Release Blitz: Various Distractions by AE Lister #BDSM #eroticromance #gay @pridepublishing @firstforromance

 

Various Distractions by AE Lister

Book 2 in the Persuasions series

General Release Date: 28th December 2021

Word Count: 69,144
Book Length: NOVEL
Pages: 286

Genres:

BONDAGE AND BDSM
CONTEMPORARY
EROTIC ROMANCE
GAY
GLBTQI
MÉNAGE AND MULTIPLE PARTNERS
TRANSGENDER

Add to Goodreads

Book Description

When life is perfect, you know it’s gonna throw you a curveball…or four.

Nic and Vincent have been riding the high of a new romantic relationship that works so well they are on the verge of officially moving in together—but then the distractions begin. Their friend Daphne needs a temporary dungeon space, and Nic’s basement seems the perfect solution. Vincent’s gay seventeen-year-old cousin, Taylor, needs a safe refuge from his uber-religious parents. When Vincent suffers an unexpected injury, Nic asks Daphne to suggest someone to help with domestic duties around the house.

These combined circumstances lead to a less-than-ideal home life for Vincent and Nic, who struggle to find alone time. But life has a way of giving people what they need, and the arrival of Matteo to help with chores around the house sets into motion an opportunity the three must decide to follow to its logical conclusion or abandon in order to maintain the emotional safety of all the participants.

Reader advisory: This book contains scenes of food play, minor incidents involving a Domme and public sex There is reference to the abandonment of an older teen by religious zealot parents, puppy and kitty play, and a suggestion of suicidal ideation. This book is best read as book two in the Persuasions series.

Excerpt

Taking afternoon tea at Daphne’s on Sundays had become a regular event.

Vincent wore a pretty pair of panties beneath his clothes, either at my direction or of his own choosing, and Daphne had him strip when we arrived. We had agreed Daphne could take charge of Vincent while we were in her home. I didn’t mind. I enjoyed watching him respond to her. He’d told me it was much more exciting for him, now that I was involved.

The first few weeks, she’d made Vincent perform some relevant service in his lacy underthings, like setting up the finger sandwiches and cakes on her tiered stand or making the tea or coffee.

Now that this visit had become a weekly ritual, his duties had expanded into other, more delectable, areas.

We took turns feeding Vincent small bites of cake or bread, giving him sips of tea from our cups and otherwise treating him as our amusing and beloved pet. He grew more and more aroused, and I caught him eyeing Daphne’s magnificent tits more than once. He said he didn’t like the clichés of femininity but, honestly, who didn’t appreciate a great pair of boobs?

As if on cue, a piece of the cake Daphne was eating fell into her cleavage, and she giggled. “Oh dear!”

I raised my eyebrows. “Vincent, did you see that?”

Daphne refrained from digging the morsel out of her blouse as her cheeks heated. The woman could set off a fake blush on cue. She winked at me with a grin.

“Yes, Sir,” Vincent said, gazing at me with wide eyes.

“Would you like a taste of that delicious cake?” I asked devilishly.

Vincent made a small sound and nodded, licking his lips.

“I thought so. Why don’t you snuffle that crumb out from between Daphne’s tits? If you can find it, you can have it.”

Daphne giggled, pulling her blouse down and leaning toward Vincent. Vincent blushed and looked at me to make sure I knew what I was asking.

I nodded. “Go ahead. It’s all right.” I gestured at Daphne’s generous offering. “I’ve been there too, y’know,” I whispered, as if it were a secret between me and him.

Something flashed in his eyes, and he smiled, then turned to Daphne.

“Mistress?” he asked.

His utter politeness sent a jolt of desire through me. He was so well-behaved, as if I had trained him to this, when, really, it came so very naturally.

“Go ahead, Vincent. Hands behind your back, please. You’ll probably need to use your tongue.”

My eyes widened as I watched my sexy twenty-four-year-old boyfriend lean forward slowly, hands behind him as requested, and gently push his face into the tantalizing crease between Daphne’s breasts.

She made a small noise and looked at me over Vincent’s head as his velvet tongue darted and licked to find the morsel of cake.

“Oh, goodness.” She stroked Vincent’s cropped ash-brown hair while he cleaned her up. “What a soft tongue you have, Vincent.” She gasped. “I’d forgotten, my dear, how adorable you are.”

Vincent made whimpering noises as he chased the crumbs and no doubt inhaled Daphne’s particular scent of jasmine and roses.

I glanced at the black lace boy-shorts he was wearing today and noticed he was hard, which was par for the course with Vincent. The boy was a priapic miracle. A savant perhaps? He got hard at the drop of a hat and came on command. What more could a Dom ask for?

Lots more, it turns out.

When Vincent finally located the piece of cake and swallowed it, pulling reluctantly away from Daphne’s warmth, I smiled at him, pleased.

“Good boy. I’m sure Daphne is very relieved that her little accident has been rectified.”

Daphne looked anything but relieved. She looked like she’d like to tie Vincent to a chair and ride him for a couple of hours. But she’d had her chance with Vincent, and now the boy was mine.

I watched him stand and start to tidy the dishes, while flashes of memory came through of using the single-tail the previous evening. I’d strapped Vincent to the spanking bench and lashed his buttocks and thighs lightly, just enough to push his arousal to the brink of tipping over. Then I’d released him and sucked his cock until he’d come, howling, down my throat. He’d wanted to touch me, but I’d forbidden it, and I wouldn’t forget the sight of his fingers clenching and unclenching while I worked him furiously to orgasm.

“Are you finished, Sir?” he asked, and it took me a moment to realize he was speaking about the cake and not asking if I was done reliving our encounter.

I cleared my throat. “Yes, thank you, Vincent.”

He took my plate and I leaned back in my chair, checking the time on my phone. It was only four-thirty, but we needed to get home and have a light supper. We had a gallery show to attend this evening. My friend Juno was exhibiting their artwork for the first time, and I’d promised them Vincent and I would drop by.

Choose Your Store
First For Romance

About the Author

AE Lister

AE Lister/Elizabeth Lister is a Canadian non-binary author with a vivid imagination and a head full of unique and interesting characters. They have published 10 books, one of which received an Honorable Mention from the National Leather Association – International for excellence in SM/Leather/Fetish writing.

“Sensual and visceral BDSM.” – Amazon.ca

Find out more about AE Lister at their website, and follow them on Instagram and Patreon.

Giveaway

Enter for the chance to win a $50.00 First for Romance Gift Card! Competition hosted by Totally Entwined Group. 

 a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

Release Blitz: Any Day by Brian Lancaster #LGBTQ #eroticromance @pridepublishing @firstforromance

 

Any Day by Brian Lancaster

General Release Date: 5th October 2021

Word Count: 101,106
Book Length: SUPER PLUS NOVEL
Pages: 381

Genres:

CONTEMPORARY
EROTIC ROMANCE
GAY
GLBTQI
MYSTERY

Add to Goodreads

Book Description

For some, it takes a lifetime and a mystery to find each other.

Successful businessman Leonard Day’s life revolves around his work until a call from his mother summons him back to his family home in Drayton, Norwich. His father has died.

With a past he would rather forget, builder Adrian Lamperton prefers to live alone. But when Lenny Day arrives in town, feelings of attraction resurface.

Leonard learns he has inherited a Welsh farmhouse, something nobody knew about, and employs Adrian to help inspect the property. But tragedy and mystery surround the house and very soon they start to unearth things that others would prefer remain buried.

Reader advisory: This book contains references to suicide, attempted murder and religious bigotry. There are mentions of drug use, prostitution, child abuse and abandonment, and homophobia.

Excerpt

Sunday morning, Leonard Day lowered himself into the plush black leather chair at his sixteenth-floor office desk. Still wearing his warm grey tracksuit and saffron Bluetooth headphones, he sank back into the soft padding, pressed a button to boot up his laptop, then placed his phone and car keys alongside the mouse mat designed to resemble a Persian rug.

Issuing a bark of laughter only he could hear, he ripped off the two fluorescent-pink Post-it notes, one stuck in the middle of each of his monitors. Both carried warnings in vivid purple felt-penmanship—one to ‘Go Home!’ and the other to ‘Get @ Life!’ Shaking his head but still grinning at being caught out again, he dropped the notes into his wire wastebasket as his gaze trailed to the day outside the room.

Framed by the tinted office windows, a beautiful spring morning had woken to life. Sunlight glistened off the rain-slick roofs of regimented rows of South London terraced houses. From a music app playlist on his smartphone, the opening strains of Vaughan Williams’ Symphony No. 5 in D major provided the perfect soundtrack to the tranquil morn.

Naive perhaps, but he used to think none of his staff knew about his habit of slipping into the office on Sunday mornings. He went there not so much to check figures and plan the week, but to avoid being at home on what had once been his favourite day of the week. The easiest way to change a habit is to create a new and better one, his late Qigong teacher had once advised. So after performing a regular morning routine of gentle moves and stretching exercises in the back garden and after locking up the house, Leonard escaped to his office, the perfect distraction and a familiar sanctuary in his otherwise solitary world. And his team were none the wiser.

Until the day Kieran had rumbled him.

His young, energetic marketing manager, who had impeccable attention to detail, had caught Leonard out a few months ago. Kieran—dropped off at the office each weekday morning before anyone else arrived—had noticed reports on Leonard’s desk on Monday morning, ones that hadn’t been there the previous Friday because Leonard had been travelling. Confronted, Leonard had confessed but had tried to fob off the action as a one-off urgent business need. Kieran hadn’t bought the excuse, and, like the Post-it warnings this morning, he often booby-trapped Leonard’s desk. ‘If you insist on everyone having a work–life balance,’ Kieran had stated aloud at a staff meeting, ‘then you should set an example and live by your words.’

Had Leonard listened to the office designer’s recommendations, he would now have a lockable corner office. But ever since taking the floor space, Leonard had insisted on open-plan for everyone, the only enclosed spaces being a fish tank—glass conference room—at either end of the office. Leonard’s desk sat in the middle of the open space, the same size as everyone else’s, surrounded by a team he considered his surrogate family. And he loved being in the thick of things. None of his team just worked for him. They contributed, not one of them complaining about extra effort when business ramped up, not one having anything but positive things to say about their working environment. Leonard preached work–life balance—even if he didn’t exactly live by his own ethos—and made sure nobody stayed beyond five-thirty every day unless absolutely necessary. And every Friday, to show his gratitude, he either prearranged snacks and drinks in the office from four-thirty if he happened to be away or took them to a local wine bar. In the office, at least, Leonard found smiling effortless.

But Kieran didn’t miss a trick. On his day off, he’d brought his Cockapoo canine rescue called Ed into the office—a fiery red bundle of havoc—and had tried to persuade an amused Leonard to get a pet dog himself. Leonard blamed his schedule, which meant him being regularly away from home, travelling to various parts of the country for a week or more, assessing listed buildings or attending antique shows or car auctions. Kieran hadn’t bought the excuse.

‘Sorry, Len,’ he’d said one Friday evening as the whole team had gathered around a wine bar table for drinks. ‘But I’m calling bullshit for three very distinct reasons. First off, you can employ a dog sitter for when you’re travelling. I can even provide names. Second, did you or did you not employ Izzy here as your assistant director for the sole purpose of reducing your workload?’

Only Kieran dared challenge him publicly this way, always in a light-hearted, tongue-in-cheek manner. He’d wanted intelligent, creative, personable Kieran as his number two. But when Kieran and his husband Kennedy had added twin boys to their family unit, many of their priorities had changed.

‘You already know the answer to that.’

‘Then let her. She’s more than capable of hunting out grubby antiques around the country, or looking over run-down, borderline derelict properties.’

Isabelle had sat smiling down at her glass of Merlot and said nothing.

‘Remind Kieran again what they’re called, will you please, Isabelle?’

‘Listed buildings,’ Isabelle had said, laughing along with the rest of the team.

‘We call them listed buildings, Kieran. But thank you for your advice. Your point has been made and will be taken into consideration.’

‘Then I rest my case,’ said Kieran, folding his arms and sitting back.

‘Hang on, you said three reasons.’

‘Ah, yes. Thirdly—and most importantly—Ed needs a playmate.’

‘Of course he does. Let me think about it.’

Leonard raised his gaze to Kieran’s haphazard workspace and smirked. The monitor had been plastered randomly with an assortment of colourful Post-it reminders in his distinctive handwriting while trade magazines lay open across the keyboard. Pride of place on his desk sat a large, framed photo of him, his husband and their kids. Another showed their cheeky-faced mutt with what looked like a television remote control in his mouth. Thirty-two years old and Kieran had surrounded himself with so much love. The quiet young man Leonard had first encountered on a cruise ship had blossomed into a doting husband and father. Leonard turned forty-seven in May, and what did he have? A handful of successful businesses, but there it ended. At home? Not even a goldfish. Then again, perhaps he’d already had his time in the light.

The real reason Leonard had not followed through on the dog plan was because he didn’t share Kieran’s affinity for pets. During his childhood he’d broached the subject once only—he must have been seven or eight at the time—and both parents had stated their disgust at domestic animals, dismissing them as unruly and unhygienic. There the conversation had ended. Both accomplished scientists—microbiologists—they’d lived in a simple semi-detached a few miles away from the university campus. Work had been their lives. His father specialised in mycology, the study of mushrooms, toadstools and other fungi, and particularly how various species can kill or cure. At the same time, his mother, more interested in classification, had concentrated her efforts on microbial taxonomy—the naming and classification of micro-organisms. As couples went, they could not have been a more perfect match.

For a few seconds, he stared at his Cisco desk phone, toying with the idea of ringing them. Usually the call entailed dull generalities and awkward silences, neither party having much of any interest to share. Both parents had retired from university life. Heaven only knew what they talked about at home.

Being an only child, Leonard wondered if he had been an experiment rather than a child born of intimacy. Neither parent had demonstrated the kind of tactile warmth or fondness he had witnessed in other families. Not that his were uncaring or cruel in any way. Nutrition and learning had been equally valued in their house. As academics, they had encouraged his studies, praising him for good grades while trying hard to mask their disappointment when he failed at any subject related to the pure sciences. Their frustration had been mitigated when he’d excelled at mathematics, social sciences and, in particular, business studies.

After a quick check of message headings in his inbox, most of which he had already opened and drafted replies to—he never sent his team emails over the weekend—he returned to the one containing attachments sent by his finance officer. Spreadsheets often proved too long and detailed to open on his home laptop but displayed adequately on his two monitors. End-of-month figures popped up on his screens, much as Leonard had expected except for the incredible numbers on their latest venture, the online auction. Between the two of them, Isabelle and Kieran had come up with the idea as an extension of their antiques and artisans site. Traffic had increased tenfold, but more importantly, sales in both had skyrocketed. He folded his arms, sat back in his chair and allowed himself a private moment to gloat.

Fortunately for him, a single-minded determination to focus in the field of business management had allowed him to study for his undergraduate degree in Bournemouth, far enough away that his parents only deemed the occasional visit home necessary. When the time had come to leave at the age of nineteen, he had been able to fend for himself, had learnt to appreciate his own company. A more challenging lesson had been in realising he had developed a singular attractiveness in his late teens. One female college student had referred to him as the sexy lone wolf, but despite getting plenty of offers from girls, his heart hungered only for other boys.

After scanning other columns of figures, and satisfied all of them headed in the right direction, he checked the time on his phone—ten o’clock. An hour before he needed to set off for the hotel in York to spend two days in business meetings and viewing potential properties around the area. Far enough from home he might even try for a random hook-up using the app he had recently discovered and downloaded. Kieran had been right about one thing. At some point, he needed to get himself a life.

Although made in jest, a quip about him by a male friend on a cruise holiday still stung. Thinking Leonard to be out of earshot, someone had asked this friend why he’d nicknamed Leonard ‘Any Day’. He had replied, ‘Because any day is better than Lenny Day. The man is a walking misery.’ Overhearing this, he had been shocked to the core. When had he changed from being a sexy lone wolf to a ‘walking misery’? Naturally Kennedy had stepped in to defend him even though, in fairness, the friend had less-than-respectful names for all of their acquaintances. The main problem? Leonard had sensed the truth behind the quip. Maybe he needed to make more of an effort to be cheerful outside of his day-to-day.

As he closed down programs on his laptop and pulled off his earphones, he raised his head and froze, his attention drawn to a distant sound.

Barely audible beyond the building’s thick glazing, somewhere out there in the suburbs, cutting through the constant hum of traffic, came the peal of church bells. For as long as comfortably possible, he held his breath, squeezing his eyes shut and absorbing the simple melody.

Church bells, like Sunday mornings at home, reminded him of Kris. And without warning or witness, he was overcome by the kind of immobilising grief that he had hoped would have receded after the death of his lover ten years ago. He rarely allowed himself to wallow in thoughts of their time together, but the memory blindsided him and filled him with such warmth and love and togetherness. And when those tender recollections inevitably melted away they would leave him emotionally desolate, standing alone in the stark coldness of reality. But for now he would allow himself to listen to the bells, and wallow and remember…

Until the shrill ring of his desk phone drowned out everything.

For a moment, he sat there, appalled at the intrusion, glaring at the device, deciding whether or not to answer. Eventually, after several rings, he relented.

“Days-Gone-By Enterprises,” he answered gruffly, ripping a tissue from a box on his desk and dabbing at his eyes.

“Leonard,” came his mother’s stern voice. Although no explanation had been forthcoming, she no longer called his mobile phone. “I tried you at your house but you weren’t answering. You need to come home. Your father passed this morning, and I need your help arranging things. When can you be here?”

“What?” said Leonard, caught off guard. “Oh, God, Mum. Dad died? I’m so sorry. What happened?”

“Not now. When can you be home?”

“I—I can come now.” He had a case in his car for the business trip. By some stroke of fate he had even packed his black Hugo Boss suit for meetings. With a few clicks of his phone he could cancel the York trip. “I suppose I could be there around three or four. Traffic willing.”

“I’ll get your room ready.”

“Mum, what—?”

Before he had a chance to probe any further, she ended the call.

Annoyance bubbled in him. Most of the time he accepted his mother’s natural candour, and admired her ability to view and deal with the world dispassionately. Right now, he wished he had a parent who could be sensitive to the emotions a son might be feeling at the passing of the only father he would ever have. Perhaps she knew without asking that he considered grief an old friend.

As he left the office, he did something he hated and called Isabelle on her day off to hand over the reins for the week ahead. At home, his own house, everything would be fine.

Striding across the empty car park, Kieran’s words came back to him and cemented inside. He needed to find a life. At the moment, he seemed to be surrounded by too much death.

Buy Links

Choose Your Store
First For Romance

About the Author

Brian Lancaster

Brian Lancaster is an author of gay romantic fiction in multiple genres, including contemporary romance, paranormal, fantasy, crime, mystery, and anything else that tickles his muse’s fancy. Born in the sleepy South of England where most of his stories are set, he moved to Southeast Asia in 1998, where he now shares a home with his husband and two of the laziest cats on the planet.

Find out more about Brian at his website.

Giveaway

Enter for the chance to win a $50.00 First for Romance Gift Card! 

a Rafflecopter giveaway  

Notice: This competition ends on 2^nd November 2021 at 12am EST. Competition hosted by Totally Entwined Group. 

Release Blitz: A Song for His Heart by M.C. Roth #gay #contemporaryromance #eroticromance @pridepublishing @firstforromance

 

A Song for His Heart by M.C. Roth

General Release Date: 28th September 2021

Word Count: 78,359
Book Length: SUPER NOVEL
Pages: 264

Genres:

BONDAGE AND BDSM
CELEBRITIES
CONTEMPORARY
EROTIC ROMANCE
GAY
GLBTQI
MÉNAGE AND MULTIPLE PARTNERS

Add to Goodreads

Book Description

It only takes one rock star to crash the perfect honeymoon, but it might take two to save it.

Ian and Trent’s honeymoon is supposed to be perfect, but before they even make it to Miami, Mac—Ian’s manager and best friend—is already interfering. As soon as the plane lands, Ian starts to drift away from Trent, falling back into his closeted habits and disappearing for days to record a new album, leaving Trent alone in an unfamiliar country.

Trent is at his breaking point when Ian tries to disappear again after three days away. He can’t be the househusband Ian obviously needs. Trent is ready to collect his bags and head back to the airport when he overhears Mac’s secret, which threatens to turn his life upside down.

Reader advisory: This book contains a fistfight precipitated by sexual assault/forced kiss, MMM relationships, alcohol consumption/intoxication and mentions of past alcohol abuse. It is best read as the sequel to The Drumbeat of His Heart.

Excerpt

The roar of the twin turbofan engines burst against Trent’s ears like a koala calling for a mate. The sound was unexpected, coming from such a beautiful thing that seemed so innocent and sluggish. And while the plane was a lethargic beast on the ground, one that could hardly make a turn on its own without falling off the thick tarmac, it transformed into a serpent the moment the engines came to life.

Trent rocked back into the padded seat and clutched the armrest in a tight grip as his stomach dropped to the vicinity of his ankles. It was like the worst kind of roller coaster—one that he would ride fearlessly as a kid, only realizing later that its rusted parts were held together by bits of chewing gum.

He could hardly breathe as his ears pressurized, then popped, only to pressurize again. His mouth was dry, and his tongue was stiff with the need to hurl his light dinner all over the back of the seat that was tight against his knees. But the food couldn’t make it past his throat with his stomach so low to the floor.

He glanced at the view through the tiny oval window that looked much too flimsy to handle the same forces that were battering his ears. There were two panes, and one had an actual hole in the bottom as if it were already prepared for the doom that awaited the passengers, himself included.

It was beautiful, though. The blinking lights of the city looked so similar to the stars, and they had started to meld together into one sphere of never-ending sky. The buildings that had looked so tall while standing on the ground now looked no higher than a sheet of Bristol board. The lake was lost, as were the stream of cars along blurred highways.

The moon was barely a sliver of light, but it was so bright that he had to blink to clear the spots from his vision. The silver beams illuminated a white fluff of clouds as they fluttered over the gleaming wing.

“See? It’s not so bad,” said Ian from the seat next to him. He moved his hand, so warm and comforting, to soothe Trent’s. “That was a good take-off too. Nice and smooth.” His smile was completely at ease and his grip soft as the plane trembled around them.

“I think I’m gonna puke.” Trent gripped his stomach as the wing dipped again and they loomed sideways over the city of lights. How are we even in the air at this angle? He waited for gravity to grip them in a lasso and tear them back down to the earth.

“Smile,” said Ian urgently as he leaned forward to rifle through the seat pouch. There were a few magazines that had probably been touched by hundreds of hands, as well as the day’s newspaper, in the small elastic compartment. Ian found a slim white bag between the pages of one of the magazines.

“What?” Trent breathed deeply through his nose and forced his mouth shut as he slid his eyes closed. His mind whirled at the same speed as the plane as it continued to climb. Were they still sideways right now and slipping down to their doom? Maybe if they climbed high enough, he wouldn’t feel it when they hit the inevitable bottom.

“T, baby, take a deep breath for me and smile,” said Ian as he pressed his hand gently to Trent’s chest at the level of his heart. It was enough to ground Trent into taking another breath, even as he quivered beneath the touch.

“If you smile, you can’t gag, so you won’t puke. Here.” There was a shiver of sound as something slid beside him.

When he opened his eyes again with a forced grin on his face, the window shutter was thankfully closed. Without the dark blankness looking back at him, he could almost imagine being on a bus and not a massive plane that was soaring precariously in the sky. He could imagine that the tiny bumps were little potholes along the road, and the roar was a never-ending layer of slow strips carved into the asphalt.

Ian was right there, smiling and rubbing his chest until his warm palm rested over Trent’s stomach. Ian’s blue eyes were bright in the low light and his full lips were pulled back into a smile as he held the sick bag out to Trent. The ink carved into Ian’s skull was blocked by the black baseball cap that he had insisted on wearing to the airport. The sight of Ian, so beautiful and familiar, settled something deep within Trent.

Trent grabbed the sick bag and slipped it back into the pouch between the layers of magazines, leaving a corner out so it would still be in reach if his stomach started to turn. When he leaned back, it lined his lips up perfectly with his new husband’s, and he felt the steady tug that drew him in. Ian pulled back in surprise before their lips could meet, his gaze darting around the large compartment of passengers.

There was a child in the next row who was repeatedly kicking the seat ahead of him while playing with the touch screen that was built into the back of the headrest. It was a great idea to pass the time, but the way the child was hacking away at it was obviously driving the person in front insane. They looked back a few times, glancing at the father, who had his phone in his hand as he played what appeared to be a repetitive assassin game, while managing to stay completely oblivious to his son. There were others looking out of their windows or resting with their heads back with their eyes closed.

“Sorry.” Trent smiled, not sorry at all. “I know you don’t like PDA, but it’s our honeymoon.” Saying Ian didn’t like it was an understatement. The man was simultaneously terrified and repulsed with the idea of PDA. It blew Trent’s mind that this was the same man who had an exhibitionist streak that was larger than the aeroplane they were on.

“I love you. You know that,” said Ian as he stumbled over his quiet words. “But when I kiss you, I want to do it right. I can’t do it right with a kid staring at me.” Ian cut his focus over to the little boy, who had given up smacking the touch screen and had started pushing the armrest up and down, his feet never stopping once.

“It didn’t stop you in a public pool,” said Trent with a smirk. “Or in the back seat of your rental when we parked at the baseball diamond.” After renting a Hyundai on his first visit, Ian had learned his lesson and had stuck to large vehicles after that. It had taken a lot of convincing before Trent had found himself on his hands and knees in the back seat of a jeep.

“That was different.” Ian crossed his arms before he leaned back in his chair. His long legs bumped the seat, so he splayed them wide, with one knee spilling out into the aisle and the other taking up a third of Trent’s minimal space. “Why didn’t you let me treat you to first class again? The leg room back here is atrocious.”

Trent shifted in his seat and let Ian change the subject. His own knees were very firmly pressed into a cushioned backrest, while still being off to the side. It was a tight fit for him, and even worse for Ian, but there was no way that he could have allowed them to spend an extra two thousand dollars to get first-class tickets.

“If I really had my way, we would have driven. I may not own a car, but I can drive,” said Trent as he tried again to get comfortable.

“And if I had my way, we would’ve done this months ago…before we got married,” said Ian as he fiddled with the gold band on his finger. The metal was smooth and sleek, and it fit him perfectly. Trent had overestimated the size when he had bought it, and it had barely stayed on Ian’s thumb without falling off. When Trent had found out that Ian had resized it, he had pretended to be furious, telling Ian that it was supposed to be a cock ring, not one for his finger.

“Are you excited?” asked Ian, turning in his seat as much as he could. He bounced one leg in the aisle and had started a steady beat against his thigh. His ring flashed in the artificial light with every movement.

“Yes, of course,” said Trent as he swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. “I’m super excited.” Luckily, he managed to keep most of the terror out of his voice. Miami was huge, hot, hip and expensive. It was also everything that Trent wasn’t.

He fiddled with his ring that matched Ian’s. The skin under the band was faded and pale from months of being shaded from the sun. It had stayed on his finger from the day before Christmas, when Ian had proposed, until the morning of their wedding on August eighteenth. By then, he’d had to soap up his finger to even get the band to budge.

The wedding had been a small affair, with only Trent’s closest family and his best friend, Candace. Ian had refused to invite anyone from his family, and Trent had wholeheartedly agreed to keep that rock buried as long as possible. It would have been next to impossible to get in touch with Ian’s mother anyway, as she lived entirely off the grid. He had been a little bit surprised when Ian had refused to invite his fellow band members, but he’d explained that he didn’t want them all to feel obligated to fly in for it. Trent’s tiny town probably wouldn’t have been able to handle them anyway.

The ceremony had been short and sweet, which had made it absolutely perfect in Trent’s eyes. There was nothing worse than sitting through a two-hour wedding service that included an actual communion. There had been no speeches, no fancy photographer and no dancing afterwards, just a simple dinner at home. Ian had still insisted on carrying Trent over the threshold like some kind of creamy-thighed bridezilla, though.

“What is your house like?” Trent asked as he trailed his fingers along the arm rest. He’d seen pictures on Ian’s phone of some of the different rooms, but it had compounded into a disarticulated checkerboard in his imagination.

Ian had talked about the house a lot, but his stories usually revolved around the infinity pool in the back yard, leading Trent to believe that the man spent most of his time in Miami swimming. Now that they were married, Ian was spending most of his time off work at Trent’s, but the moment Trent had secured some vacation time for his honeymoon, they’d booked the flight.

“You are going to love it,” said Ian, taking a deep breath before he dove in. “It’s about four thousand square feet, I think, with three bedrooms and five bathrooms. There is a drum room in the basement that’s pretty epic, and a theatre room for rainy days. I think you’ll like the pool the best, though, and maybe the hot tub.” A nostalgic look crossed Ian’s face as he spoke about the house.

“Three bedrooms sounds like two bedrooms too many—or do you pick a different one to sleep in every other night?” Trent asked. The seatbelt sign clicked off above their heads, but the no smoking sign stayed glowing red and orange. He kept his belt pulled tight, even as Ian undid his and adjusted his seat back a few scant centimetres.

“Nah,” said Ian as he looked up and down the aisle. “I hope they bring out drinks soon.” He looked back to Trent and settled his hand over Trent’s clenched one. “I’ve only slept in the one bedroom, actually, but I converted another into an office and the third into a library.”

“But you don’t read. I could hardly get you to sit still long enough to get through that magazine, and it was about cars.” Trent crossed his arms and played with his wedding ring, spinning it endlessly.

“Not books, T…records. I told you about my record collection.” Ian looked away as the hostess interrupted them, handing them two drinks after Ian’s quick request. Trent took the cold plastic cup gratefully and sipped at the ginger ale. The bubbles flowed over his tongue and down his throat, making his mouth momentarily numb. He glanced at Ian’s cup, hoping the same liquid was inside.

“Just cola, plain cola,” said Ian as he caught the look. He tilted the cup back and gulped it down in three swallows. “I’m so thirsty, though. I should’ve finished that water before customs, but I got distracted pointing everything out to you.” He placed the empty cup on the small plastic tray that folded down from the seat in front.

“I just couldn’t figure it out.” Trent shook his head. “Why would someone buy that many cigarettes and that much overpriced booze, just to take on a plane? Head to the closest box store and you’ll pay half the price, and you still won’t pay duty if you limit yourself.” Although, strangely enough, after looking at the same neatly organized cigarette cartons for three hours, they had started to look downright delicious.

“A lot can happen if you get stuck in the airport for eighteen hours,” said Ian as he waved down the stewardess for another drink, finishing that one too. “The first time I got stuck, there was a ten-hour layover. It was with the band, and I still drank back then. We just drank the entire time, and I got so wasted that I don’t even remember the flight at all. I just fell asleep in Arizona and woke up in Buffalo.” He slipped the newly emptied cup into the first one so that they were stacked neatly in the small circle on the tray.

“Then there was the England flight,” Ian continued. “We spent a whole day in the airport because the plane had to be repaired. Twenty-four hours of sitting in a plastic chair and getting hit on by this random chick was enough to make me want to turn straight, just so I could fuck her and get her to shut up.” He shuddered. “Man, I’m still thirsty. Maybe they can just give me a two-litre?”

Trent laughed, shaking his head as Ian caught the attention of the hostess for the third time. Her bright smile hadn’t dimmed and a shimmer of recognition had floated over her face. Trent had seen the look before when someone realized who Ian was. Their eyes would widen just a fraction, and he would see the gears turning in their heads before they decided that yep, that was somebody famous.

Ian slipped her an American twenty, and she passed him a few cans without a second thought. She was about to step away when she paused and leaned back in.

“There are a few spots in first class that are open if you are interested in moving up. I’ll see if there are two seats together.” Her smile widened as Ian nodded more times than was strictly necessary.

“Yes, please get me out of these tiny seats,” said Ian. “It’s his fault anyway. He insisted on economy to get the full experience.” He pointed an accusing thumb at Trent. Trent wilted in his chair as the stewardess chuckled.

“And how are you enjoying the experience?” Her smile lifted at one side, revealing her perfect white teeth. Trent took a second look at her, from her broad form to her strawberry hair that was pulled back into a perfect bun.

“It’s, um…cosy.” Trent tried to shrug, but his shoulders were pressed so close to Ian’s that the movement hardly registered. He shifted in the seat, but his knee came up and struck the small plastic tray, sending the cups to the floor.

She laughed, a high tittering sound that sent a shiver down Trent’s spine with how familiar it was. “I’ll be right back.” She disappeared up the aisle and ducked behind the grey curtain near the front of the plane.

A rumble of turbulence shook the plane with a burst of vibration and sound. Trent peered over Ian’s shoulder to the window at the other side of the plane as he tried to see what could cause such a terrible noise on such a large bird. Through the thin pane of glass, he watched the wing bow and flex in a way that couldn’t be natural for metal.

“Oh God,” said Trent as he gripped the armrest hard. Ian held Trent’s hand and pulled it to his chest. It was hard and hot and Trent could feel the slow and steady beat of Ian’s heart under his palm. Trent’s gaze snapped back to the magazines, where the corner of the bag was still visible. The bubbles from the ginger ale didn’t feel so great in the pit of his stomach anymore.

“You’re fine.” Ian’s low rumble was calm and soothing, but it did little to quench Trent’s terror. “Clouds aren’t as fluffy as they look, and the plane just has to work a little harder to get above them. Once we stop going up, it will be a lot smoother.”

“We’re still going up?” Trent looked around the cabin, but the rows looked totally flat to him. His stomach wasn’t dropping anymore, and his ears had stopped popping, leaving his head filled with a steady pressure like he had a mild cold.

“Not for much longer. It will smooth out in a bit, I promise. I’ve taken this flight loads of times, and I’m always fine. You will be too.” He brought Trent’s hand to his lips in an uncharacteristic display of public affection.

The stewardess reappeared at the curtain and bustled over to them with a smile before she leaned close again. “Here… Just follow me. I’ll grab your bags after we get you moved so no one will get jealous.” Her voice was quiet enough that only they could hear.

Ian slipped out of his seat with a slight stagger as he tried to release his pinned left leg that had probably gone numb sometime during the ascent. Trent tried to follow, his arms flailing, only to realize that he still had his seatbelt strapped around his waist. He flushed as Ian smirked and the hostess let out a small laugh hidden behind her palm.

He grabbed Ian’s soda cans that were between his legs, then pulled the buckle open and shimmied to his feet. His knees were completely numb and felt similar to the consistency of thick rice pudding that didn’t have the bonus cinnamon. He took a step and nearly tumbled into Ian, who caught him with a hand on his elbow.

“It’s like walking on a boat,” said Ian as he let his hand fall so he could follow the stewardess, who was waiting at the curtain.

The floor was moving under Trent’s feet in an alarming way. It wasn’t anything like the gentle rock of his uncle’s boat as the four-stroke engine cut through the waves of the Great Lakes on a calm day. This was more like walking in the back of a hay wagon as it tumbled along a weaving country road.

He braced his hand on the nearest seat and took a tentative step, pleasantly surprised when he didn’t fall flat on his face. He made it down the aisle and through the curtain, barely, to where the other two were waiting behind the grandest set of plane seats that Trent could have imagined. They must’ve landed and gotten on another plane, because as the curtain slid shut behind him, he seemingly entered a whole new world.

This area was so much better, with enough leg room for two people, and seats that had extra padding and slid completely flat for anyone who wanted a nap. The built-in screens were bigger, and there was a bottle of champagne waiting for them in a bucket of ice. There were pillows, actual pillows, and not the ones that went flat the moment his head hit them.

“Here.” Ian grabbed the bottle as he slid into his seat. He pulled a bill out of his pocket and presented it with the champagne to the stewardess. She took both with a slight nod of thanks.

“Just let me know if you need anything,” she said as Trent slid the soda cans into the now-empty bucket of ice. She smoothed a hair back that had managed to slip away from her bun and turned away.

“Wait!” Trent called out, probably louder than he should’ve by the glance that was directed his way from across the expansive aisle.

“Yes?” The hostess looked back at him with a shy smile and a slight blush on her cheeks.

“Um, can I have your number?” Trent asked in a low voice. Ian spluttered beside him, choking on another cup of pop, and Trent flushed even hotter than the stewardess.

“It’s not for me. It’s for my friend. I just thought, if you were available, you two would get along.” He sat back in his chair, suddenly wanting nothing more than to be right beside the flexing wing that might break off at any moment. Ian was still gasping and choking beside him, drawing every eye in first class.

The stewardess took a step back, and a bright flush passed over her cheeks as she chewed on her lower lip. She looked from Trent to Ian, then back to Trent.

“Oh, it’s not for him. He’s mine,” said Trent, shaking his head as he pointed to Ian. Ian spluttered again, losing a second mouthful of pop as he tried to clear his throat. “It’s for my friend Candace. Or I could give you her number and let her know that you might text her.”

“I could take her number,” said the stewardess as she nodded shyly and looked up and down the aisle, “if you show me a picture first.”

Trent whipped out his phone and brought up the first picture of Candace that he had saved. It was a selfie of the two of them at Trent’s wedding. She had been dressed beautifully, as always, in a strappy purple dress that left very little to the imagination, and her hair had been done up in a swirling up-do. She had smiled at the camera as if there had been no place in the world that she would’ve rather been.

At the stewardess’s nod, Trent ripped off a corner of the newspaper in the seat pouch and used the pen she passed him to write down his friend’s name and number. She slipped the paper into the pocket on her blouse before she nodded one last time and disappeared on the other side of the curtain.

“What the hell was that?” Ian hissed quietly. “I thought you were setting up a threesome—and don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered, but we’re gonna be tired after this flight.” Ian let out a little laugh. “I definitely wouldn’t mind. Not that I wouldn’t prefer your ass, but I haven’t been with a woman in so long—and it would be interesting to try with you.”

“Not happening. I just have to keep up my reputation.” Trent shook his head. He was still fascinatingly disgusted by breasts. “I have always been, and will always be, the best wingman ever.”

A ding broke Ian’s laughter, and the man fumbled with his pant pockets with a move that would not have been possible in the economy seats.

“Shit. I thought I’d turned this thing off. You can get in a lot of trouble for having your phone turned on in a plane.” Ian flicked the screen open with a quick press of his fingertip to the back. His smile died and his brows drew together as he read whatever was on the glowing screen.

“Who is it?” asked Trent as he fluffed the pillow behind his head and reclined the chair a few degrees farther. It wasn’t as good as his couch at home, but it was a definite improvement over the economy chairs.

“Mac wants to record the new tracks this week,” said Ian as he clicked his phone off and shoved it back into his pocket. The seams strained as he nearly pushed the phone straight through the fabric.

“But it’s our honeymoon,” said Trent, unable to keep the whine of disbelief from his voice. He would support Ian’s career in any way he could, but this crossed a few lines. He was so ready to get fucked through at least nine lives, and nothing was going to get in the way of that, not even Ian’s best friend and manager.

“I’ll take care of it, T,” said Ian with a forced smile on his face as he reached for Trent’s hand that had settled between them. “So, tell me again why we can’t have a threesome?”

Trent snorted and turned away, squeezing Ian’s hand once. This was going to be the best vacation of his life.

Buy Links

Choose Your Store
First For Romance

About the Author

M.C. Roth

M.C. Roth lives in Canada and loves every season, even the dreaded Canadian winter. She graduated with honours from the Associate Diploma Program in Veterinary Technology at the University of Guelph before choosing a different career path.

Between caring for her young son, spending time with her husband, and feeding treats to her menagerie of animals, she still spends every spare second devoted to her passion for writing.

She loves growing peppers that are hot enough to make grown men cry, but she doesn’t like spicy food herself. Her favourite thing, other than writing of course, is to find a quiet place in the wilderness and listen to the birds while dreaming about the gorgeous men in her head.

Find out more about M.C. Roth at her website.

Giveaway

Enter for the chance to win a $50.00 First for Romance Gift Card!  

a Rafflecopter giveaway  

Notice: This competition ends on 5TH October 2021 at 12am EST. Competition hosted by Totally Entwined Group.

Release Blitz: To Catch a Fallen Leaf by Fearne Hill #contemporaryromance #LGBTQ @ninestarpress @GoIndiMarketing

 

Title: To Catch a Fallen Leaf

Series: Rossingley, Book Two

Author: Fearne Hill

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/13/2021

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 78100

Genre: Contemporary, LGBTQIA+, contemporary, gay, British, aristocracy, fashion model/celebrity, gardeners/gardening, ex-con, family drama, humorous, opposites attract, rich man/poor man, wedding

Add to Goodreads

Description

Take one shy French gardener, mix in a naughty aristocrat, add a splash of water, a dash of sunshine, and wait for love to grow.

If only it were that easy.

Reuben Costaud counts his blessings daily. His run-in with crime is firmly behind him. He has a wonderful job gardening on the Rossingley estate, a tiny cottage all to himself, an orphaned cat named Obélix, and a friendly bunch of workmates. The last thing he needs is a tall, blond aristocrat strolling across the manicured lawns towards him.

Falling in love is not part of his plan.

Viscount Aloysius Frederick Lloyd Duchamps-Avery, Freddie to his friends, is in big trouble with everyone, from his father and his modelling agency, to his controlling older boyfriend. Seeking solace and refuge, he escapes to Rossingley and his adored cousin Lucien, the sixteenth earl. To take his mind off his woes, Lucien finds him a job with the estate gardening team.

Mutual attraction blossoms amongst the gardening tools, and Freddie charms his way through Reuben’s defences. But as spring turns to summer and Freddie’s London life collides with their Rossingley idyll, Reuben’s trust in him is ruptured. Will their love flourish or is it destined for the compost bin?

To Catch a Fallen Leaf is a full-length MM contemporary romance, the second in the Rossingley trilogy.

Excerpt

To Catch a Fallen Leaf
Fearne Hill © 2021
All Rights Reserved

“Oh, baby doll, for goodness’ sake! Please, please, please. Could we ensure this be the last time I have to put up with all of your ridiculousness?”

Disappointment is the inevitable result of a mismatch between expectation and reality. Vincent expects me to never get drunk, never embarrass him in public, and never, ever, ever vomit over his shoes outside a smart London restaurant.

The reality, of course, is that I’m a twenty-five-year-old male model. I like booze, I like to occasionally snort coke, I say stupid things in front of people I shouldn’t, and sometimes, all of those combined, lead to unexpected chundering episodes outside smart London restaurants. So, I can’t be blamed if Vincent chooses to put his burgundy Lobb penny loafers in the path of the contents of my stomach.

I am fully cognisant of the reasons Vincent endures these occasional mishaps. Being a minor member of the aristocracy helps. In addition, my father, a well-known and respected politician, is perfectly placed to further Vincent’s own eventual political ambitions. But, most importantly, Vincent is a sucker for eye-catching arm candy. I’m not the first pretty piece of fluff he’s moved into his Belgravia apartment, but I’ve stayed the longest. While I’m definitely pretty, I also have financial independence and a first-class degree from Cambridge. Thus, he finds my company tolerable.

What’s in it for me is more complex. Despite occasional debauched one-night forgettables when I’m working abroad—to which Vincent turns a blind eye—I’m a sucker for a steady relationship. Unless I’m travelling for work, I prefer waking up in the same familiar bed each morning. I enjoy the finer things in life, such as sharing good food in decent restaurants and trips to the theatre with an educated partner.

My adorable cousin, Lucien, believes my predilection for older men comes from a deep-seated desire to be cared for, seeing as Father left that responsibility entirely to my boarding school after Mother died. According to his theory, my monogamous tendencies are an unconscious rebellion against Father’s complete lack of fidelity towards my mother. He’s probably right on both accounts, explaining how I muster a coquettish smile as I watch forty-something Vincent, in his pristine white Y-fronts and sock garters, select a double-breasted Hawes & Curtis suit from his walk-in wardrobe. Even though the zipping of his fly and the clack of one wooden coat hanger against another is enough to make my head reel and my guts threaten a repeat performance.

Rolling over in bed, I clamp a goose down pillow over my head in an attempt to shut out the morning sunlight.

“Sorry about last night, Vincent,” I mumble from underneath the pillow. “I possibly overcooked things a little. The end of a busy week, I guess, and I probably didn’t eat enough dinner with my wine. I’m not sure I ate at all yesterday, now I think about it—it was a long photo shoot.”

There’s a slithery sound as he selects a tie. Time stands still; I wish he’d bloody get on with it and clear off, so I can retch over the loo in peace.

“Yes. Well, whatever, baby doll. I have to dash; I’m chairing a meeting of investors at nine, and I can’t have that derailed by your foolish antics.”

He looms over me, all expensive sandalwood and minty freshness. In a bespoke suit, which hides the paunchy bit around his middle, Vincent is a good-looking guy. He still has a full head of dark hair; any flecks of grey only serve to accentuate his air of suave sophistication. Despite himself, he smiles as he pecks my cheek.

“You are going to be the death of me, young man,” he murmurs. “Try to stay out of trouble. Drink plenty of fluids and take an aspirin. You can make it up to me tonight.”

I recall that it’s Tuesday and manage to stifle my groan at least until the front door slams. Oh joy. Deep, deep joy. To say we have a regimented sex life would be affording the military a degree of precision they can only dream of emulating. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, at the stroke of twenty-two hundred hours, Vincent switches on the BBC News and swallows down 50 mg of Viagra with a small glass of San Pellegrino (one cube of ice). He doesn’t know that I know about the Viagra. The gravitas of the opening theme tune is my cue to go and “freshen up, baby doll,” which is Vincent doublespeak for reacquainting my arse with the nozzle of the shower hose. I am then expected to drape myself seductively across our enormous bed in the master suite, with a fresh towel under me, and await his presence.

I used to like my sex spontaneous and messy. I still do. Because, occasionally, smelly, sweaty, imprecise, surprising, and even disappointing sex can unexpectedly turn into joyous, forgiving, funny, and tender sex. Not loving sex. I haven’t experienced that yet, although I remain optimistic. I’ll take all of the above over predictable any day. And—not to put too fine a point on it—I quite like topping. Turn and turnabout is okay if the mood takes me, but really? Always bottoming? Not so much. Some guys love it; for some of my friends it’s a race to the bottom, but I’m prepared to share the love around. Unfortunately, Vincent’s arse only opens once a day, around 6:45 a.m., as part of his shit, shower, shave routine. After that, it’s locked tight as an oyster shell, whereas I’m expected to roll over and take it, and take it, and bloody take it. I usually manage to reach orgasm (ejaculating carefully onto the towel, naturally), but only because I’m young, horny, and excellent at conjuring up visions of myself ploughing into some raven-haired, faceless beauty, while Vincent happily labours above me.

The thing is, I could put up with being called baby doll. I could put up with the bad sex. I could even put up with being told what to wear and when to wear it. But there is one thing that really sticks in my craw: My boyfriend’s close friendship with my father. Around once a month, they share lunch at my father’s club, when I imagine, along with plotting world domination and very visible, showy acts of philanthropy, they enumerate my varied shortcomings, sighing wistfully at each other: “If only Aloysius could… If only he would…” etcetera, etcetera. (My real name is Aloysius; thank God, my second name is Frederick.) And then, after a manly handshake, they part ways; my father returns to pontificating in the House of Commons, and Vincent returns to whatever he does in that enormous office of his in Mayfair.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Fearne Hill lives deep in the southern British countryside with three untamed sons, varying numbers of hens, a few tortoises, and a beautiful cocker spaniel. When she is not overseeing her small menagerie, she enjoys writing contemporary romantic fiction. And when she is not doing either of those things, she works as an anesthesiologist.

Website | Facebook | Twitter | Instagram

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway 

 

Release Blitz: Antiques by Bailey Bradford #LGBTQ #eroticromance #thrillers @pridepublishing @firstforromance

 

Antiques by Bailey Bradford

Book 2 in the Intrinsic Values series

General Release Date: 10th August 2021

Word Count: 53,479 Book Length: NOVEL Pages: 214

Genres:

CONTEMPORARY EROTIC ROMANCE GAY GLBTQI THRILLERS AND SUSPENSE

Add to Goodreads

Book Description

Elliot Douglas lived his life on the sidelines—until Drew Harrington smashed front and center into it…

Since rebuilding his life, Elliot Douglas has led a quiet existence, hiding behind a routine and the old-fashioned clothes and behavior that make him seem older than his early forties. Now he’s taking one step at a time toward creating a more fulfilling life…one in which his sexual needs to submit are met.

However, baby steps are left behind when he meets Detective Andrew Harrington.

A driven—some say obsessed—Scotland Yard detective, Drew lives by compartmentalizing, focusing on his work and, as a Dom, enjoying BDSM sex as a stress relief. On the track of stolen paintings, he’s traced them to San Antonio, where he’s distracted from the case by an infuriatingly handsome antiques trader who’s not as predictable or fuddy-duddy as he wants the world to think.

Intrigued, Drew’s drawn to that mystery as much as the one he’s there to solve, which blindsides him.

Elliot and Drew’s attraction is instant, and their feelings strong, especially when Drew poses as Elliot’s boyfriend to infiltrate the local antiques scene. But nothing is what it seems—not the case, not Drew…and not even Elliot. With deception all around them, what hope do two men unused to trust and commitment have of a relationship?

Reader advisory: This book contains a scene of on-page stabbing, assault and the threat of sexual assault.

Excerpt

Elliot Douglas knew he should have been hurrying. He detested being late for anything, considering it disorganized at best and impolite at worst, when he prided himself on being neither of those things. In addition, he was very much looking forward to this appointment. No—he very much needed this appointment. While those undeniable facts made him lengthen his stride a tad, his interest in the architecture and design of the houses on the midtown streets he was walking along meant he kept glimpsing things that grabbed his attention.

As the proprietor and manager of San Antonio’s Intrinsic Value antiques shop, his wide-ranging interest in art and design had him taking in everything from the houses’ building styles to their colors and trims. He’d been to many well-known interactive museums and ever since his first visit to this area of San Antonio had thought of it as a living architectural gallery.

His whimsical feeling that he should have a chart or worksheet so he could tick off examples of the different building types all around him made him smile. Maybe he should make something along those lines, some mini poster to be labeled and even colored in? Edwardian, Victorian, Tudor… His quickening steps echoed the rhythm of his thoughts that listed the design styles he passed. I would design that, yes, if I could draw.

Should he have chosen this neighborhood to settle in? The question surged whenever he came here to Tobin Hill, where his love of collectible objects and period pieces had him slowing down to appreciate details of everything from lawn or porch furniture to hanging lanterns or even lampposts that caught his eye. If his pace slackened, it was because of that and nothing to do with him being in his forties. Forty-two wasn’t old, no matter how old-fashioned he was or even how he might feel at times, and Elliot kept his six-foot-plus frame fit and in shape.

But the visual appeal of this community, and the location, so convenient for his store, had him second-guessing yet again the area he’d actually bought real estate in. Well, too bad. With all the work he was putting into his property, he couldn’t see himself moving. And besides, he really liked his house, his refuge from the world.

His destination was in sight, and he hurried up the short drive and onto the small porch of the square ranch-style house, smiling anew as always at the realtor description of these nineteen-seventies stucco properties as “California bungalow style”.

There would be no need to lift the brass knocker, so Elliot raked both hands through his light-brown hair to settle the slightly long waves that sprang from his temples, trying not to think that he’d combed his fingers through where his hair had started to silver. He even went to polish his wire-framed glasses before remembering he didn’t wear them in the daytime any longer…which of course had him blinking, aware of his relatively new contact lenses.

“Lars.” Elliot greeted the man who’d opened the door for him and who now stood back to usher him in with his usual pleasant, welcoming expression.

“Elliot.” Lars was discreet, never saying Elliot’s—or anyone’s name—until the front door was firmly closed. He tended to blend into the room, tasteful yet unremarkable, and was now unobtrusively noting Elliot’s arrival on a slim handheld tablet, the dark-gray cover of which he flipped open and immediately flicked closed again.

The computer equipment had grated on Elliot at first. He wasn’t at all a fan of technology, but he knew he couldn’t expect people to keep track of appointments in ledgers or books these days. And goodness, he had a cellular phone—as he still called it—himself nowadays. A friend from the club where Elliot exercised and swam worked in IT and had helped him choose a sleek, slimline model. Nothing big or bulky or flashy, and Elliot was still in the forgetting it in his office or kitchen phase of coexistence with it.

Karl, the man he was here to see, came out into the waiting room and regarded him. “Good morning, Elliot. Do come on in…or do you need another minute yet to look around and think how you’d decorate and furnish the place?”

He’d told Karl about that silly habit of his, something he did in homes or stores or restaurants, and Karl had found it charming, always remembering it. Elliot gave a rueful nod of acknowledgment and, casting his eyes down, walked past Karl into the next room, where there was calm and peace and barely audible soft music playing. He waited for Karl to enter behind him, close the door and sit, then nod toward a chair for Elliot to seat himself.

“You walked here?” Karl asked, his steely blue eyes catching the light. The morning sun made his neatly groomed dark hair, short beard and mustache shine. He probably chose to sit where he was on purpose and his stillness ensured he’d remain in the light. “Elliot?”

“Oh, excuse me. Wool-gathering. Yes. I like the walk. It’s part of coming here, for me. A warm-up.”

He knew what he meant. The distance was nothing from Intrinsic Value, in the city’s cultural Pearl District, but more of a stretch from his home in Lavaca.

“And you came from home? I’d hate to think you were at work so early.” Karl gave him an assessing once-over. “Help yourself to water.” His short, sharp chin jerk indicated the jug and glasses on the small table. “Have you been overworking since your last visit?”

“Well…” Elliot hedged, pouring himself a little water that he didn’t want and wouldn’t drink.

“Elliot. You know better than that.” Karl sharpened his tone a little. “Tell me.”

He hadn’t gone into recent…incidents in any great detail with Karl but had shared some of what had been happening at the store and with his employees lately. Now he caught Karl up on how things had finally settled down again after the events that had been set in motion when Elliot had purchased items from the Buckman sale.

“I swore off them, but I did go to another estate sale last week actually. There’s the local art and antiques fair coming up soon and I have a list of items to look out for there,” he finished.

“With most of them being for your house, on which you’re still working nonstop,” Karl surmised. Elliot dropped his gaze. “But you’ve found time to relax, to exercise? You look in great shape.”

Elliot’s face heated at the kind words. “Swimming most evenings, and I took up squash again.” More like he’d forced himself. But…

“Excellent. And we’ll have you switching to racquetball soon!” Karl’s eyes gleamed and he stood, motioning Elliot to his feet with a quick crook of his fingers. “It’s time. Go on through.”

Through into what Elliot thought of as the real room, after he’d showered and prepared, of course. Elliot was used to older mirrors, in the store and his house, and tended to avoid modern ones, but the full-length bathroom mirror here didn’t give too stark a reflection. The recessed lighting made his eyes seem more tawny than brown when he peered at his irises, checking on his lenses. Towel tucked around his waist, he walked into the treatment room. The real room.

“Elliot.” Karl coming in the other door caught him by surprise. “You’re not lying down.”

“Sorry,” Elliot muttered.

“Don’t be sorry. Be more obedient.” Karl took off his suit jacket, leaving him in his shirt and vest. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing his muscular forearms. He was powerfully built, with quiet, contained strength.

It was starting, frissons whispering down Elliot’s spine. Nodding, he lay on the table, swallowing at the snick of the door being locked, then the splat of the oil being pumped. The noises, the scents, were familiar, as were Karl’s hands smoothing his upper back and shoulders. Him pressing strong thumbs up the nape of Elliot’s neck had Elliot holding in a moan.

“Head to the side on the rest…hands on the wings…” Karl ordered, a second before the table’s mechanism popped out the armrests either side for Elliot to hold on to. In seconds, a padded strap snaked across his neck, holding his head in position and leather straps were buckled around his wrists, keeping his hands in place.

Buckled by Lars, who Elliot hadn’t even heard come in or lock the door again after him, although Elliot knew he would have, just as he knew Lars would now position the flat mirror to the side of the head of the table, angling it in such a way that Elliot could see what Karl would be doing to him. Everything Karl would be doing to him.

Karl paused, even after Lars finished, making Elliot shiver and ask, “Now what?”

“You know what.” Karl whisked Elliot’s towel away, leaving him naked. In seconds, the table’s end section was extended and widened, spreading Elliot’s legs to Karl’s satisfaction, and further straps secured his ankles to the corners. He peeped in the mirror—he was fully bound, as pulling at his bonds showed him.

“The ball gag, I think,” Karl said.

Elliot shook his head.

“Hmm. I’ll let you have that…” Karl’s voiced faded as he appeared to think. A quiet command had Lars offering him a tray from which Karl made his choice of the selection of bandannas it held. He twisted the cotton cloth into a strip and made a knot in its middle, tying another on top of the first to make it bigger. Big enough to gag Elliot, when placed in his mouth and the fabric tied around the back of his head.

“I like the look of over-the-mouth on you,” Karl reflected. “And it soaks up the saliva. But it’s the ball gag next time.”

The hard edge to his voice had tiny tremors rippling Elliot’s skin and his rapidly filling balls had him shifting on the table.

“Although I do like to hear you,” Karl commented, drawing a sharp fingernail down Elliot’s spine.

Elliot, eyes wide, struggled around the gag.

“You struggle so prettily,” Karl told him, watching his face.

Elliot didn’t think he looked pretty at all. He thought he looked like the thickset, almost middle-aged man he was. But here, at Karl’s, he felt pretty, perhaps, and loved the sensation. He thrilled at all the different feelings that each part of the appointment provided, and underlying them all was pride in himself for having taken this stride toward what he needed. Another step out from behind the wall I built around myself.

Karl’s “Ready?” had hardly reached Elliot’s ears before Karl delivered the first blow, an open-handed spank to one ass cheek. Although Elliot knew what was coming, the first strike was always a jolt, a blow he felt radiate out from the point of impact to his toes in one direction and his head in the other—Karl hit hard. Elliot breathed out around the cloth in his mouth, riding the sensations in the few seconds Karl allowed before he followed the initial smack with a second to the other cheek, one that made Elliot pant through the gag.

More powerful, meaty smacks followed, Lars’ quiet voice counting them. Having Karl’s sub witness what his Dom, Karl, did to Elliot was part of the process.

“Ten. And that’s the warm-up.”

Elliot was almost relieved. He was already burning, tears slipping from his eyes. He turned slightly to catch Lars’ impassive expression and that added to the sensations buffeting him. He turned back to see Karl in the mirror, shaking out his hand.

“Now, sting or thud?” Karl watched Elliot’s hand and repeated, his voice harsher, “Elliot, sting? Thud?”

On the second choice, Elliot curled his fingers twice, their agreed signal for yes. Everything they practiced was always pre-negotiated.

“Good.” Karl took a wooden paddle from the flat box Lars held out to him. He motioned to Lars to loosen Elliot’s gag a little. “How many?”

“U…up to you, sir,” Elliot managed before Lars replaced the gag again.

“Is the correct answer.”

Elliot thought Karl rewarded him for it by hitting extra hard.

“Five, I think…” The blows Karl, pro-Dom, landed were precise. He’d never once come anywhere near to striking Elliot’s hip or tailbones. The impact of each tightened every nerve in Elliot’s body and fired heat through every vein, intensifying with each hit.

“Ai’ive,” Elliot counted, as well as he could around the soaked cloth in his mouth.

“And now the other…” Karl murmured, and selected a new paddle for Elliot’s other butt cheek.

“No!” Elliot implored through the gag, trying to struggle. “Nuff. Can’t take more…”

Karl waited a few seconds then bent low to speak next to Elliot’s head. “Oh, you’ll take it, Elliot. And any more protest, and I add strokes to the tally.”

That extra bite, that element of being forced that inch beyond what he said he could handle—thought he could handle—was everything to Elliot. It had started with being strapped down—he still remembered his struggles—then having another person witness his play… All things Elliot had barely understood deep down in the recesses of his psyche that he craved. But he was starting to understand more and more…and act on his needs.

Karl straightened and began again, and there was only the impact, the blows, and Elliot’s soul vibrating to each one, to take him soaring. Heat burning through him, he was shaking and sweating when Karl finished. He had his eyes closed, but felt hands undoing his straps, then Karl was helping him to turn over. He cried out when his abused ass made contact with the table.

“Look at you.” Karl’s voice held admiration for Elliot’s straining cock, the head wet and shiny with pre-cum. “How badly do you need to come?”

This was another Karl question that didn’t need an answer. “You’re going to wait a full minute. Do not touch yourself until I say. Understood? Say the word.”

“Understood.” It came out in nothing like his usual cultured tone.

The second hand on the large wall clock had never moved so slowly. Elliot, desperate, was just beginning to suspect something was wrong with it or that Karl had rigged it, when Karl nodded. “Do it. Let me see you.”

It didn’t take Elliot long. A few pulls at himself, a loud moan and he climaxed over his stomach and chest, his body a rigid arch off the table. His eyes on Karl, basking in the warmth on his face and the praise he loosed, Elliot milked his cock to the last drops. He accepted the soft tissues Karl held out to him to dab at himself. It didn’t matter, because the session always finished with another shower.

His after-shower always felt totally different from the one before, and now Elliot was less keyed up, he could appreciate the finer details, such as Karl having ready the bergamot and sandalwood soap Elliot liked, which he used at home. Elliot lathered his body, wondering as he always did if he’d ever have someone do that for him, in the same ways as he’d soap that person, both of them caring for the other.

He made himself wait until he was toweling himself dry to examine his ass cheeks. What he saw had him grinning, and not just at the reddened color—the paddles Karl had used on him had been imprinted.

He’d tried to glimpse the words or designs on them during the session but had been unable. Now, though, he stared at his right cheek, with its new image of a heart, right in its center, and at his left, which bore the word love. He did love it, every aspect of coming here, the service Karl provided, the careful way he ran his business, how it didn’t feel like a transaction…

As much as Elliot thrilled to the anticipation and thrived on the acts themselves, he also loved the winding down. The final stage was always out on the back porch with Karl, for light chat and the herbal tea they both enjoyed…and Elliot forced himself not to wince at how sitting on his recently paddled ass felt.

“Do you get to the club much?” Elliot thought to ask. The place they’d met, where Karl played as a Dom.

“Not as much now.” Karl put his cup down. “And I know you don’t either. The atmosphere’s a little different in there recently. I think there are some changes on the horizon—I heard it’s getting a little harder-edged, more extreme, and maybe new management? But we’ll see if the changes are for the better. Some can be.”

Elliot’s preference for a routine was a half-joke between them. When he stood to go, Karl looped a hand around his upper back to bring him close. “Take care,” he murmured.

Elliot started his walk to the store. He felt good, lighter, as he always did after a session with Karl, yet heaviness was creeping in sooner than it usually did. He reviewed the progress he’d made. Trying to come out from behind the barricades he’d shuttered himself behind, he’d gone for coffee with a couple of guys from his sports club and even a drink once, but there’d been no spark.

Then, when he’d come to understand that rough, submissive sex was what he craved, he’d gone looking for it in Caress, where there were plenty of Doms. But as much as he might crave to play in public, the idea of subbing to someone he didn’t know, who didn’t know him, and who Elliot didn’t know if he could trust, made him freeze up.

He’d found a good compromise in Karl and his behind-closed-doors service. He liked the kind of man Karl was, and also their arrangement, but couldn’t help envying what Karl and Lars had.

What must that be like, that sort of relationship? To be with someone he could give all of himself to, voice all his needs to, and for that person to act on them with him…because they met his needs too? And all of them, including companionship, domesticity… He’d never had that and doubted he ever would.

“Wishes and dreams, maybes and moonbeams.” It was a silly expression of his grandmother’s, one he hadn’t thought of for years, and it came to him out of the blue.

No. Elliot focused on the day ahead, on his schedule, what he’d be doing and when. He planned to order something different for lunch—that was the next brick he was going to topple from the wall around himself. Maybe one day, in the future, he’d be ready to take bigger actions, but for now…

Now was longing, as tenuous and as strong as a moonbeam, slipping through the cracks.

Buy Links

Choose Your Store
First For Romance

About the Author

Bailey Bradford

A native Texan, Bailey spends her days spinning stories around in her head, which has contributed to more than one incident of tripping over her own feet. Evenings are reserved for pounding away at the keyboard, as are early morning hours. Sleep? Doesn't happen much. Writing is too much fun, and there are too many characters bouncing about, tapping on Bailey's brain demanding to be let out.

Caffeine and chocolate are permanent fixtures in Bailey's office and are never far from hand at any given time. Removing either of those necessities from Bailey's presence can result in what is known as A Very, Very Scary Bailey and is not advised under any circumstances.

Giveaway

Enter and get a FREE romance book from the author!

Bailey Bradford's Antiques Giveaway

BAILEY BRADFORD IS GIVING AWAY THIS FABULOUS PRIZE TO ONE LUCKY WINNER. ENTER HERE FOR YOUR CHANCE TO WIN A LOVELY GIFT PACKAGE AND YOUR FREE BAILEY BRADFORD ROMANCE BOOK! Notice: This competition ends on 24th August 2021 at 5pm GMT. Competition hosted by Totally Entwined Group.