by Ava March
“Kiss it,” Arsen said, his voice hoarsened with passion.
Henry pressed his lips to the head, pulling a groan from Arsen. He opened his mouth, but instead of taking the man’s cock inside, he dragged his lips along the length, flicking his tongue over the hot skin. Massaging Arsen’s thighs, he nuzzled the base then rubbed his cheek against the satiny smooth skin of his hip. Damn, Arsen smelled good. Male arousal with a hint of sweat. And something else. Something that was distinctly Arsen. The combined scent was an amazingly potent source of lust.
He sprinkled light kisses over Arsen’s groin. Light kisses that quickly turned greedy. Urgent. Open mouthed kisses with teeth and tongue. He tried to draw out the moment, to savor the anticipation, but it was no use.
Grabbing hold of the base, Henry opened his mouth and took Arsen’s cock inside.
Arsen’s fist pressed against the nape of Henry’s neck, urging him to take more. Relaxing his throat, he grabbed Arsen’s firm buttocks with both hands and sank all the way down. Silken skin slid over his tongue, leaving behind the salty tang of pre-come. The thick length filled his mouth. Determined to shatter Arsen’s control, he bobbed up and down, tickling the sensitive underside with the tip of his tongue with each stroke.
Arsen tilted his hips forward. “Suck it, Shaw.”
On the next upward glide, Henry sucked hard, his cheeks hollowing. Then he slid down, all the way down, and swallowed, using the muscles of his throat to stroke the head.
Arsen let out a grunt and clasped Henry’s shoulder, long fingers digging into the tendons, as if he needed to hold on to stay on his feet. “Hell, that feels good. Do it again.”
Henry happily complied.
Arsen’s buttocks tightened beneath Henry’s hands. He felt a tremor shake the man’s body. Arsen’s breaths turned ragged. Hard heavy pants filled Henry’s ears.
“Enough,” Arsen gasped, tugging on Henry’s hair.
He shook his head as much as he could in his current position. Intense arousal permeated his senses, had him on the brink of orgasm. Yet he wanted to suck Arsen’s cock all night long. Make the man come over and over.
“Enough, Shaw.” Arsen tugged again, this time with both hands. “Stop.” Desperation laced his tone.
That word, the one Henry could never ignore, penetrated the fog of lust. He pulled his mouth from Arsen’s prick.
Eyes heavy-lidded, Arsen stared down at him. His golden forelock hung over his brow, a slight flush staining his cheekbones. Cupping Henry’s jaw, he rubbed the pad of his thumb over Henry’s wet lips. “Such a pretty mouth,” he murmured huskily. “But I don’t want to come down your throat. I want to come in your arse.”
“Yes.” Henry hung his head, his pose one of abject submission and not caring in the slightest.
Warm fingertips brushed the back of his neck, toyed with the hair dampened from sweat. “Then get up. And take those damn trousers off so I can fuck you.”
Perfect love casts out fear. If you let it.
Lessons in Desire
© 2009 Charlie Cochrane
A Cambridge Fellows Mystery
Jersey, 1906
St. Bride’s English don Jonty Stewart is in desperate need of a break from university life. A holiday on the beautiful Channel Island of Jersey seems ideal, especially if he can coax his lover, Orlando, to step outside the college’s walls to come along.
Orlando Coppersmith is scared. Within the safe confines of the school it’s easy to hide the fact that they are not just friends, but lovers. In an unknown place, in full view of everyone, how will they keep their illegal affair private—much less dare to make love, even in the security of their suite?
A brutal murder at their hotel forces their personal problems into the background—at first. The race to catch the killer gets complicated when the prime suspect finds Orlando irresistible. Suddenly keeping their affair clandestine isn’t only a matter of legality. It’s a matter of life and death…
Warning: Contains sensual m/m lovemaking and handsome young men in (and out of) Edwardian bathing costumes.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Lessons in Desire:
Jonty was lying on the settee in the sitting room of their suite, reading glasses perched on his nose. He had a bottle of lemonade, a packet of peppermint creams and a Conan Doyle. No distractions, though, Orlando having gone off to play tennis with Matthew Ainslie. A glorious hour or two were in prospect.
Or they were until the door burst open, a racket went flying through the air, just missing his feet, and a very cross man in white flannels announced, “Ainslie tried to kiss me!”
“Well, of course he did.” Jonty didn’t spill even one drop of his lemonade. “I told you it was in the air yet you didn’t take the slightest notice. Serves you right.” He tried very hard not to look up from his book, despite the long streak of fury which was buzzing around near him.
“We didn’t even get to the tennis courts.” Orlando paced from the door to the window then back again. “He took me up into the grove of trees at the back of the garden, ‘to see the honey buzzards,’ he said. Honey buzzards my elbow!” Orlando stopped in front of him, wrenched the book from his hand and flung it in the direction of the racket. “Then you have the audacity to say ‘serves you right’.”
Jonty looked up this time to find that Orlando wasn’t just angry. His face was suffused with fear, a fear Jonty hadn’t seen there since the dreadful time of the St. Bride’s murders. “Sit down.” He reached out for his friend’s hand, drawing him to sit beside him. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
He stroked the hand tenderly, trying to give every reassurance through his touches. Orlando must have been frightened stiff to have been accosted, but the man had to learn that the world wasn’t full of academics whose thoughts were always in their theorems and never in their trousers.
“We went into the thicket a little way before we stopped. I thought he was going to show me a nest or something, only he took my arm and turned me round to face him. Before I knew what was going on, he stuck his face into mine then tried to kiss me. On the lips…” Orlando looked scandalised.
The offended expression made Jonty giggle, quite inappropriately. “Did your mother never tell you not to go into the woods with strange men?”
“I’m glad you find it so very amusing. I understand that I’m a constant source of merriment to you, but I’d hoped that you’d have been sympathetic.” Orlando rose and stormed into his bedroom with such a slam of the door that Jonty feared for the hinges.
He sighed, mentally kicking himself. When will you ever learn to hold your tongue? He’s frightened and confused. You know he’s petrified enough of touching you in public, of giving himself away. How must he have felt with a stranger? He rose then gently knocked on the door.
“Go away, Dr. Stewart.”
Jonty opened the door a few inches. A pillow came flying through the air, glancing off his head. It was obviously a throwing day chez Coppersmith.
Jonty took his handkerchief from his pocket to wave it dramatically. “Truce, Orlando?”
“Bugger off, Jonty.”
He ignored the remark, coming over and sitting down on the bed next to his friend. “Big idiot’s come to say he’s sorry. Doesn’t expect to be forgiven but wants to listen, properly this time.” He smiled tenderly, then stretched out along the bed, parallel with Orlando although not touching, making a nice geometrical shape with the wooden headboard, which his favourite mathematician would have probably appreciated at another time. Now, no doubt, he was trying to overcome the desire to thump his friend.
“Why do you want to hear? So you can laugh at my innocence again?” Orlando huffed, crossing his arms.
“I want to hear because I want to understand. What did you do when Ainslie pushed his face in yours, which is probably a very good description of what happened. I can imagine it exactly.” Jonty ventured a tiny smile.
“I slapped his face.” Orlando screwed his eyes, his cheeks bright red. “
I told him that I had no intention of kissing him, then or at any point in the future. Then he apologised and said he’d misunderstood, though what there was to understand is beyond me, so I came back here.” He opened his eyes to look pleadingly at Jonty, the anger in his eyes gone even if the fear was still in situ. “I want to go home. Back to St. Bride’s.”
“Oh, we can’t, Orlando.” Jonty was crestfallen. “We need this holiday. I need this holiday. I know that you’re not going to want to face this man again, but you’re just going to have to find the courage. He probably won’t bother you a second time, not after you made your feelings so plain. Slapped his face?” He ventured a hand over to his friend’s arm, gently tapped it. “Good for you.”
Orlando turned to face him. “Did I do right, Jonty? I had no idea, truly. I thought that you were overreacting with that ‘he looked at your hands all night’ remark. I don’t want to kiss anyone except you. You know that, don’t you?”
“Well, of course I do. Known that for a long time. Look, Matthew Ainslie won’t be the last to try it on, you must realise that. You’ve a handsome face and a winning smile, when you care to use it. That air of aloofness would drive many an admirer wild.” Jonty caressed the face he loved so much, savouring—as he did every time—the contrast of rough with smooth textures. “You’ve never realised, sitting in the little world of Bride’s, that you’re an exceedingly attractive man. People you talk to are going to take notice.”
“But you talk to any and everyone, Jonty, flirt with them too. What do you do if they respond?” Orlando drew his lover’s hand to his chest, let it rest over his heart. It was a habitual gesture, one they both cherished.
“Run like stink in the other direction, generally. Plead that my heart belongs to my college and no other. I had to lie once—said I belonged to an evangelical sect which insisted on a vow of chastity, although that was with a particularly persistent lady. Never had to resort to a slap, however I’ll bear it in mind for extreme occasions.”
Orlando leaned up on his elbow. “Did your mother tell you not to go into the woods with strange men? Or women?”
“As hard as you may find it to believe, my mother and father gave me no advice about carnal matters. These things are simply not talked about in ‘nice’ families. The farmer’s daughter is better prepared than the gentleman’s—she sees the bull taken to the cows or the pigs farrowing. My poor sister had a terrible time on her wedding night. She had no idea whatsoever about the male anatomy or what parts of it were used for. Came straight home to Mama in torrents of tears swearing that her husband was a misshapen, disgusting brute. She had to be told very plainly the truth of things. I did slightly better. Father warned me, when I was sixteen, not to get any girls into trouble. I thought he meant keeping them out late or making them steal things.”
“My mother never told me anything, either, more’s the pity. She didn’t give me any advice about life except that I should find myself a nice, respectable wife and have two nice, respectable children. She never saw fit to inform me how they were to be begot. Father said that if I ‘found myself stimulated’—his words, not mine—I should take a cold bath then read Pilgrim’s Progress.” Orlando sighed, lying back again, looking very young and vulnerable in his white flannels with open-necked shirt.
Jonty could understand why Matthew had been so enflamed. He’d felt the same way when he’d first seen Orlando in his cricket whites. There’d been a game for St. Bride’s against St. Thomas’s college; Coppersmith had thrown himself about manfully in the field, his lithe body looking so athletic that Jonty had been forced to fan himself. After the game he’d rushed the man straight back to his set—within two minutes of their passing through the door, Orlando’s whites had joined Jonty’s suit on the floor and his long, delicate fingers were roaming over his lover’s body, wreaking havoc. The memory was doing nothing for Jonty’s composure, which was fighting a losing battle with excitement.
“Did you ever look for a wife, Orlando?” Jonty tried to keep his mind above waist level. And away from anything male.
“Honest truth, Jonty, I was too scared. Never got on with girls, you know that. My mother invited plenty to tea, although I always found an excuse to be elsewhere or take my leave early. I just thought I was shy, that I’d grow out of it. Never realised why.” He drew up Jonty’s hand to press it to his lips. “I realise now.”
“Do you want me to talk to Ainslie? I’ll make it plain that if anyone should be going home it’s him and that unpleasant father of his, who, I’m fairly certain, was trying to cheat at cards last night, but that’s by-the-by. Do you want me to do this for you?”
“Let me think about it, I don’t want to make matters worse. Discretion might be the better part of valour this time.”
Jonty lazily reached over, began to trace circles on Orlando’s shirt. “We have a good hour or so before we have to be getting changed for dinner. Would you be thinking of seducing me now, or are you thrusting me back into the arms of Sherlock Holmes?”
Orlando looked shocked. “I won’t be thinking of seducing you at all until we’re back in college. At least, if I think of it, I won’t be doing anything about it. It’s too risky, you know that.”
Jonty shrugged. He did know it, or at least Orlando’s opinion on the subject. The man had made it plain that he didn’t want to put them in any jeopardy while they were away from St. Bride’s and that included no indulging in sex.
Or what passed for sex between them as, despite the fact they’d been lovers for months, they’d still not achieved bodily union. Jonty was becoming, if not desperate, then extremely anxious to have a proper consummation. He’d been hoping that the sea air, the wonderfully romantic location and plenty of seafood would loosen Orlando’s straitjacket of conservatism. But coming away from his safe haven had made the man even more nervous and reserved. If things carried on the way they were, then even mutual pleasure by hands which stroked or caressed would be impossible this holiday.
One warrior, one sorcerer, and a legacy that will change their lives forever…
The Lost Son
© 2010 Mychael Black
Secrets of Socendor, Book One
In the world of Socendor, humans are forbidden from using magic and elves keep their distance.
Kalen Ysindroc has risen far from his humble beginnings as a blacksmith’s adopted son. Now the king’s general, he investigates reports of magic-wielding half-human, half-elven lithings sighted along the kingdom’s borders. It would be a lonely life, if not for the company of his best friend and long-time elven lover, Micheil Theirauf, the king’s sorcerer.
An attempt on Kalen’s life makes it clear to Micheil that there’s more afoot than random breaks in the land’s defenses. His lover is plagued by dreams no human should endure, and Micheil’s probe into Kalen’s subconscious reveals a past neither of them expected. And a future Kalen can’t escape.
Suddenly, everything Kalen never knew about his life is laid bare. A father possessed of terrible magical power. A half-brother who could be the family Kalen never had—or the catalyst that will rip Micheil out of his life forever…
Warning: Explicit gay sex (on a horse, even!), men in armor, swords (not just THAT kind!), sorcery, betrayal, and at least one conniving ghost.
Enjoy the following excerpt for The Lost Son:
Once inside, Kalen followed Andreas to an unoccupied table while Micheil went up to the barkeep to order their first round of drinks. No sooner had he returned to the table with three mugs in his hands than his younger sister Marilee appeared at his side.
“I was beginning to wonder if I might see you gentlemen this evening,” she said with a smile. She wiped her hands on her apron and leaned down to hug each of them in turn.
“You should know we’d be here eventually, Mari.” Andreas grinned and took a healthy swallow of ale, his gaze never leaving the young blonde woman.
Kalen caught Micheil’s curious gaze as it shifted from Marilee to Andreas, and he gave
the sorcerer a quick wink. A slight tilt of Kalen’s head toward the stairs leading up to the rooms for rent made it clear what went on between the prince and Marilee. Micheil’s gaze widened considerably. If the king and queen knew about the prince’s dalliances with a barmaid, there would be hell to pay. As soon as Marilee went to wait on another customer, Micheil turned and narrowed his gaze at the prince.
“Just how long have you been seeing my sister?”
Andreas nearly choked on his drink, shooting Kalen a quick, albeit playful, scowl. “A while,” he said. “Why? You’re not her keeper, Micheil.”
“No,” Micheil said, “but I’m all she has, Andreas.”
“I know, I know.” Andreas sighed and set his mug down, peering into the murky depths of the ale. “I want to marry her.”
Kalen nearly dropped his own mug. “What?”
Andreas ignored Kalen’s question. “Do I have your permission?”
Micheil remained silent for several minutes, and Kalen wondered if he was going to deny their friend. “It is not my place to make that decision,” he finally said, turning back to the prince. “Mari is a grown woman, Andreas. Only she can say if that’s what she wants. But rest assured that the queen and king won’t take to it kindly.”
“My father does not care whom I choose,” Andreas said with a noticeable hint of annoyance toward the monarch. “I do not have the head for politics like Philip. He is more suited to rule once Father is gone. I prefer battle to diplomacy, a saddle to a throne.”