondered what he meant by that. Then I saw you at the airport. I should have guessed."

Sebastian snorted. "He's certainly got some brass, doesn't he?" He looked up and down the alley again.

"Yes, he certainly does." Gabriel adjusted his mask from slipping down on his sweaty skin.

"Maybe we should go this way," Sebastian said, pointing to the opposite end of the alley. "He might be down there."

"He's probably laughing at us," Gabriel said. "With that sexy little laugh of his."

As if on cue, the exact sound Gabriel described issued from above, and they both looked up.

Alejandro stood on the balcony above them, leaning on the railing, smiling sweetly. "Are you tired?" he asked, turning something over in his fingers.

A key.

"Or did you get lost?" The blue eye mask rested atop his head, his dark hair pushed up in wild clumps. His eyes sparkled, his face glowed.

Gabriel eyed the key in his hand, flashing in the light.

"Alej!" Sebastian said beseechingly. "You got us here. Are you going to keep playing with us?"

Alejandro looked thoughtful, a smile on his lips. He stood up. "Sixteen," he said.

"What?" Sebastian asked.

Alejandro flung the key into the air; it fell, twinkling in the light, and Alejandro disappeared before it hit the ground.

Gabriel and Sebastian scrambled wildly and collided as they both tried to catch the prize. The key bounced off Gabriel's fingertips and tinkled on the stones. They both dove forward. A mad scuffle ensued, the two of them pushing at each other, Sebastian's elbow digging painfully into Gabriel's ribs as he tried to force him down. Gabriel yelped and pounded his fist between Sebastian's shoulder blades. Sebastian shoved him and knocked him off balance, and scrambled away a second later with the key in hand.

"Fuck you!" Sebastian laughed triumphantly. He raced to the door of the building.

Gabriel shot after him in a surge of fury. Sebastian fled through the door and slammed it behind him. Gabriel yanked the handle but the door had locked. He ripped off his mask, the cold air chilling his hot face, and looked wildly up at the balcony.

"Goddamn it!" He flung the mask down.

It wasn't over, though. He wouldn't concede so easily.

After a furious minute of pacing and calculating, he reasoned the balcony hovered about eight feet off the ground. Alejandro Salvador held the position of Olympic-bound Spanish gymnast, beguiling the world with his coy charm and impeccable skill, but Gabriel had trained him, at least, in the skill department. The bars of the wrought iron railing were spaced far enough apart to grab. Gabriel looked around and spotted a metal trashcan with a lid. He sat atop the lid to test the can's strength, and the metal didn't give. He pushed the can over beneath the balcony.

Gabriel walked backward, pushing his sleeves up. The alley wasn’t very wide, but he could get enough speed if he took off quickly. His back pressed against the wall opposite the balcony, he took a deep breath. His muscles were plenty warmed up from chasing Alejandro.

The trashcan lid buckled when his feet hit it with so much force, which didn't give him quite the height he wanted, but his momentum propelled him. He caught the bars with both hands, glad they were smooth so he had a strong grip. He swung a leg up and wedged his heel between two of the bars, applied all his upper body strength, and used his foot to push. Once successfully up, he had only to vault over the railing. He hadn't lost a bit of grace since his own days on the bars.

"You're about to get a big surprise," he muttered as he crossed the balcony, muscles burning, heart thudding. He stopped and took a moment to compose himself, pushing his sleeves down and running a hand through his hair. Then, with shoulders squared, he yanked open the balcony door.

On the other side was a hotel room—airy and lavish, with high, rounded windows and a marble-tiled floor. A huge bed sat in the middle of the room, with a dark oak headboard and posts without a canopy. Lamps in the corners chased shadows up to a cavernous, molded ceiling. The room possessed a lovely, old-world charm, but a different Spanish charm interested Gabriel.

Alejandro stood near the bed . . . with Sebastian. Sebastian had removed his mask and it dangled from his hand; his colorful hair hung around his face. He looked horrified when he saw Gabriel. Alejandro just smiled, his dark eyes twinkling.

"How the hell did you get in here?" Sebastian asked.

"Talent." Gabriel stared him down. "You're just his promoter. I'm still a gymnast. I didn't need to take the stairs."

"Well, well." Alejandro folded his arms, his voice a soft lilt. "This is interesting. What shall I do now?"

Gabriel and Sebastian glared at each other, gazes locked fiercely, but after a long moment they both softened with a knowing, shared frustration. They'd come all the way to Madrid, chased Alejandro through the streets, fought over the key to his room, and sacrificed their pride to get to him first. Both were tired and worked up. Both had a right to the prize.

"You know," Sebastian said, "he has put us through a lot."

"Quite a lot," Gabriel replied.

"It wasn't very nice of him."

"No, it wasn't."

Alejandro looked between them, wariness in his eyes. Gabriel and Sebastian moved in.

"What . . . ?" Alejandro looked from one to the other and gasped softly when Gabriel pulled the mask off his head. He tossed it to the floor. Sebastian ran his fingers through Alejandro's sparkling hair. The glitter showered down his back and fell like gentle rain to the tile.

"This is what you wanted," Gabriel whispered in Alejandro's ear. Alejandro smelled like the Carnival, like the cool evening air.

Sebastian caressed a finger beneath Alejandro's chin and turned his face to him. Gabriel grasped the opportunity to kiss the silken skin of the Spaniard's neck.

"You wanted both of us," Sebastian said. "You can't decide, can you Alej? That's why you played this game."

"And what a lovely game it was," Gabriel murmured against his neck. He nibbled at the tendon there. "But we're in charge now."

Alejandro seemed overwhelmed but not resistant. Sebastian slid an arm around Alejandro's slender waist and Gabriel gripped the bottom of his shirt. He tugged the fabric up over his smooth, flat belly and caressed him. Gabriel felt his abdominal muscles pull in, quivering.

"Don't," Alejandro said weakly. He turned his face to Gabriel as Sebastian nuzzled the other side of his neck.

Gabriel slid his hand up, gripped the collar of Alejandro's shirt, and tugged the fabric aside. He slid his teeth over his bare shoulder. Alejandro gasped.

"Don't?" Gabriel asked. "Are you sure that's the word you want?"

"I don't think it is," Sebastian said. He traced Alejandro's trembling, glistening lips with his fingertips. Alejandro opened his mouth, eyes slipping closed, his dark lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

Gabriel whispered, "I think the word you want is . . . ."

"Si," Alejandro gasped. He titled his chin up as their mouths explored his neck, his shoulders, his collarbone.

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