Time Out by Sean Michael
Val and Chaz broke up after Chaz safeworded unnecessarily during a scene. Can they find a way to come back together?
A few months ago, Chaz safeworded during a scene, just because he was feeling neglected and bitchy. Val was understandably upset that his sub lied, and the two of them split up. Now it’s months later and Val is miserable to be around, so his friend sends him to his private lake house to vacation and get over himself. At least, that’s what Val thinks is happening. In reality, Chaz has also been lured to the lake house and is waiting there so they can hopefully get back together.
Despite his shock at finding Chaz at the lake house, Val decides to do a scene. Will it be the last scene they share or will they find a way to move past what happened?
Strict Consequences by Morticia Knight
One proposition, one night. Could it be the beginning of a forever after for a Master and sub?
Garson teaches poetry and literature at the local college, but what he does on his own time is much different. His need for pain and dominance is strong, but his fear of letting go is stronger. He won’t let any Dom touch him sexually, and his other hard limits are even more extreme. But lately, his one hour a week sessions haven’t been satisfying him anywhere near enough.
Jarvis finds the bookish and reserved Garson captivating. His love of extreme pain is thrilling. But there’s also a hedonistic wanton hiding beneath the surface of the detached sub, and Jarvis aches to be the one who sets him free. After waiting for a year to crack Garson’s carefully controlled surface, Jarvis conceives of a plan.
Garson knows he shouldn’t give in to Jarvis’ proposition that they spend an evening getting to know each other, but the reward of unlimited time in Jarvis’ dungeon is much too tempting. Or is it actually Jarvis who’s the most tempting thing of all?
Tagging Mackenzie by L. M. Somerton
Achieving a Dom’s undivided attention can have unpredictable consequences.
Steele Denton's business doing custom paint jobs for fast bikes is booming. He's in demand and has a reputation for being a perfectionist. Tattooed and intimidating, Steele is also in demand as a Dom at his local BDSM club, Chain of Thorns. He requires perfect submission from any sub he deigns to play with.
Mackenzie Soames is desperate for Steele to notice him, but might as well be invisible. He has no idea how to get invited into the VIP members’ area that Steele rarely strays from, so he concocts a plan to get Steele's attention. Kenzie is a talented graffiti artist with a secret identity, known only by his tag, a pair of handcuffs. He spray-paints a BDSM scene on a wall at the side of Steele's workshop, hoping Steele will see the security footage and track him down. However, Steele is working late and catches him in the act.
Steele recognises Kenzie from the club and demands twenty-four hours of sexual slavery as penance for the graffiti. Kenzie has no choice but to agree and soon discovers that being Steele's sub will either make him or break him.
Bad Idea by Lily Harlem
Bad ideas can sometimes be the best!
Roughneck Riders are not an MC club you mess with, least of all their rough and tough gang leader Heavy. But Heavy has a secret that has to be kept, no matter what—his heart belongs to a man. It shouldn’t. He’s supposed to be into women, like the other guys in the club. Junk is just too cute to resist, though. Add in his delectable body, his sweet submission and his willingness to accept Heavy’s sadism, and the couple are a perfect match.
Junk’s a probie, proving his worth to the club and demonstrating his mechanical know-how. He’s lived on the edge for a long time, flitting from one place to the next. But now that he’s settling in as a Roughneck, life is looking up. Not least because he’s in love—soul-eating, cock-thickening obsessive love. He can’t tell anyone about his desire for Heavy, but what he can do is push his lover’s buttons, all day, in full view of everyone, until he’s damned sure the night will bring a whole host of sinful delights and wicked punishments that will leave him marked, bruised and most of all, wholly satisfied.
Safeword by Samantha Cayto
A dangerous game turns into unexpected pleasure…
Carter’s dream of running from his abusive family into the arms of the perfect Dom has been shattered. Virtually enslaved by a vicious arms dealer, he has to submit to any man his master gives him to.
Undercover agent Damien Crow is close to putting away the arms dealer he’s been hunting for years. All he has to do to gain the man’s trust is ‘play’ with the pretty boy with the frightened eyes and alluring corset piercing down his back. Being straight and not a practicing Dom, he has doubts he can pull off the effort. One look at his playmate changes his mind. The stakes are high, and he must put on a good show.
At first, Carter assumes Damien is just another brutal Dom to survive. But the big, brooding man reignites his passion and gives him something Carter hasn’t had in years—a safeword. It might be his last chance to enjoy being a sub and he embraces the role no matter what the consequences.
Earning His Leathers by S. Dora
Call him old-fashioned, but Connor believes a man should earn his leathers.
Connor Lee is very much into both men and BDSM. He already knows he’s a dominant within the game of sex and power. He just wants to become a damn good master. When he gets the opportunity to become part of an exclusive group of men who share his philosophy, he’s willing to submit to their rites of passage.
His appointed tutor isn’t Connor’s cup of double espresso by any stretch of his imagination. Stone Carver is dark, tall, muscled and he has the face of a man who has seen one fight too many. Stone notices Connor’s hesitation and sends him away to find someone to have fun with and return when he has made up his mind.
Connor meets Jesse, who is everything he has ever dreamed of, and he wants nothing more than to stay with the sweet—potential—submissive. He decides, however, to meet the challenge of submitting to Sir Stone and promises to return to Jesse after he has earned his leathers.
During one long day of pain, pleasure and a smidgeon of humiliation, Sir Stone teaches Connor more than he had bargained for. But has he learned enough to be the Dominant Jesse deserves?
Time Out by Sean Michael
“Val, you can’t just hide away for hours. Here.” Bailey pushed a set of keys across the table, somehow managing to miss the water glasses and the wineglasses. “Go to my lake house. Trust me. Go for the weekend.”
“You think I’m in the mood for a vacation?” Val growled the words out, just as irritable as fuck.
He’d broken up with his… No. No, he wasn’t going there. He wasn’t going to give the situation or that asshole a second more consideration. And he was not in the mood for a vacation.
Of course, Bailey’s lake house was in bumfuck nowhere and he wouldn’t be disturbed. He wouldn’t have to pretend he was happy, goddamn it. He wasn’t interested in being perky, wasn’t interested in being anything but… Himself.
Grumpy, unhappy him.
God, he really wasn’t fit for company, polite or otherwise. He picked up the keys Bailey had passed over.
“You sure you don’t need it for a party or anything?” He was accepting Bailey’s offer so he could be alone, not to be roped into some get-together where Bailey would force him to be social.
Or worse, introduce him to a friend.
“I swear to you. You need a fresh start.” Bailey seemed so earnest, which wasn’t Bailey’s style at all, so Val figured he was on the up and up about this.
“I need something,” he admitted. Possibly just to get over himself. He had to be a bit of a bear if his friends were loaning out their vacation homes.
Chaz had… Well, Chaz had betrayed him, betrayed his trust, their bond, everything. They hadn’t moved in together, hadn’t made any promises, but they’d been heading in that direction. At least he’d thought so.
“Time,” Bailey suggested. “You need time and I’m giving it to you. Go forth and find your bliss.”
Strict Consequences by Morticia Knight
Damn. Not one Dom here I’ve played with before.
Club Consequence was unbelievably crowded for a Wednesday night and Garson doubted there’d be a room available at all. When he’d asked the host if there were spots still available if one of his regular Doms came in, he’d informed Garson that they were all full, but that the public areas were always an option.
Not a chance.
Garson treasured his privacy and the focus of a Master for the one precious hour they shared together. From where he leaned against the bar, he glanced around the room again, sipping on his usual soda water with three slices of lime, searching for a familiar face. He readjusted his black-rimmed glasses on his nose. He wasn’t in the mood to linger all evening with only a chance that he might get in. Garson didn’t hang out at the club for any other reason than to have a hardcore session. He didn’t dance, didn’t socialize, didn’t make friends with the other subs or pander to the Doms. He was only interested in one thing. Pain and submission. Once he’d had his dose, he was good for another week. Usually.
He’d shown up on impulse, only five days since his last appearance at the club. After Garson gave a lengthy introduction to the influence of women on nineteenth-century poetry, the lack of attention he’d experienced from his freshman students at Pasadena City College had sent him straight to Club Consequence. He needed a balm, something to center him.
No room. No Jarvis.
The night’s prospects were dismal. Garson’s repeated scan of the crowd had failed to produce a sighting of his favorite and most commanding Dom. The knowledge that showing up on a night other than his regular Friday might mean that he’d have to settle for a different Dom hadn’t prevented him from attending. But it didn’t mean that he hadn’t held on to hope.
Sighing, he angled his body to rest his elbows on the bar’s copper surface, his cool drink clutched between his hands. No one spoke to his need stronger than Jarvis. In the five years since he’d discovered the joy and release of BDSM, Garson hadn’t found a Dom as attuned to him as the daunting man. Once he’d met the stunningly handsome Master the previous year, it’d been a blissful time under the sure hand of the Dom. Even if they weren’t always able to scene together when Garson made his weekly appearance, the majority of Garson’s interludes had been with him. They didn’t have each other’s contact info, which meant there was no guarantee that they’d hook up. Garson never gave out his number and he’d never presumed to ask Jarvis for his.
Tagging Mackenzie by LM Somerton
“Look at him, Ricky. Isn’t he the most lust-inducing man-shaped piece of yumminess you’ve ever laid eyes on?” Mackenzie Soames prodded his best friend’s biceps, causing him to yelp then pout.
“Ouch! What is the matter with you, Kenzie? Let me guess…Steele Denton just arrived.” Ricky swiveled on his stool, contorting his body to peer across the club.
“Don’t stare! He’ll see us.” Kenzie shifted subtly to the side so that Ricky’s slightly broader frame shielded his own slender body.
“Isn’t that the point? You’re not dressed like that”—Ricky waved vaguely in Kenzie’s direction—“to blend into the background. What is the point of getting all dolled up like the subby little twink you are, if you just hide behind me all the time?”
Kenzie examined his outfit with a critical eye. The red PVC trousers hung off his slim hips and molded to his thighs. The glossy sheen of the fabric reflected the club’s dim lighting. He loved the matching cuffs buckled around his wrists. They were nicely padded on the inside to protect his skin. He marked easily, which most Doms loved, but he didn’t want to put those marks there himself. He wore a black club collar indicating that he was available to play, and apart from his boots, that was it. The fine dusting of shimmering body powder didn’t count. He didn’t boast a single defined ab, let alone a six-pack, but his frame was toned and firm.
“It doesn’t matter what I wear. I could be dancing naked right in front of him and he’d walk straight by. What’s the point in putting myself out there just to get rejected?” Kenzie watched as Steele paused to chat to two leather-clad Doms at the bar.
“I don’t recall him rejecting you. He hasn’t had the chance.” Ricky used his soothing voice, the same one he most likely used on the spitting balls of furry fury at the veterinary practice where he worked as a nurse.
“Stop using the voice on me.” Kenzie couldn’t rip his gaze away from Steele’s back.
It was a particularly fine example, chiefly because it topped a perfect ass hugged by well-worn leather.
“You’re drooling. You may as well be an overexcited puppy, especially with those big brown eyes of yours, so the voice is appropriate,” Ricky snarked.
Bad Idea by Lily Harlem
Junk
I swigged from a half-empty bottle of JD and watched Heavy cruise into the yard. The bikers hanging around stopped what they were doing, just for a moment, to acknowledge the arrival of the Roughneck Riders’ boss.
His bike appeared to have taken a beating on the road trip he’d been on. It wasn’t its usual spit and shine self and there was a dent on the black exhaust. But that was okay, we’d soon make it right. Or, rather, I would.
“Wonder if he made the deal with the Texans,” Griff said. He was sitting sideways on the Harley next to mine.
“Dunno,” I said, passing him the liquor and shifting on my seat.
He knocked back a few big mouthfuls, the fluid sloshing noisily on the inside of the bottle. “Guess we’ll find out in a minute.”
“Yeah.”
Heavy would be sure to get everyone together to discuss what had gone down. Were we steady with the Texans for another year of deals? Or would we be at each other’s throats for the next six months until we hashed it out and spilled some blood?
“What do you reckon he’ll say?” Griff asked.
I shrugged.
Griff didn’t comment. I was a man of few words and he accepted that. Well, unless I was with my Dom. Then I could get a bit full of myself, especially if I was hoping for some rough treatment—a bit of punishment for bad behavior.
Heavy pulled to a halt, the last rumbles of his exhaust thundering around the lot and echoing into the workshop. He steadied his Harley then stood, his big boots creating plumes of dust that drifted away on the breeze.
My heart rate increased as he tugged at his helmet and tossed it toward Joe. He caught it with a grunt as it collided with his belly.
Safeword by Samantha Cayto
“Here he is now, your toy for the weekend. I’m sure you’ll find Carter quite enjoyable.”
Carter suppressed the shudder running down his spine. He heard the warning in his master’s voice. Be a good boy or suffer the consequences. It terrified him as it always did. But being afraid and showing it in front of his master never got him anywhere except a trip to a new and more horrible circle of hell. After three years of living with the man, Carter now understood that the sadist enjoyed such showings of weakness and the chance to exploit them. Carter briefly tightened his grip on the leash he held, the only sign of emotions that he allowed himself. He’d get through this weekend as he had all of the others. It was either that or die, and while he knew that his inevitable death lurked nearby, he still had enough will to live not to hasten it.
He stopped in front of his master and the other man, head bowed, body deceptively relaxed, and stared at the two sets of feet in front of him. To his left were his master’s Italian loafers, buffed to a high shine and costing far more than the average person’s monthly wage. To his right was a surprisingly different type of footwear. Instead of equally expensive and high-toned shoes, he saw two gigantic black boots, the kind you’d see on bikers. Shitkickers. Jeans replaced designer slacks and, just within the periphery of his downcast gaze, larger hands hung on either side of thick thighs. Another shiver tingled at the base of Carter’s spine. This business associate of his master’s was different from the others, and not in a good way.
“Turn around, boy,” his master barked out.
Carter obeyed instantly and gracefully, the way he’d perfected over the years. He heard a grunt of surprise and couldn’t help smiling quickly and ruefully to himself. He knew what the guest saw—a newly done corset piercing running from between his shoulders down to the small of his back. A black silk ribbon had been laced through it, the strings of the bow dangling to the beginning of the cleft of his ass. He wore his matching black silk lounge pants low on his hips, allowing the swell of his butt to peek out.
Earning his Leathers by S Dora
Connor Lee liked to get lost during his walks through the streets of the city. The app on his smartphone could show him the way from A to B with a minimum of fuss, but where was the fun in that? Would he have happened upon the small leather shop, hidden in an alley as if it didn’t want to be found, otherwise? At first, he didn’t recognize it for what it was or even know if it was open to the public. Curious, he pushed the door, and there was no mistaking what was on sale. The scent of leather was overwhelming. Jacks, trousers and chaps were on exhibition like art in a museum.
“Can I help you?” a man—the owner?—asked.
“Is it okay if I look around? I see stuff here to make any leather man drool.”
The man grinned. “I’ve seen only two kinds of reactions when people open the door. They either get away as fast as they can, or they think they landed in paradise.”
“I don’t think you’ll have to guess which one I am.” Connor touched the sleeve of a black jacket. “By the way, you’re the owner? Of the shop, I mean. Great business.”
The man nodded. “Yes. And thanks.”
Connor walked from leather piece to leather piece, admiring the quality of the material and the perfect neatness of the stitching. Someone with serious talent and dedication had worked on this.
“All handmade.” It wasn’t a question.
“These are demonstrations of what my husband and I are capable of. We sell pieces individually made for that particular customer. Scot March is the name.”
“Connor Lee.” This was the sort of shop where trading names might prove as important as trading goods for money. “Your shop isn’t exactly easy to find, even for someone aware of its existence. Why keep the treasure hidden?”
Scot smiled. “Those who need to find us, will.”
“Even if I started living on cheap bread and peanut butter for a year, I still wouldn’t be able to buy any of this.” Connor hesitated to continue, because if he was honest, it wasn’t just a matter of money.
“Val, you can’t just hide away for hours. Here.” Bailey pushed a set of keys across the table, somehow managing to miss the water glasses and the wineglasses. “Go to my lake house. Trust me. Go for the weekend.”
“You think I’m in the mood for a vacation?” Val growled the words out, just as irritable as fuck.
He’d broken up with his… No. No, he wasn’t going there. He wasn’t going to give the situation or that asshole a second more consideration. And he was not in the mood for a vacation.
Of course, Bailey’s lake house was in bumfuck nowhere and he wouldn’t be disturbed. He wouldn’t have to pretend he was happy, goddamn it. He wasn’t interested in being perky, wasn’t interested in being anything but… Himself.
Grumpy, unhappy him.
God, he really wasn’t fit for company, polite or otherwise. He picked up the keys Bailey had passed over.
“You sure you don’t need it for a party or anything?” He was accepting Bailey’s offer so he could be alone, not to be roped into some get-together where Bailey would force him to be social.
Or worse, introduce him to a friend.
“I swear to you. You need a fresh start.” Bailey seemed so earnest, which wasn’t Bailey’s style at all, so Val figured he was on the up and up about this.
“I need something,” he admitted. Possibly just to get over himself. He had to be a bit of a bear if his friends were loaning out their vacation homes.
Chaz had… Well, Chaz had betrayed him, betrayed his trust, their bond, everything. They hadn’t moved in together, hadn’t made any promises, but they’d been heading in that direction. At least he’d thought so.
“Time,” Bailey suggested. “You need time and I’m giving it to you. Go forth and find your bliss.”
Strict Consequences by Morticia Knight
Damn. Not one Dom here I’ve played with before.
Club Consequence was unbelievably crowded for a Wednesday night and Garson doubted there’d be a room available at all. When he’d asked the host if there were spots still available if one of his regular Doms came in, he’d informed Garson that they were all full, but that the public areas were always an option.
Not a chance.
Garson treasured his privacy and the focus of a Master for the one precious hour they shared together. From where he leaned against the bar, he glanced around the room again, sipping on his usual soda water with three slices of lime, searching for a familiar face. He readjusted his black-rimmed glasses on his nose. He wasn’t in the mood to linger all evening with only a chance that he might get in. Garson didn’t hang out at the club for any other reason than to have a hardcore session. He didn’t dance, didn’t socialize, didn’t make friends with the other subs or pander to the Doms. He was only interested in one thing. Pain and submission. Once he’d had his dose, he was good for another week. Usually.
He’d shown up on impulse, only five days since his last appearance at the club. After Garson gave a lengthy introduction to the influence of women on nineteenth-century poetry, the lack of attention he’d experienced from his freshman students at Pasadena City College had sent him straight to Club Consequence. He needed a balm, something to center him.
No room. No Jarvis.
The night’s prospects were dismal. Garson’s repeated scan of the crowd had failed to produce a sighting of his favorite and most commanding Dom. The knowledge that showing up on a night other than his regular Friday might mean that he’d have to settle for a different Dom hadn’t prevented him from attending. But it didn’t mean that he hadn’t held on to hope.
Sighing, he angled his body to rest his elbows on the bar’s copper surface, his cool drink clutched between his hands. No one spoke to his need stronger than Jarvis. In the five years since he’d discovered the joy and release of BDSM, Garson hadn’t found a Dom as attuned to him as the daunting man. Once he’d met the stunningly handsome Master the previous year, it’d been a blissful time under the sure hand of the Dom. Even if they weren’t always able to scene together when Garson made his weekly appearance, the majority of Garson’s interludes had been with him. They didn’t have each other’s contact info, which meant there was no guarantee that they’d hook up. Garson never gave out his number and he’d never presumed to ask Jarvis for his.
Tagging Mackenzie by LM Somerton
“Look at him, Ricky. Isn’t he the most lust-inducing man-shaped piece of yumminess you’ve ever laid eyes on?” Mackenzie Soames prodded his best friend’s biceps, causing him to yelp then pout.
“Ouch! What is the matter with you, Kenzie? Let me guess…Steele Denton just arrived.” Ricky swiveled on his stool, contorting his body to peer across the club.
“Don’t stare! He’ll see us.” Kenzie shifted subtly to the side so that Ricky’s slightly broader frame shielded his own slender body.
“Isn’t that the point? You’re not dressed like that”—Ricky waved vaguely in Kenzie’s direction—“to blend into the background. What is the point of getting all dolled up like the subby little twink you are, if you just hide behind me all the time?”
Kenzie examined his outfit with a critical eye. The red PVC trousers hung off his slim hips and molded to his thighs. The glossy sheen of the fabric reflected the club’s dim lighting. He loved the matching cuffs buckled around his wrists. They were nicely padded on the inside to protect his skin. He marked easily, which most Doms loved, but he didn’t want to put those marks there himself. He wore a black club collar indicating that he was available to play, and apart from his boots, that was it. The fine dusting of shimmering body powder didn’t count. He didn’t boast a single defined ab, let alone a six-pack, but his frame was toned and firm.
“It doesn’t matter what I wear. I could be dancing naked right in front of him and he’d walk straight by. What’s the point in putting myself out there just to get rejected?” Kenzie watched as Steele paused to chat to two leather-clad Doms at the bar.
“I don’t recall him rejecting you. He hasn’t had the chance.” Ricky used his soothing voice, the same one he most likely used on the spitting balls of furry fury at the veterinary practice where he worked as a nurse.
“Stop using the voice on me.” Kenzie couldn’t rip his gaze away from Steele’s back.
It was a particularly fine example, chiefly because it topped a perfect ass hugged by well-worn leather.
“You’re drooling. You may as well be an overexcited puppy, especially with those big brown eyes of yours, so the voice is appropriate,” Ricky snarked.
Bad Idea by Lily Harlem
Junk
I swigged from a half-empty bottle of JD and watched Heavy cruise into the yard. The bikers hanging around stopped what they were doing, just for a moment, to acknowledge the arrival of the Roughneck Riders’ boss.
His bike appeared to have taken a beating on the road trip he’d been on. It wasn’t its usual spit and shine self and there was a dent on the black exhaust. But that was okay, we’d soon make it right. Or, rather, I would.
“Wonder if he made the deal with the Texans,” Griff said. He was sitting sideways on the Harley next to mine.
“Dunno,” I said, passing him the liquor and shifting on my seat.
He knocked back a few big mouthfuls, the fluid sloshing noisily on the inside of the bottle. “Guess we’ll find out in a minute.”
“Yeah.”
Heavy would be sure to get everyone together to discuss what had gone down. Were we steady with the Texans for another year of deals? Or would we be at each other’s throats for the next six months until we hashed it out and spilled some blood?
“What do you reckon he’ll say?” Griff asked.
I shrugged.
Griff didn’t comment. I was a man of few words and he accepted that. Well, unless I was with my Dom. Then I could get a bit full of myself, especially if I was hoping for some rough treatment—a bit of punishment for bad behavior.
Heavy pulled to a halt, the last rumbles of his exhaust thundering around the lot and echoing into the workshop. He steadied his Harley then stood, his big boots creating plumes of dust that drifted away on the breeze.
My heart rate increased as he tugged at his helmet and tossed it toward Joe. He caught it with a grunt as it collided with his belly.
Safeword by Samantha Cayto
“Here he is now, your toy for the weekend. I’m sure you’ll find Carter quite enjoyable.”
Carter suppressed the shudder running down his spine. He heard the warning in his master’s voice. Be a good boy or suffer the consequences. It terrified him as it always did. But being afraid and showing it in front of his master never got him anywhere except a trip to a new and more horrible circle of hell. After three years of living with the man, Carter now understood that the sadist enjoyed such showings of weakness and the chance to exploit them. Carter briefly tightened his grip on the leash he held, the only sign of emotions that he allowed himself. He’d get through this weekend as he had all of the others. It was either that or die, and while he knew that his inevitable death lurked nearby, he still had enough will to live not to hasten it.
He stopped in front of his master and the other man, head bowed, body deceptively relaxed, and stared at the two sets of feet in front of him. To his left were his master’s Italian loafers, buffed to a high shine and costing far more than the average person’s monthly wage. To his right was a surprisingly different type of footwear. Instead of equally expensive and high-toned shoes, he saw two gigantic black boots, the kind you’d see on bikers. Shitkickers. Jeans replaced designer slacks and, just within the periphery of his downcast gaze, larger hands hung on either side of thick thighs. Another shiver tingled at the base of Carter’s spine. This business associate of his master’s was different from the others, and not in a good way.
“Turn around, boy,” his master barked out.
Carter obeyed instantly and gracefully, the way he’d perfected over the years. He heard a grunt of surprise and couldn’t help smiling quickly and ruefully to himself. He knew what the guest saw—a newly done corset piercing running from between his shoulders down to the small of his back. A black silk ribbon had been laced through it, the strings of the bow dangling to the beginning of the cleft of his ass. He wore his matching black silk lounge pants low on his hips, allowing the swell of his butt to peek out.
Earning his Leathers by S Dora
Connor Lee liked to get lost during his walks through the streets of the city. The app on his smartphone could show him the way from A to B with a minimum of fuss, but where was the fun in that? Would he have happened upon the small leather shop, hidden in an alley as if it didn’t want to be found, otherwise? At first, he didn’t recognize it for what it was or even know if it was open to the public. Curious, he pushed the door, and there was no mistaking what was on sale. The scent of leather was overwhelming. Jacks, trousers and chaps were on exhibition like art in a museum.
“Can I help you?” a man—the owner?—asked.
“Is it okay if I look around? I see stuff here to make any leather man drool.”
The man grinned. “I’ve seen only two kinds of reactions when people open the door. They either get away as fast as they can, or they think they landed in paradise.”
“I don’t think you’ll have to guess which one I am.” Connor touched the sleeve of a black jacket. “By the way, you’re the owner? Of the shop, I mean. Great business.”
The man nodded. “Yes. And thanks.”
Connor walked from leather piece to leather piece, admiring the quality of the material and the perfect neatness of the stitching. Someone with serious talent and dedication had worked on this.
“All handmade.” It wasn’t a question.
“These are demonstrations of what my husband and I are capable of. We sell pieces individually made for that particular customer. Scot March is the name.”
“Connor Lee.” This was the sort of shop where trading names might prove as important as trading goods for money. “Your shop isn’t exactly easy to find, even for someone aware of its existence. Why keep the treasure hidden?”
Scot smiled. “Those who need to find us, will.”
“Even if I started living on cheap bread and peanut butter for a year, I still wouldn’t be able to buy any of this.” Connor hesitated to continue, because if he was honest, it wasn’t just a matter of money.
Often referred to as "Space Cowboy" and "Gangsta of Love" while still striving for the moniker of "Maurice," Sean Michael spends his days surfing, smutting, organizing his immense gourd collection and fantasizing about one day retiring on a small secluded island peopled entirely by horseshoe crabs. While collecting vast amounts of vintage gay pulp novels and mood rings, Sean whiles away the hours between dropping the f-bomb and persuing the kama sutra by channeling the long lost spirit of John Wayne and singing along with the soundtrack to "Chicago."
A long-time writer of complicated haiku, currently Sean is attempting to learn the advanced arts of plate spinning and soap carving sex toys.
Barring any of that? He'll stick with writing his stories, thanks, and rubbing pretty bodies together to see if they spark.
M/M Erotic Romance author Morticia Knight enjoys hot stories of men loving men forever after. They can be men in uniform, Doms and subs, rock stars or bikers - but they're all searching for the one (or two!) who was meant only for them.
When not indulging in her passion for books, she loves the outdoors, film and music. Once upon a time she was the singer in an indie rock band that toured the West Coast and charted on U.S. college radio. She is currently working on more installments of Sin City Uniforms and The Hampton Road Club, as well as the follow-up to Bryan and Aubrey's story from Rockin' the Alternative.
Lucinda lives in a small village in the English countryside, surrounded by rolling hills, cows and sheep. She started writing to fill time between jobs and is now firmly and unashamedly addicted.
She loves the English weather, especially the rain, and adores a thunderstorm. She loves good food, warm company and a crackling fire. She's fascinated by the psychology of relationships, especially between men, and her stories contain some subtle (and some not so subtle) leanings towards BDSM.
Lily Harlem is a best-selling, award-winning author of erotic romance. She lives in the UK and writes for several publishing houses including HarperCollins, Totally Bound, Pride Publishing, Evernight, ARe and Sweetmeats Press. She also features in numerous UK and US anthologies, some of which all proceeds go to charity.
Her books are a mixture of full length novels and short stories, some are one offs, some are sequels or part of a series (all can be enjoyed as stand-alone reads). What they all have in common are colourful characters travelling on everyone’s favourite journey — falling in love. If the story isn’t deliciously romantic and down and dirty sexy, it won’t be written, at least not by this author. So with the bedroom door left well and truly open you are warned to hang on for a steamy, sensual ride - or rides as the case might be!
Samantha Cayto is a Boston-area native who practices as a business lawyer by day while writing erotic romance at night—the steamier the better. She likes to push the envelope when it comes to writing about passion and is delighted other women agree that guy-on-guy sex is the hottest ever.
She lives a typical suburban life with her husband, three kids and four dogs. Her children don’t understand why they can’t read what she writes, but her husband is always willing to lend her a hand—and anything else—when she needs to choreograph a scene.
She is a member of the Romance Writers of America and the New England Chapter and credits RWA, NEC and the wonderful friends she’s made there with helping her become a published author.
S. Dora is the me writing m/m erotica, though I can imagine a m/f or f/f story might suddenly decide they want to get written too, somewhere in the future. The real me is also writing: novels and stories that don’t revolve around the down and dirty.
And the non-writing me? Is it interesting to know I’m a woman, born in 1961? That my wife and I celebrate our 30th anniversary in October 2011? That we have two sons and five cats and live near Rotterdam? That I had a novel published in Dutch? And one in English? That “Dora” is because of the little mechanical typewriter I bought with money earned with my very first summer job? That I studied social history and done all kinds of jobs? I guess it actually is, if only because every story ever told is important to at least one reader.
I also publish as R. A. Padmos.
Sean Michael
KOBO / ITUNES / ARe / GOOGLE PLAY
EMAIL: seanmichaelwrites@gmail.com
Morticia Knight
EMAIL: MorticiaKnight@gmail.com
L.M. Somerton
ITUNES / GOOGLE PLAY / AMAZON / ARe
EMAIL: lmsomerton@aol.com
Lily Harlem
BLOG / KOBO / GOOGLE PLAY / PINTEREST
SMASHWORDS / GOOGLE+ / B&N
iTUNES / ARe / TOTALLY BOUND / AMAZON
EMAIL: lilyharlem@googlemail.com
Samantha Cayto
GOOGLE PLAY / SMASHWORDS / ARe / B&N
EMAIL: samantha@samanthacayto.com
S. Dora
EMAIL: authordora@hotmail.com
KOBO / iTUNES / GOOGLE PLAY / ARe
