Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Fire Balls by Tara Lain

Rodney Mansfield is tiny, flamboyant and, oh yeah, a black belt in karate. He is also one of southern California’s greatest artists. Too bad the work of art he really wants is firefighter, Hunter Fallon. But the gorgeous “straight gay” guy could never want the Runtback of Notre Dame, so when Rodney’s handsome, surfer friend, Jerry, develops an unexpected passion for the beautiful firefighter, Rodney breaks his own heart by helping Jerry land his man. And then Rod makes it worse by embarrassing Hunter when he protects him from a firehouse bully. Hunter hates gay guys like Rodney – doesn’t he? Then why can’t he get the powerful pipsqueak’s face out of his mind… and his heart? And why does he risk his job and his life to rescue Rod from a burning building? Isn’t it time for him to admit he’s not an alpha male after all and that he is the property of the artist?

Available at Etopia Press Amazon

Rodney glanced over to see how his model was doing. Total heart stop and brain malfunction. Perfect. Every line and curve. Every angle. Hunter’s body was so lean that each muscle stood out against his tan skin like a piece of sculpture. The pose twisted his torso just enough to make his narrow waist seem even slimmer against the breadth of his shoulders and his hard, curved pecs. His legs were long and looked carved from marble. Even his feet were perfect. Oh God. Rod wanted to suck each toe in homage.

And in the middle of all this art, surrounded by light tan skin and at the end of a happy trail of silken dark hair, was a magnificent cock lying relaxed against Hunter’s right leg. He was a low hanger, a real shower. Long and graceful, framed by loose balls and a soft pubic nest, this was a penis of the gods. Rodney wanted to paint it all alone in every possible posture. Yeah, preferably erect. Shit, he had to quit staring, or at least pretend the staring was professional and not prurient. Sure, right.

Hunter’s cock might be relaxed but the rest of his body was vibrating with tension. Rodney tried not to think how much he would like that to be reversed. Had to put the guy at ease before he had a coronary.

He grabbed his camera from the worktable and started snapping. “Looks great, Hunter. Perfect. Just relax as much as you can while I snap some photos. I’ll use these to work on the painting when you’re not here. I can use the shots to get general massing and proportion but I like to have the model live to put in texture and shadow. Nothing beats life for that kind of detail.” He was babbling but he hoped it would help the guy relax.

The beautiful body seemed to melt into the daybed, his arm over his eyes relaxed, and his fingers opened. Rod drew closer to capture a close-up of that graceful, powerful hand, then hurried back to the table and grabbed the sketch pad, leaving the camera behind. God, those long fingers. He stared at the calluses that seemed in conflict with the dance-like beauty of the relaxed hand. Scribbling, he committed the pose to paper before shifting his attention. A fast interpretation of Hunter’s carved mouth, the top lip intriguingly fuller than the bottom, giving the architectural symmetry of his face an unexpected pout. A quick swirl to capture his cleft chin, then a loving sketch of the gorgeous collarbone that defined the hard, muscular shoulder.

Down and down. Rodney hummed. Hunter seemed unconcerned, his breath having slowed. Maybe he needed a good nap. Man, look at those abs. That was a twelve-pack, baby. Down the happy trail and…he stopped sketching in awe. What a cock. Had to capture it. His fingers flew over the paper as he quietly chuckled. Yeah, he’d like to capture it. In his hands or mouth. He did study after study glancing up to be sure Hunter wasn’t watching Rod fixate on that dick.

OK, enough. “Hunter, move if you need to,” Rod murmured.

“Huh?” The arm came off his eyes, and he raised his head. “Oh man, I think I was nearly asleep.”

“Sorry to wake you. Go ahead and sleep and I’ll just draw.”

He sat up. “No. I better stretch or I’ll get really stiff. Sorry. I just got off a double shift. Didn’t realize I was so tired.”

Rod pointed to a clothes tree beside the platform. “Need a bathrobe?”

Hunter gave a shy grin. A-fucking-dorable. “Nah, I guess not. We’re both guys.”

Rodney struck a pose with hand on hip. “But since we’re both gay guys the implications are slightly different, wouldn’t you say?”

Hunter shook his head. “No fishing in another guy’s pond.”

Rod’s heart tripped. “You mean you and Jerry?”

“No, I mean Bill. He seems like a great guy.”

Rod smiled. “He is, but we’re just friends.”

Hunter sat on the edge of the daybed, that gorgeous cock hanging down between his legs. Distracting much? Rod busied himself blocking out the figure on the huge canvas.

“I thought you two were on a date.”

“Yeah. Our first and last. Dutch from now on. We realized we make better pals than lovers.”

“Oh, sorry.”

Rod looked up. “Nothing to be sorry about. Not everyone fits.”

“But wouldn’t you have liked it to work?”

He stopped drawing. Would he? “I kind of have a thing for someone else. Unrequited. But it makes getting into a relationship harder.” He spoke the truth.

“You need to find someone who appreciates you. A talent like you doesn’t come along every day.”

“Yeah, well, maybe.” A small crack opened in his heart.

“Shall I lie back down?”

“Need the bathroom or anything?”

“No, I’m good.” Hunter lay down.

Rod looked away. Shit. He would not cry. Deep breath. He returned to the canvas and tried for a rakish smile. “Besides, I imagine Bill’s a top. We would have killed each other. He’d push me down and I’d fight and grab him. It would have been ugly. Blood all over, both of us trying to dominate.”

Silence. Deafening silence. Rod glanced up. Hunter lay in the prescribed position, arm over eyes. But his formerly relaxed cock had risen to half-mast. What had gotten him going? Bill? Being a top? Killing each other. Hmm.

Let’s find out. “I’d try to stick my cock in his ass, and he’d be trying to grab me and hold me down. What a battle.”

Sure enough, the slow rise continued. Rod edged closer. Crap, the fireman wasn’t just a shower. Look at that gorgeous thing. Closer. What would happen if he touched? He wanted to touch so badly. His hand rose as he took another step.

E-mail: tara@taralain.com

Website: http://www.taralain.com

Author blog: http://taralain.blogspot.com

Book blog: http://beautifulboysbooks.blogspot.com

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4541791.Tara_Lain

Savvy Authors: http://www.savvyauthors.com/vb/member.php?2398-Tara-Lain

Twitter: http://twitter.com/taralain

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/people/Tara-Lain/100001514105686

FB Page: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Tara-Lain/205042046209804

Behind the Mask by Lisa Worrall

BLURB: The Downe's Valentine's Day Masquerade Ball has been an annual event for over a hundred years and where, four years ago, Gabe met Mike.

It's been over six months since Mike's death and Mike thinks that Gabe is ready to move on. How does Gabe know this? He receives a letter and a ticket to the ball, from Mike. Gabe isn't sure he'll ever be ready to move on, but in deference to Mike's memory, he attends the ball.

What Gabe doesn't know, is that his best friend, Tom, the one constant in his life since college, has also received a letter from Mike. Will Gabe be able to move forward and remember a long forgotten love, or will his world come crumbling down around his ears, again?



/Valentine's Day 2011/

_ _

Gabe stared out of the window as the taxi turned off the country lane they had been travelling down and onto the beginning of the gravel drive that led up to Downe Hall. The music could already be heard through the open windows of the large country house and laughter spilled out with it. He couldn't believe he was actually doing this… albeit under duress.

The house looked as magnificent as it had on his first visit there four years ago, when he'd been talked into attending the event of the season. The Thomas Downe Annual Valentine's Day Masquerade Ball was legendary and people came from miles around to lose themselves in the splendour of it all; the music, the costumes, the chance to be someone else, for just one night.

The grass verge on either side of the drive up to the gates was decorated with life size sculptures of naked men and women, covered with strategically placed white fairy lights, heralding the way to the house.

"That'll be eighteen fifty."

Gabe looked at the taxi driver and blinked owlishly. "Huh?"

"The fare," the man repeated, nodding at the meter. "Eighteen pounds, fifty."

"Oh, right," Gabe replied scrabbling in the pocket of his costume for a twenty pound note. He handed it to the other man mumbling, "Keep the change."

"Thanks, mate. Nice costume by the way. You meeting someone in there?" The driver's question was innocent enough and Gabe knew that he couldn't know how those words made his gut tighten and his heart ache.

"Not this year," he replied and opened the door before the man could remark further. Gabe stood looking at the bridge over the moat to the large open gates. He'd spent a fortune on his costume and the ticket itself would have kept his fridge stocked for six months, even though he hadn't paid for it, so standing on the drive and watching other party-goers just sail past him was kind of stupid. And then there was the added concern that if he stood there much longer, the organisers might drape /him/ in fairy lights.

Besides, this was where it had all begun, it seemed only fitting that this is where it should end; where he should bury the past and move towards the future. He huffed a joyless laugh through parted lips. The future—/what/ future? Mike seemed to think he was ready to embrace a life without him… but Gabe wasn't so sure.

It felt like a lifetime ago, instead of four short years, that he'd stood exactly where he was now, staring at the splendour of Downe Hall, listening to the music spilling from the windows, his ticket clutched in his hand, just as it was now. Then, of course, his friend Tom had stood beside him, nudging him and urging him forward.

Going to the Downe Valentine's Masquerade Ball had been Tom's idea back then. He'd had a real bee in his bonnet about it, made it sound like they were the losers of the year if they didn't attend, and how infamous the Downe Masquerade Ball was. If Gabe recalled correctly, the ridiculous corny expression, "It's the /event/ of the year!" had left Tom's lips on more than one occasion. Tickets had been so expensive Gabe had almost balked at the price, but Tom had made it sound so damned exciting and had played to Gabe's more gullible, romantic side—before he'd known what he was doing, the tickets had been purchased and they were in the costumers, picking out their outfits.

Four years ago, Tom had been fit to be tied by the time the taxi had pulled up outside Downe Hall. Gabe had spent the previous week reading everything he could about the place and had known its history inside out. The Masquerade ball had originally been held in London, until the event had proved too popular in the late 1830s and in need of a bigger venue. Thomas Downe had then decided opening his country estate once a year to his friends, neighbours and the elite of London society was a much more feasible option. The history books had been rife with stories that said Downe's sister, Mary, had not exactly been enamoured by the idea, and although the siblings lived in the same house, apparently they didn't speak to each other for almost a year. He remembered staring up at the house as the taxi had come to a stop outside the mansion that night, and wondering how unsettling the atmosphere must have been with brother and sister walking the gardens, ignoring each other as they went about their daily life; their only communication being through the servants.

Not that communication on the taxi ride had been a problem for him and Tom that night. His best friend's lips hadn't stopped flapping since Gabe had arrived at Tom's to get dressed. The moron had been so over the top about the whole thing that Gabe had asked him on more than one occasion over the last week what was so special about the damned dance? Tom had merely shrugged and changed the subject, and had continued to behave like Tigger[CO1] <#_msocom_1> on speed, so much so that Gabe had been concerned Tom might've actually spontaneously combusted before they'd even made it to their first Masquerade.

Looking up at the awe-inspiring country estate again now, a fond smile curved Gabe's lips as the memory of that Valentine's night in 2007 surrounded him.


Packing Heat by Kele Moon


Firefighter Brad Archer secretly longs for his straight roommate, Police Officer Gavin Connolly. He usually holds the handsome cop at arms' length but a shooting at work leads to a wild night that changes everything.


Dark and brooding firefighter Brad Archer has spent months denying his attraction to his roommate, police officer Gavin Connolly. Gavin is just the kind of guy he likes: tall, tough, and buff enough to actually handle Brad’s big size and rough nature.

To hide his real feelings Brad holds the handsome, seemingly straight cop at arms' length until a shooting at work leaves Gavin a little too vulnerable to ignore. What starts out as a simple attempt to comfort his roommate blows up into something wild, sexual, and wholly unexpected when Gavin wants more from Brad than a strong firefighter’s shoulder to lean on.

The sexual magnetism drawing the two of them together forces secrets to be revealed, and though the sex is mind-blowing it may not be worth weathering the storms their relationship could stir up. In order to protect him, Brad realizes he loves Gavin enough to let him go. The problem is—the stubborn cop may not let him.

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual situations, graphic language, and material that some readers may find objectionable: bondage, male/male sexual practices.


“I’m a big advocate for gay rights. I’d vote for gay marriage if it ever came up on the ballot.”

Brad took a long drink of his beer. “Don’t hold your breath on that one.”

“The point is”—Gavin turned around from his spot on the floor where he sat with his back against the couch. The television cast flickers of color over his handsome face as he stared up at Brad.—“I’m secure in my sexuality. I don’t care that you’re gay.”

“Thanks, Gav,” Brad said, the bite in his voice harsh even to his ears. “Right backatcha. Most gay guys avoid drunk, straight assholes who think they deserve some sorta stud medal for letting us be in their presence, but don’t worry, I’m secure enough to deal with the bullshit.”

Gavin blinked, the drunken flush to his tan cheeks growing more pronounced. “I said something wrong, didn’t I?”

Gavin’s light eyes were glazed. His black hair stuck up at odd angles. It was obvious even the hardy Irish blood that ran in Gavin Connolly’s veins couldn’t hold up to the binge he’d been on for the past eight hours.

“Don’t worry about it.” Brad took another sip of his beer, feeling like he needed it. “You’re drunk. I get it.”

“But I don’t wanna piss you off. I care about ya. You’re like a—” Gavin paused, turning to look blankly at the television as if searching for the right word. “Well, you’re not really a buddy. I mean, you are a buddy, but you’re more than a buddy to me. Much more. I don’t care if the boys at the station make fun of me. I’m glad we’re roommates.”

“Wow.” Brad widened his eyes at that disaster of an explanation. “You’re a really bad drunk.”

“I don’t drink that much.” Gavin took another swig of his beer and then mumbled against the rim, “Damn kid, why’d he have to pull a gun? So fucking stupid.”

“You didn’t kill him.” Brad sighed, knowing Gavin had a very good reason for the uncharacteristic pity party. “He’ll be all right.”

“Luck.” Gavin snorted. “It’s a fucking miracle that bullet missed his heart.”

“Maybe we oughta go back to talking about how awesome you are for having a gay roommate,” Brad offered with a wince.

“Do you know how much bureaucratic bullshit I’ve gone through in the past three days? All ’cause that damn kid pulled a gun. My name’s all over the news.”

“You’re a hero, man. Who knows what that asshole would’ve done if you hadn’t taken him down.”

“That’s just it.” Gavin turned back to Brad, a look of misery shining in his light eyes. “I don’t feel like a hero. I feel like a guy who shot a nineteen-year-old kid for making a bad decision.”

Forgetting about the distance he usually forced between them, Brad got up and kicked aside some of the beer bottles to sit next to Gavin on the floor. He wasn’t really sure why he did it. Maybe it was Gavin looking more like a kicked puppy than the cool, easygoing roommate he’d gotten used to over the past several months.

“You’re a good cop,” Brad said softly, leaning back against the couch. “And more importantly, you’re a good guy. It was a justified shooting. The shoot team’s gonna clear you to go back to work in a few more days. Everything will be fine. I promise.”

“Thanks.” Gavin gave him a dazzling smile, as if forgetting his bout of melancholy. “You’re a real buddy. The best one I got. Talking you into renting me this room was the best thing I ever did. And you thought it wouldn’t work out.”

Brad remembered with stunning clarity the reason why he kept his distance from Gavin. He was too fucking handsome. The contrast between his black hair and light eyes was startling. His face was both beautiful and masculine with his hard jaw and full lips. And his body… Jesus. Brad turned back to the television, the chant of it’d be a mistake echoing in his mind.

Brad’s taste in men was dangerous. He was naturally drawn to broad shoulders, powerful muscles, rock-solid abs—the harder and more masculine the better. He didn’t have a problem with softer gay men. Pretty bottoms with floppy hair and slim bodies were fine. He just didn’t want to fuck them.

It was highly inconvenient that Brad’s line of work left him drowning in testosterone. If it wasn’t the other firefighters and paramedics he worked with, it was cops like Gavin. But Brad was thirty-eight; he had learned to separate his private and professional lives. The straight ones he kept his distance from, the gay ones—well, he could tell Gavin a few things about some of those guys he worked with. They were probably the same assholes laughing at him for having a gay roommate. Closeted gay men were the worst.

“I’m not really secure in my sexuality,” Gavin whispered over the hum of the television. “That was bullshit.”

Brad looked toward the ceiling, praying for patience. The only thing worse than a closeted gay man was one who had his head so far up his ass he didn’t realize he had the inclination.

Gavin, for example.

Straight cops didn’t beg and plead to rent a room from a gay firefighter unless they were looking for something. Not to mention Gavin was drop-dead gorgeous. He could get any woman he wanted, but the asshole didn’t date.

If Brad were younger and dumber, he would have rejoiced in helping Gavin solve his dating problems, but Brad wasn’t young and dumb. He was middle-aged and cynical. He didn’t need beautiful and buff Gavin with his pretty eyes and strong jaw. He wanted the hell out of him, so much so he hadn’t gotten laid in months because he’d rather play domestic with the most clueless cop in Tampa Bay, but he didn’t need him.

“Time to go to bed.” Brad reached over to pull the beer out of Gavin’s hand. “You’ve officially had one too many. I’m ending this pity party.”

“Do you think I’m handsome?” Gavin asked, eyes wide and glazed with liquid courage.

Fuck, yes.

“I think you’re unavailable,” Brad said evenly instead of voice his thoughts out loud. “Trust me, Gavin, you want to go to bed now.”

“I don’t see you looking at me,” Gavin mumbled rather than take Brad’s advice. He appeared genuinely disappointed with the lack of attention. “Maybe only women think I’m hot.”

Brad rolled his eyes at Gavin’s vanity that was oddly charming. Arrogant but unassuming—not many could make that work.

“It’s not only women,” Brad found himself admitting. “You’re hot; anyone would think so.”

“Would you think so?”

Brad took a long drink of the beer he’d stolen from Gavin and resumed his staring contest with the television. His cock flared to life, demanding he answer in the affirmative. His mind reminded him of the disaster it would create in the morning when the booze wore off. He was a little too old to do awkward to that extreme.


He made the mistake of looking at Gavin when he heard the pleading desperation. Gavin’s eyes swirled with haunted uncertainty, as if Brad could somehow solve his life problems. That was a very dangerous look. It made Gavin seem younger than thirty-four, more innocent, and wholly tempting in a way that sucker punched Brad with yearning. He swallowed hard past the rush of desire.

“Yeah,” he whispered, knowing it was a mistake even as he said it. “I think you’re handsome. Happy?”

He closed his eyes and prayed for strength when his defenses were at an all-time low. He was so focused on finding an inner source of defense, Brad ended up blindsided when a hard male body suddenly pressed against him. A rough hand ran over his jaw. Warm breath brushed against his lips.

Holy shit! Gavin was kissing him. The logical thing to do was push the drunken fool away, but Brad wasn’t feeling logical. There was a crackle between them. The electric current of attraction was so overwhelming, Brad knew Gavin wasn’t the only one in denial. He had wanted this man for a long time now, and no amount of past baggage was going to let Brad deny it when Gavin was making himself this available.

He kissed him back. The excitement was palatable, reminding him of stolen, forbidden kisses between football players behind the bleachers. They were both frantic, needing to touch and feel everything at once. It was wild. It was sloppy. It felt unbelievably right when he knew it shouldn’t.

Gavin had him feeling seventeen again.

Brad seized the moment like a drowning man. He tangled his fingers in Gavin’s dark hair, wanting him closer. When Gavin straddled Brad’s hips, settling on his lap like he belonged there, Brad thought it was a minor miracle he didn’t come in his jeans.

He gripped Gavin’s tight ass, moaning against his lips when he felt hard muscle through faded jeans. He arched his hips up, making his lap more user-friendly as Gavin rutted against him. Gavin’s tongue thrust into his mouth to the intoxicating rhythm Gavin used to dry fuck Brad and the raw desperation that was addicting.

It wasn’t until the need for air busted through the haze that Brad broke the kiss. He tossed his head back against the couch while Gavin moved over him with an uncontrolled need, as if so starved for sexual attention he couldn’t even be bothered to remove clothes before searching for release. Brad’s body actually vibrated with how badly he wanted this, and he tightened his hand in Gavin’s hair, needing the lifeline.

“Get off on me,” he growled, more a demand than a request. “Fuck my lap until you come.”

“Yeah?” Gavin panted against the curve of his neck. He nipped lightly, his breath warm and soothing before his tongue laved over the wound. “Christ, I need this. I’ve had a bad week.”

“I know, baby.” Brad cupped his ass tighter, helping the grind. “You need it, take it.”

Gavin rode him with intent. His kisses were bruising, wild, and wholly male in a way Brad loved. He gave as good as he got. Brad slipped his hand past the gap in Gavin’s jeans, working beneath cotton underwear to grip the smooth skin of his ass. He wanted to feel his hole, to finger it and really get him off, but Brad knew he was dealing with his deeply in denial roommate. With every raspy breath, a part of him was waiting for Gavin to freeze in his arms and realize he was dry humping a man.

Gavin gasped as if catching Brad’s thoughts, the frustration heavy in his voice as he begged. “Please.”

Fuck it. Brad released Gavin’s ass, then sucked on two fingers, doing it slowly, being deliberate and seductive. Gavin eyed Brad’s mouth as his light eyes became glazed with longing. His breathing fell shallow like that of a starved animal while he watched Brad prepare his fingers to fuck his ass.

Brad released his fingers with a pop and demanded, “Take your dick out. I wanna see it.”

Gavin leaned back against Brad’s thighs. His hands shook as he worked on unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans. He pulled down white cotton briefs, letting his cock fall hard and heavy into his hand.

God, it was a nice cock—long, thick, and cut—with the head flaring red when Gavin fisted it. Brad sucked on his fingers once more. He entertained the idea of shoving Gavin off him and swallowing that cock, taking it deep and sloppy in a way he was certain a woman never could. If Gavin wanted to play gay man, Brad might as well give him the five-star tour.

Gavin shuddered while Brad had a moment with his fingers. “Please,” he repeated, his desperation obvious. “You’re teasing.”

The harsh need was palpable with every raspy breath Gavin took.

Brad reached around Gavin to grab the back of his shirt and tug it up. With Gavin’s help they got his shirt off, giving Brad a view of hard muscles before Gavin fell over him and buried his face in the curve of Brad’s neck.

“Give it to me, baby.” Brad fisted Gavin’s hair once more. If he wanted it, he was going to have to work for it. “Show me what you want.”

Gavin shuddered so violently from Brad’s harsh demand, he was worried he accidently forced him over the edge. But then Gavin was shifting, his thighs sliding against the tile, pushing his bare cock tighter against Brad’s stomach.

With Gavin practically vibrating in his arms, Brad slid his hand beneath the gap in his jeans, finding his hole with spit-slicked fingers. He circled it a few times, enjoying the way Gavin shifted impatiently, trying to impale himself on Brad’s fingers.

“Shhh,” he said, still getting acquainted with Gavin’s ass. “Put your hands on my shoulders. We’re going slow.”

“Shit.” Gavin’s grip on Brad’s shoulders was tight and bruising as he moved back against Brad’s fingers once more. “Don’t go slow. I want it hard. Fast. Cruel. Make me stop thinking.”

Brad let those words burn through him as his hold tightened in Gavin’s hair. He jerked his head back to watch Gavin’s face as he gave him what he wanted. He thrust into his ass hard and mean. When Gavin gasped from the invasion, Brad curved his fingers up and rubbed against his prostate before he had time to adjust.

“Fuck!” Gavin’s eyes flew open, stunned pleasure flashing electric blue.

Brad’s grip on Gavin’s hair was unforgiving as he kept his head back, forcing him to put the deviant indulgence on display. With only spit for lube, the rub of his fingers in Gavin’s hot, incredibly tight ass was rough and gritty in a way that hit every kink button Brad had. He was in very real danger of coming in his jeans, but he didn’t give a fuck, because Gavin looked amazing thrusting back against his hand, furiously searching for relief.

Brad enjoyed the show, knowing it was going to be material for a thousand jerk-off sessions. Sexy and wanton, Gavin was still grinding against Brad’s jean-covered cock, desperate to come while Brad fingered his ass. He went back and forth between rubbing his prostate and stretching Gavin’s hole, assuming he liked the burn. He obviously did, because he released Brad’s shoulders to fist his cock.

“Oh no.” Brad narrowed his eyes as he stopped the torment of Gavin’s ass. “You want it from a man? You’re gonna get it the way I like it. Let go of your dick or go find yourself a girlfriend.”

Gavin shuddered and placed both hands back on Brad’s shoulders without argument. It was obvious he liked being told what to do.

Brad’s cock jerked inside his jeans, but he liked the bite of pain. It helped him keep control when everything in him wanted to bend Gavin over this couch and fuck him with something crueler than his fingers.

“Good boy.” Brad rewarded his obedience with another nudge against his prostate.

Gavin jerked in his arms, crying out from the shock of pleasure.

“Christ, Brad, please.” Gavin’s entire body was shaking with the strain for climax. He tried to move back against Brad’s hand, but Brad had him nestled tightly in his lap, taking his control. With Gavin’s head wrenched back, the pleasure and need etched itself over his handsome features as he pleaded, “Fuck me. I want you to fuck me.”

“I don’t think so,” Brad said, stretching him even as he denied both of them, because he wasn’t going to fuck a man in denial when he was drunk. At least the rejection gave him a power buzz. “I will, however, enjoy watching you get off on my fingers. I’m gonna watch you as you come, Gav, and you’re gonna enjoy letting me.”

The defeat in Gavin was profound and fucking sexy as hell. Brad saw stars from the lust rush when Gavin became languid over him. Only taking what he was given, the tension was replaced with something much more erotic—total submission as he surrendered himself to Brad and the pleasure he was giving him.

More turned on than he’d been in his entire life, Brad finger fucked his ass with enthusiasm. He was eager to see Gavin come apart in his arms, and he wasn’t disappointed as the powerful cop quickly ended up panting and frantic for a release from the onslaught. His breathing grew more and more ragged as he got closer to completion. No longer fighting for it now that he’d given Brad control, Gavin jerked with the stroke that pushed him over the edge. His body curved into the wrench on his hair and the grasp on his ass. His cry of pleasure was savage and unrestrained.

Brad clenched his teeth and fought against closing his eyes at the feeling of Gavin’s ass clenching around his fingers. He watched Gavin’s face instead, the sheer decadence of tasting the forbidden mapping its way over his beautiful features. He was completely enthralled by the image, and it left more than his cock aching. His chest swelled with an emotion he hadn’t felt in a very long time as he admired the physical evidence of pleasure he was able to give Gavin.

Jesus, he could fall in love with this asshole.


Monday, January 30, 2012

The Layered Mask by Sue Brown

Coming Feb. 4, 2012

Blurb: Threatened by his father with disinheritance, Lord Edwin Nash arrives in London for one season to find a wife. While there, Nash discovers he is the lamb, the sacrifice of the society matrons, to be shackled to one of the girls by the end of the season.

During a masquerade ball, Nash hides from the ladies vying for his attention. He is discovered by Lord Thomas Downe, the Duke of Lynwood. Nash is horrified when Thomas calmly tells him that he knows the secret that Nash had hidden for years and that he sees through the mask that Edwin presents to the rest of the world.

What will happen when the time comes for Edwin to return home with a suitable bride?


Excerpt: Downe held out his hand. "May I have this dance?" he asked huskily, holding out his hand.

Eyes widening in shock, Nash swallowed audibly. He hesitated and then placed his hand in Downe's, allowing the older man to draw him to his feet. Downe gathered him into a dancing position, hoping that Nash would not pull away once he realised he was in the lady's role.

"You will have to guide me," Nash said, resting his left hand lightly on Downe's right arm, as he waited for Downe to take the first step. If this position did bother him, Nash didn't say so, as he smiled up at Downe.

Having Edwin Nash in his arms, warm and solid despite his slight form, left Downe breathless. Downe wondered if the young man was even aware of the effect he was having on him. Struggling against the urge to pull Nash hard against him, Downe hummed the music to a slow waltz.

They started dancing, Nash only taking a short while to grasp the simple steps, and suddenly Downe could see why the waltz was thought of as scandalous. They weren't touching except for their hands, but it was so intimate, a few inches between them instead of the width of a line. For once, Downe thought the moral brigade may have had the right idea. Being able to hold your partner so close was… he struggled to find the right word… sensuous. He was aware of every part of Nash’s lithe body, from the curls of his dark hair around his temple to his shapely legs almost, but not quite, pressed up against his.

Author Bio: Sue Brown is owned by her dog and two children. When she isn't following their orders, she can be found at university listening to lecturers discuss long-dead theologians. In her head, however, she's plotting how to get her cowboys into bed together; she just hopes the lecturer doesn't ask her any questions.

Sue discovered M/M erotica at the time she woke up to find two men kissing on her favorite television series. The series was boring; the kissing was not. She may be late to the party, but she's made up for it since, writing fan fiction until she was brave enough to venture out into the world of original fiction.

You can find me on my blog: http://suebrownsstories.blogspot.com/

The Slave's Mask by Patricia Logan

Coming Feb. 4, 2012


American blockade runner, Captain Anthony Charles, has made a fortune in gold, running guns and other contraband between England and the Confederate States in 1863. He craves a young submissive man. Francois, a young prostitute, might be just the man to satisfy all of Anthony’s taboo desires.



Infamous American blackguard and blockade runner, Captain Anthony Charles, has made a fortune in gold, running contraband between England and the Confederate States at the height of the Civil War in 1863. Anthony knows good brandy and fine cigars and his English clients appreciate him for it, but the captain also craves young submissive men. When he wins a young prostitute at an auction, Francois becomes his slave for seven days.

Francois has turned to prostitution to survive, but he is more than a whore. While most men who enjoy his favors treat him cruelly, he is stunned by this temporary owner's kindness. Being a slave to this blue-eyed Master is no difficult task. Both men find that love may not be as elusive as they thought. Will the separation of oceans and time test their love or bring pain beyond bearing?