Cam regarded Hunter seriously. “I can’t flog you, Hunter. Not like before, we talked about this.”
“I – just – you do that in sex, too, don’t you? You’re a fucking Dominant sadist.”
“Yeah. And sometime I will flog you, Hunter, trust me. And we’ll both enjoy it, in our own ways,” he said. “But not for this, not now. You need to go to the club.”
He was referring to Scene and Not Heard, the very discreet BDSM club where they had met and Hunt had knelt. Only four weeks had passed since that night, but with all they’d been through, it seemed like months.
“Why would I go to the club? I just said I was feeling peaceful and safe.”
“But you aren’t,” Cam said. “Not inside. So you started thinking about that night, about me giving you what you needed. I can’t. It would get all tangled up with feelings and sex. What we have, it’s just too fragile.”
Hunter huffed a bitter laugh. “I can’t go to the club for it, anymore, either.”
Cam frowned. “Tell me.”
Hunter sighed and shifted until his knee rested on Cam’s cast, and they were facing each other more directly.
“The Doms, most of them, it’s sexual for them. They use me to get off.” Hunt shook his head at Cam’s startled and none-too-pleased look. “No, you were the first who – it was a hard limit, no one touched my asshole.”
Cam relaxed. “I heard. You had many hard limits. You didn’t swallow, either. Why?”
“It wasn’t fair to ask them to give me what I needed, to help me get where I had to go and not give them something back. They got off on me in a lot of ways. One of them used to hold my head down and shove his dick between my chin and neck.”
“No shit? Must be the all-around rasp,” he mused. “Your 5 o’clock shadow is more an inky darkness.”
Hunter shrugged and pulled the afghan tightly around himself as the wind’s muffled howl became louder. “They came on me and over me and against me. They used my mouth. But I never swallowed. I didn’t let them in me.”
“But you did all that for me, Hunter.”
Hunt’s gut clenched in response to the intimate tone that made him stretch and fill.
“What else will you do for me?” Cam held him with a searing look and pulled his shirt off.
Hunter felt the familiar tightening in his core at the sight of Cam’s bare torso in the lamplight. He was wide and solid, his chest deep. A line of light highlighted the slope from shoulder to neck, casting a deep shadow in the hollow behind Cam’s clavicle that Hunter longed to have his tongue in.
“Anything,” Hunter answered.
Snowed In is the fourth title in the award-nominated Hunt&Cam4Ever series
INTERVIEW: Mike Merisi from Dancing Men – Hunt&Cam4Ever Series.
OJ: Hi Mike, welcome to OJ He Say! Thanks for stopping by for a bit.
Mike: That’s okay. Beats proofreading an operations manual. OJ: I’m so happy for you about Little Favor. It’s awesome when someone finds ‘the other’. Tell me, what first drew you to Cal. I mean, obviously his looks and personality, but did you see something special that rang your bells?
Mike: Dane said these could get personal. … Uh … I guess it was how he handled it all. Those construction guys are big. Tough. But they all respect Cal. Cal is the most together dude I ever met. I guess smart and practical are sexy to me. OJ: Have you heard from your ex, Kenneth? It sounds as if he could have been a problem.
Mike: Nah. He hooked up with another kid. Metro State freshman, if I remember. He turns 30 this year. I’m expecting a breakdown. OJ: In Little Favor we find out how you came to get your appointment to the Denver Police and that you’d wanted this all your life. Care to tell us why police?
Mike: The challenge. Always changing, never know what you’re going to do at work. Same kind of call, way different actions. To be good at it, it demands everything, all the time.
You get to fuck with bullies and you’re supposed to. Make cases work in court. Screw over defense attorneys. I miss the street already and it’s only been a month. But working with Dane and everybody… amazing. I learned so much, already. Jesus, Camden goddamned Snow? You don’t get to see him ski, here, do you? Never watched him own a whole mountain. Smart son of a bitch, sweet as cajeta. [shrugs] I don’t know if they’ll even keep the unit together for long. OJ: So, where did you learn your Spanish?
Mike: At home, like most people. We’re Spanish, Basque, on my mom’s side. Jasone de Arraioz. They came with Juan de Oñate in the 1500s. My ancestors traded all up and down the Front Range with the Navajo, Zuni. [grins] Tried to make ‘em all Catholic. Mom met my dad in high school; it was like Tony and Maria the way Papa tells it. The Sharks and the Jets, only nobody died. OJ: I must admit, after reading Little Favor I really enjoyed your ‘moments’ with Cal, so incredibly hot! Tell us, what is it that he brings out in you? What’s that ‘spark’?
Mike: You should talk to Cal. The only way I let August write about it is that no one would read it where we live. The whole story is about the spark. OJ: You know, you were his first, ever. Did it worry you, or…?
Mike: At the time, I thought about it. Like that day after I left, I mean. You know, it was my first time, too, in a way. Cal always knew exactly what he wanted, he just never thought he’d get it. I found out what I wanted right there. With him.
I kinda shocked myself. And then I promised … well… you know, you read the story. I was a kid last time I did that and it was only a couple times and, you know how there’s all the awkward slipping around and … Anyway … I had to … not get so carried away, so he’d be okay. So, yeah, I thought about it. But after that night—man, he was amazing—I never worried at all. OJ: Sounds like he always wanted to have what you always wanted give.
Mike: I guess. For me, Cal was yes in a world of no. OJ: Well, thanks so much for stopping by. I must admit that I’ve wanted to meet the young, quiet, sharp Mike Merisi ever since I met him in Dancing Men. And now, on to Little Favor.
Featuring a character from the
Hunter Dane Investigation novels Matchstick Men and Dancing Men.
“How is it when I say ‘Go away and don’t come back,’ you hear ‘Come on over and shove your dick up my ass’?”
Mike Merisi buttoned his top button and watched himself tie his tie in the dresser mirror. He needed a haircut. Maybe if he got out of here in a few minutes …
“There’s no reason to be hostile, I simply said we could try again.” The voice came from the cell Mike had set on the dresser top.
“And why,” Mike muttered as he slid the knot home, “Did I put my phone on speaker instead of mute?”
“I can hear you.”
“It was a good run. Almost two years. It’s over. Let go,” Mike told his former lover, loading his pockets from the dresser top. “We can remain … pleasant to each other.”
“I have feelings, Michael. I’m not ready to let go.”
Mike shrugged into his coat. Car keys. Breath mints. Check.
“It’s Monday morning. You cruised around all weekend and couldn’t connect. You’re horny as an old man’s bunion so you called me looking for a convenient hole to fall into.”
“Michael! How can you be so crass?” Wounded outrage. A Kenneth Special.
MICHAEL ANGELO MERISI had been an inexperienced nineteen when he met Kenneth. The tall blond, twenty-five, seemed urbane and sophisticated. He took what remained of Mike’s virginity and coached him in the finer aspects of sucking cock, choosing wine and knowing what to wear, and where to wear it.
But Mike was always the thrustee, never allowed to satisfy his growing need to push inside Kenneth’s admittedly fine ass. Mike’s vague dissatisfaction turned to resentment that hardened into an ultimatum: take it by turns or give me back my door key.
“You can’t understand, Michael, I’m a natural Dominant. I simply couldn’t.” Kenneth started the Keurig and selected a flavor enhancer.
“Manipulative, self-centered and anal-retentive do not a Dominant make,” Mike had informed him, arms crossed over his chest.
Watching Kenneth measure a precise amount of hazelnut-mocha into his cup, Mike knew he did not want Kenneth to give a huge sigh and say “fine.” In fact, Mike didn’t want Kenneth at all.
It wasn’t that Mike believed himself such a catch; he was the most average guy he knew. His northern Italian heritage didn’t leave him with the smoldering dark coloring of his southern cousins. His hair was a warm brown, his eyes a lighter shade of same. Medium-toned skin, his face more round than long—he did not stand out in a crowd.
Five feet, nine and a half inches of average build. Though he’d begun working out and his shoulders had begun to stretch his shirt. He was almost six inches when serviceably erect. Not sausage fat or pencil-dicked, just a penis that worked well. Average.
High-cheekboned Kenneth was seven inches. Six feet as well as six-packed.
Pretentious, long-suffering fussbudget.
“Leave your key on the counter,” Mike had told him, and gone to shower.
THREE WEEKS LATER, Kenneth still couldn’t seem to lose his number.
“I have to go to work,” Mike told him, grabbing his cell off the dresser. “I’m hanging up, don’t make a drama out if it.”
He dropped the cell into his inside breast pocket, grabbed his laptop case from a chair and was out the door.
Today, he had important things to do.
MIKE TOSSED HIS laptop case into the passenger seat wondering again if he was heartless. He hadn’t felt a second of hesitation hanging up on Kenneth. In fact, he felt … buoyant.
Maybe it was the working out. In the last weeks he’d had to move up a shirt size. His suit pants tightened around his thighs when he strode along. He just felt damned good.
His cell chimed as he put the key into the ignition. Mike steeled himself, but it wasn’t Kenneth.
“Nora. Let me guess, tower two collapsed and he’s running late.”
“Almost,” the lilting soprano of Cal Derricksen’s assistant came back. “Electrical inspectors. I have to push you back an hour.”
“It’s all good. I’ll grab coffee, get a haircut, and be bright-eyed and well-groomed when he’s ready for me.”
“You can be half-asleep and shaggy-haired as long as you have the competitive bid analysis for parking lots and landscaping.”
“Hang on,” Mike said. “I thought ventilation and water systems was today.”
“What! Are you shitting me?” Absolute panic.
“Yes, I am,” he said pulling out of the lot. “Gotta go, no cell allowed while driving.” He clicked off, grinning.
He really liked Nora. In her late forties, she combined the best qualities of supermom and meth-head piranha. She took care of her boss by tearing strips of flesh from anyone who failed, disappointed or opposed him.
Calvin W. Derricksen was all sharp intelligence and total control. He was a human dynamo in tan side-pocket chinos and a light blue denim work shirt. His navy tie always loosened, a brushed silver tie clip held the end out of his way. A black poplin jacket hung on the back of his executive desk chair.
He wore brown leather slip-ons with white socks. A pair of scarred work boots waited near his desk. In under two minutes, he could be in them, jacket on, tie up, and out the door. His sudden exits from his office to the big construction site were common.
Cal dressed the same way every day. He said it saved time not thinking about irrelevant crap when he had so many critical things to keep track of. Like making sure a building he built didn’t fall down with the occupants inside.
But as demanding as Cal was as a site manager, as focused and no-nonsense, he ran out without bothering with boots or coat when one of his crew was injured. Cal laughed and lifted heavy loads and sometimes drank beer with his guys. That’s what he called them: “My guys.”
Once, after one of Cal’s dashes from the office, Mike spotted him a half-hour later through the window wall, leaning against an upright. He was laughing with one of the workers while standing on a girder, ten stories up.
It was hot. So was Cal’s wavy black hair, warm hazel eyes, dusky rose slash of a mouth and tight round buttcheeks. The soft fabric of his pants stretching over his ass as he reached across his drafting table’s wide, slanted top didn’t hurt, either.
Mike Merisi had a hell of a crush.
TAKING HIS COFFEE into Cut Lass, Mike relaxed in the salon’s waiting area and thumbed through a style book.
Ten minutes later, Valeria settled him at her station. Val was a blue-streaked, caramel-skinned, seriously ambitious Guatemalan import. Most of her family worked in her shop. Mike understood the struggle starting a family business. His father and Uncle Leo launched Construction Accounting Consultants from Leo’s garage. Mike did Val’s books for free and in return, she cut his hair. He was a generous tipper.
“Saw you lookin’ through the book,” she said. “Now you grinnin’ like my nephew with a fistful of wiggle worms. You get some news?”
Mike fished a business envelope from his pocket. The letter had come yesterday; the paper already softened from many rereads.
“Greetings from the City and County of Denver. Dear Mister Merisi,” she read out. “We are pleased to offer you an appointment to the position of police officer …”
Val whooped and threw her arms around his neck. “About time, man, you been after this for like, a year!”
“I start at the academy in a few weeks,” he said, unable to suppress the grin that split his face.
After civil service testing, background checking and psychological evaluationing, he’d been found fit to hold people’s lives in his hands. To be trusted with a deadly weapon and the decision to use that weapon. He and thirty others had emerged from the pack of almost two thousand who’d sat the Civil Service exam. Mike Merisi was one month from realizing his dream.
“New life, Val. I need new hair.”
“How ‘bout a low taper fade,” she asked, running her fingers through his medium length locks. “This is good. Thick. Not too big a change, but sharp.”
“Let’s go wild. How about a mid?” He took his letter back and put it safely in his breast pocket.
“You got it. You gonna be edgy. Hot. You gonna be the Man, you know? Officer Muh-ree-see.”
She helped him off with his suit coat and shook out the cutting cape.
LAPTOP CASE OVER his shoulder, Mike grabbed the clear document tube of parking lot schematics from the trunk. He took the six steps to the 12-story building’s entrance in two long strides. Cool air met warm skin where his hair was newly shorn. It felt pleasantly sensual.
Pausing in front of the doors, he yanked off his tie and shoved it into his pocket. Opened the top two buttons of his shirt.
Mike made his way through the building’s unfinished lobby, heel sounds dulled on the exposed concrete. Hammer strikes, power saw teeth on metal and men’s shouts echoed off unfinished walls.
One car was in service in the six-car elevator bay. Inside, the walls hung with protective canvas, Mike pushed twelve. The powerful upward surge of the car triggered a familiar flow of warmth, like electric pinpoints. His pants tightened at the crotch. He smiled at himself. Anticipation makes you horny.
Mike had caught subtle glances of interest across the desk from Cal Derricksen during several of their meetings. He was sure there’d been some hand on crotch dick-shifting under the desk. But he’d waited for Cal to make the first move; he was the client and a very important one. To Mike’s disappointment, Derricksen had never given him any encouragement.
Maybe he had his own Kenneth at home. But Cal’s hesitation could have to do with his stature. As much of a powerhouse as Cal Derrickson was, he couldn’t be more than 5’5.” At most. A really hot guy who probably bought his shirts in the boy’s department. That was okay with Mike.
What he intended doing with Cal, did not require height. Or a shirt.
Mike had already decided to ask him out when the job was over. But since the letter, today was the day. For the next few weeks his brother Andrew would come with him so Mike could orient him to the work and Cal. And Nora. Then Mike would be off to the police academy and Drew would take over.
If Mike was going to make a move, it had to be today. And today, he was primed for it.
CALVIN WILCOX DERRICKSEN held the phone to his ear with his right hand and the top of his head on with his left, clutching a handful of wavy dark hair. He paced in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, listening to nonsense.
Outside, a construction crane set an enormous I-beam delicately in place on the twelfth story of the building next to this one. A twin of the one he stood in.
“You can’t just drop two more stories on top, Denkler, you know how that changes the dead load? … Tell you what, call a civil engineer and get him to explain it to you. … Yeah, well, he’ll be polite.”
He tossed the phone onto his desk.
Mike Merisi was leaning against the door jamb, grinning at him. Oh, man, what’s the kid done to himself? He looked older. Harder, somehow. Hotter.
Thankfully, Cal was behind his desk, the top level with his waist. Cal Derricksen’s pants never tightened. They just rubbed the end of his willy. Irritating.
Merisi came off the door and took a couple steps toward him, eyes locked, grin fading. Willy wept.
Cal felt the old familiar tensions—of his stomach, where the anger lay. His throat, where the sadness hid.
“You want to put your shit down over there and bring me the plans?” Cal asked. Terse. He pointed to a conversation area, complete with sofa and chairs. His office was the only finished space in the building. It served as a showpiece for prospective tenants.
Merisi paused and cocked his head, as if considering Cal’s directions. Cal’s heart pounded in his ears. What if he doesn’t do it? What if he … says something?
The accounting consultant Cal called “kid” in his mind, seemed not at all kidlike standing tall and strong and calm. Mike nodded and turned away.
Hurrying out from behind his desk to the drafting table, Cal pulled himself into place on the tall chair. He always did it like this, before a visitor came in or while they were distracted. He hated anyone seeing him clamber up, like a child at the grown-ups table.
Once settled, glasses in place and willy subsided, Cal was ready. At thirty, he was one of the youngest high rise construction managers around. This was his domain. His world, his expertise. And if the crushing responsibility sometimes seemed like it would do just that, no one around him could tell.
He cleared papers from the slanted top of the drafting table. “Let’s go,”—he glanced over his shoulder—“I…”
Mike Merisi closed the office door and walked toward him.
He wasn’t carrying the tube.
GET SET …
Michael! What are you doing?
Whatever the hell I want, for once.
Cal had licked his lips when he saw Mike in the doorway. His face flushed; his eyes got big. He’d shifted his hips behind the desk.
I should have gotten this haircut a long time ago. Mike Merisi might only be twenty-one, but he knew when a guy responded to him. He’d turned his back to close the door, knowing Cal would escape to his drafting table. On the tall chair, he was close to Mike’s height.
No escape, today. Determined, Mike had started across the room and Cal had looked back. Mike fixed his gaze on Cal’s. Held him.
Jesus, I’m making him look at me. He looks turned on and … scared? Oh, man, that’s hot.
Cal’s lips parted; a pulse throbbed at the side of his neck. Every one of his responses made Mike feel taller. Denser, somehow. His cock wasn’t tingling; he was hard and hot and tight. Mike stopped thinking about what he was doing and went with it.
He halted two steps from Cal, seemingly mesmerized by Mike’s hand pushing under his own waistband. Cal’s eyes followed as Mike adjusted himself, lingering a second for one hard squeeze.
“Oh, God,” Cal breathed. He didn’t look away until Mike took his hand out and placed it flat on the tilted top of the drafting table. He put the other hand on the back of Cal’s chair.
Cal’s eyes darted around, from Mike’s hands, to the door, to the window. Back to the almost vertical ridgeline next to Mike’s zipper. Anywhere but on Mike’s face.
“Look at me, Cal.”
The little man made a high sound in his throat and Mike’s gut clenched and heated. He swivelled the chair Cal perched on, so the site manager faced him.
Cal looked up. And Mike Merisi knew then what Cal wanted. His obedience wouldn’t surprise Mike again. “Are you with anyone?” His voice was hoarse.
Cal shook his head. He wriggled slightly in the chair.
“Hold still.” Mike only had to lean forward to be between Cal’s knees. He stared pointedly at Cal’s crotch.
A small dark spot. “You’re wet for me,” he said. It was what straight guys said to girls, but he knew, somehow, it would excite Cal, who choked on an intake of breath. Yes.
“Nor- Nora might come in,” Cal said.
Mike smirked, still looking between Cal’s legs. “She might. Probably will.” Oddly, he didn’t see a bulge. But the spot was unmistakable. He caught Cal’s eyes again. “I don’t think she’ll stay long.”
“Goddammit it,” Cal said softly, shifting in the chair. Mike’s cock jerked. He reached out to cover Cal’s erection with his palm, to squeeze and knead and-
“No!” Cal shoved back from the table, twisting, and almost toppled over. “Stop it, leave me a—”
Mike’s tongue obliterated the rest of the word. He held Cal by a fist in his hair, tilting his head back. A light dusting of stubble grazed his fingertips, digging in above Cal’s jaw, keeping his mouth open.
But Mike didn’t ravage him; he probed. Tasting, feeling. Finally.
A small hot tongue, tentative, stroked back along Mike’s. He held Cal’s face between his hands, thumbs sliding along lips, tips dipping into the dark, wet warmth.
Cal trembled and moaned and clutched at Mike’s sleeve, pulling instead of pushing away. For a few seconds. Then he put two hands flat on Mike’s chest and pushed. Hard.
“Time out,” he said. It wasn’t a request.
Mike pulled back, but not away. “Nora went to the printer’s and then to lunch. The door’s locked.” He smiled. “I had planned to say – something – you know. But … you are so goddamned sexy.”
Cal shook his head and blew out a breath. He had his hands over his crotch.
“It can’t just …. happen,” Cal said. “There’re things to discuss.”
“I know. I have stuff in my bag. Condoms.” He didn’t mention the lube or the wipes. “But I couldn’t wait to touch you.” He slid a palm over Cal’s upper arm, well-muscled from years of working around construction sites.
“Conversation,” Cal said firmly, pushing Mike’s hand back toward him. “A lot of conversation. There are things for you to know.”
What would he have to know that took so much talking? Mike considered. Cal was small for a man, but well-proportioned. He couldn’t be …
“Cal, are you trans?”
Cal shook his head, turning the chair away. He moved to his desk, motioning Mike toward the visitor’s chair. “Please,” he said.
Mike complied as thoughts of HIV and genital warts flashed through his mind.
Cal sat with his elbows on the desktop, hands clasped. It felt for all the world like Mike was in front of the teacher’s desk about to be lectured on getting his homework in on time.
“In terms of … endowment,” Cal began. “Nature has shown me little favor.”
Endowment. Little favor?
….. Oh. “Okay. Is there more or is that what I had to know?
Cal blew out a breath. “I don’t think you understand how … unfavored I am.”
“I’ll find out for myself, shortly,” Mike smirked. He cocked his head. “What’s your position on anal?”
Cal started. “I haven’t—I haven’t had much experience.”
“I’ll change that.” Mike’s wilted cock perked up when the flush revisited Cal’s cheeks and his eyes widened. “I was thinking I’d top. You good with that?”
Cal licked his lips. He was good with it. “Now?” His voice was thick. Yes.
Mike stood up. “We’ll see. First”—he moved around the desk behind Cal, hands flat on the desktop next to his elbows, lips brushing Cal’s ear—“I’m going to touch you.”
He was rewarded with a low moan. “Stand up, you’re in my seat.”
Mike grabbed the arms of the chair and pulled it slowly back from the desk. Looking down, he saw the tiny wet spot on Cal’s pants had been joined by a short streak. Not a larger spot. A streak. As if his leaking slit was dragged across the inside of his pants.
Very little favor, then.
Cal didn’t stand up. But he didn’t refuse.
THIS WON’T WORK, you know that.
Cal Derricksen fought to regain his equilibrium. His few forays into sexual congress had not ended well. While Cal hadn’t experienced deliberate cruelty since high school, the looks, the embarrassed for him but polite excuses, were somehow worse.
Pity was worse.
And he really liked Mike Merisi. Sweet, smart, shrewd. A hell of a work ethic. He smelled good. He dressed professionally, he usually unbuttoned his collar. It was the notch, the shadow, the faint sprinkle of hair that promised more. His fine hands and dry humor.
“What’s your position on anal?”
Cal wanted to chuckle at the wordplay, but his pain was too acute, knowing it would never happen. And he’d never suspected the streak of dominance. It undid him. Toppled his wall of sensible reserve.
Damn it. Godfuckingdammit all to hell.
His father says he’s leaving. That’s why he’s doing this. It’s the last time. Get it over with. Make sure you get the schematics and figures before he walks out.
Cal Derricksen stood up.
He felt Mike slide into the seat behind him. His chair was set at maximum height, of course. When Mike spread his legs and rolled the chair up to the back of Cal’s legs, his knees pressed firmly into Cal’s hips on either side.
Strong arms wrapped around his shoulders, warm breath moved over his ear. “Shoes off.” Cal shivered and his insides clenched.
He toed off his loafers, kicking them further into the well of the desk. Mike leaned into him and he felt the expansion of Mike’s chest against his back with every intake of breath.
He feels wonderful. Tears pricked at his eyes at the imminent loss of the strength and comfort of another man’s body against his own.
“Jesus you feel good,” Mike breathed, hands gliding over Cal’s chest and abdomen. He opened Cal’s belt and pants, pulling him closer. Mike’s right hand slid down, over Cal’s plain white jockeys. His left, flat on Cal’s stomach, kept him close, a sweet restraint.
Cal felt a tear track down his face. Mike’s fingers found his three-and-a-quarter inches poking out a stretched leg hole. Felt him, seeking the rest. There was no “rest.” The fingers tightened around him. His willy felt like it would split open. His chest felt empty. Dead.
“Jesus, Cal,” Mike said, a bit of wonder in his low, tight voice.
Here it comes …
“You could etch glass with this thing. Or melt it.”
Then there were only Mike’s hands, sliding under, tearing his pants off, lifting turning. Mike stood and laid Cal on his back on the desk, pushing his thighs apart, staring down between his legs.
MOVING HIS PALMS over Cal’s strong thighs and onto his abdomen, Mike kept his eyes on the small, succulent prize. The shiny red glans sat on a solid stalk of turgid flesh, a narrow vein snaking along briefly to dive underneath. Cal’s sac was compact and dark red, the mounds of his balls offset. It was all in proportion, framed by a halo of dark curls.
“Perfect,” Mike said again, hands moving to each side, and down, he laid his thumbs on each side of the thickened root. Dear God, what I could do.
Reaching down, he lifted Cal’s legs. “Feet on the edge of the desk.” Cal complied; Mike opened his knees. “Give me your wrists.”
Mike extended his hands along the outsides of Cal’s thighs and manacled each wrist with his fingers. He pulled Cal toward him, shins pressing into Mike’s biceps, his perfect package inches from Mike’s mouth.
“I’m going to suck you off. Right here. Now.” Mike tried to sound controlled, but his urgent need to ravage this man tightened his throat and the words came out a growl.
Cal’s deep brown eyes grew larger. “Why?”
Mike surged up and over, hands over hands, holding them down next to Cal’s head. Body over body, driving him into the surface of the desk. He loomed over the man beneath him and glared fiercely into his face.
“Because I want you more than I ever wanted anyone. Because I’m going to make you feel so good you’ll fight to get away from the pleasure and need to come so bad you’ll feel like you’ll lose your mind if you don’t. And I’ll love the way you’ll struggle and plead. And because you want me to, little man. You want me to, don’t you?”
Cal’s head moved in a bare nod of acquiescence.
“Say it,” Mike snapped.
Cal shuddered and moaned. “I want you to,” Cal whispered, eyes bright with humiliation and need.
For a nanosecond Mike wondered at himself. But he knew with more certainty every second, at every response. Like coming home to a place he hadn’t known he missed. He was the one who gave and withheld, drove and shattered.
He was the one who owned.
Mike undid himself and brought his aching length out into the air. He wrapped both hands around, the head disappearing and squeezed. Wait. Wait until you’re in his mouth. Precum gushed through his fingers at the thought.
Mike knew he could come in a couple strokes at the sight of Cal laid out before him. Legs still drawn up, knees open, shaft tight back in the thatch of hair. Stomach fluttering with each ragged breath in anticipation of Mike’s touch.
And just above the desk edge, a tight pink star beckoned.
“Oh, fuck yeah,” he whispered. He tucked himself inside his boxers, finding a dry spot.
Taking Cal’s wrists firmly in hand, Mike Merisi lowered his head.
Cal’s three-and-a-quarter inches of stiff, searing flesh fit completely inside Mike Merisi’s mouth. It startled him and thrilled him—oh, what he would be able to do with his tongue to this straining, fiery stalk.
Mike pressed upward with the rougher back of his tongue and stroked the frenulum and delta, over and over. The cock in his mouth leaked and Cal cried out some garbled version of “Oh my God.”
Jesus, I might come on myself. Sucking off Call was the most incredibly exciting thing Mike had ever done to a man. He’d never had a whole dick in his mouth at once, ever. Kenneth was a log he’d taught himself not to choke on. And while his lover getting off in his mouth was something of a turn-on, there wasn’t much in it for Mike but an aching jaw.
But this … He backed off before he made Cal shoot. Slipping his tongue over the top, he lodged Cal in the soft underflesh.
Cal squirmed, struggling to thrust, but Mike gripped him hard, keeping his legs folded. By changing the angle of his body, Mike completely controlled how much Cal could move hips. And right now, that amount was zero.
Mike scraped the short stalk with his teeth and polished the burning head against the silky, softness under his tongue. Mike tasted the precum that welled up. With a feral cry, Cal’s head jerked back, but Mike’s hold kept his back flat and he shook with the effort to escape the very thing he sought.
Cal Derricksen was a strong man, but Mike Merisi had him locked down.
“Oh. Fuck. Oh. Fuck.” Cal panted so hard Mike feared he’d hyperventilate. He pulled up, keeping the suction on until the head of Cal’s dick slipped out and rested on his lower lip. He teased the slit with the tip of his tongue. Cal’s every breath a harsh rasp.
“You need to get a grip on yourself, little dude. I’m just getting started.”
“Mike, oh God, Mike, I’m – I’ll come if you do keep doing that.”
“You always come this fast?” He ran his nose along the sides of Cal’s swollen prick, again hidden in the thatch of pubic hair. He inhaled Cal’s musky scent, felt his hips flex, as if seeking Mike’s mouth, again.
“Well?” Mike asked, the word muffled by flesh and hair and skin and lust.
“No one ever did this to me before. I mean … oh, fu- uh – they…”
“Tell me,” Mike ordered, running his chin up and down Cal’s length, knowing he’d be prickly by now, an erotic rasp.
“Uh … uh … oh God … start … they’d start and … Jesus, please … stop—they’d stop when they saw me.”
That made Mike stop. He’s a fucking virgin. He rested his forehead on Cal’s abdomen, the muscles tight with arousal, rising and falling with each breath. No one’s touched him? Entered him? … The next thought was immediate, primal … mine.
Mike Merisi raked his eyes over the panting, suffering, needing man. A savage need to torment, delight, invade, imprint himself on every one of Cal Derricksen’s raw nerve endings possessed him.
He lifted enough to catch Cal’s eyes, glimmering with his arousal. “Then you’d better think about ice storms, because you don’t come until I let you and I’m about to make up for lost time.”
Cal’s eyes widened with uncertainty and anticipation.
Mike moved down further and sucked lightly on Cal’s ballsack, also smaller than normal, hot and tight.
He stroked the short raphe with the tip of his tongue. Pressing hard, following the seam up and into Cal’s sac, teasing his nuts apart, he sucked each in turn, between his teeth. Trapped, Mike teased his prize with his tongue while Releasing. Repeating.
Cal Derricksen struggled and keened, wept and finally howled. Mike’s cock jerked hard, flash fire raced along a web of nerves to his hole, to his spine. His fucking toes tingled.
He revelled in the ease with which he could access every bit of Cal’s most closely-guarded shame. Hardening the tip of his tongue, he traveled the short distance down and probed the center of Cal’s hole.
“No – no – that – ah – not – oh … fuck … oh … God …”
With every cry and increasingly frantic movement, Mike gloried in his power to make Cal insane with need and desperate for release. This was his domain.
Moving up, he sucked the purple head and rubbed it back and forth between the slick silken inside his lips and the washboard of his front teeth.
Mike dropped his jaw as Kenneth had taught him and took all of Cal into his mouth, cock and balls and a flood of precum.
Mike’s tongue was folded against the curves and ridges in his mouth and he could only move it slightly, but with every press and slide Cal writhed against him, seeming torn between driving deeper or escaping the unbearable pleasure. His whole body trembled and the table vibrated and swirled his tongue underneath Cal’s balls and felt the vibrations of his cries through his lips.
The totality of Mike’s control over the movements and feelings of the man under him, drove him to the pinnacle of excitement and depths of lust. He flashed on restraints and spreader bars and his fingers in Cal’s ass as he lay over the desk, clawing at plans and papers …
And with a cry of “Oh, my God,” that sounded more like a sob, Cal went suddenly limp. “Please,” he begged in a whisper. “Oh, please. Mike, I have to, please …”
Mike came abruptly back from what felt like an altered state. Jesus, it’s his first time.
He repositioned Cal against the roof of his mouth and stroked with his tongue, as he had at the beginning. Relaxing his grip slightly, moving a little, encouraging Cal to pump.
He let go of one wrist and moved Cal’s hand until fingers clutched at his hair, allowing Cal more control.
Freeing his own throbbing cock, Mike jacked himself while Cal rocked and wept, chasing his orgasm. Mike held him tightly in his mouth, relishing Cal’s deepest thrusts. He felt every one in his own body, as if Cal’s straining dick plunged into the spreading mass of heat and need behind Mike’s balls.
He tightened his grip on himself in the sticky-slickness of precum, riding the rush to his own orgasm. With a rasping groan, Cal pumped cum down Mike’s welcoming throat. Once .. twice … three spurts of warm salty fluid. A surprisingly large amount for so small a package. That triggered Mike and all went dim and silent for a few moments as his orgasm overwhelmed him. Hard, so hard. Like the cum was a solid thing rammed through his dick, and his balls would float away from the relief.
He released Cal and sat back, catching his breath. How did he not think to put a wad of tissues in his suit coat pocket?
CAL LAY BONELESS, arms thrown wide, legs over the edge of the desk, his feet on Mike Merisi’s knees. You still have your shirt and tie on. And your socks. One of his hands was lying on the keyboard of his open laptop. He Ready for a porn video.
His willy was cold, after the warm wet, in the office air. Balls, too. Fuck, what he’d done with my balls … Instinctively he wanted to close his legs, cover himself with his hands. He didn’t have the strength. And Mike might not approve.
Cal couldn’t manage to process what had just happened. Feelings he’d never imagined existed. Exhilarating, torturous arousal. Wondrous humiliation. A joyous sense of utter powerlessness. Worked into mindless frenzy and total surrender—to his accounting consultant.
It was all perfect.
Almost. You almost couldn’t come. He’d been so worried he’d come too fast. But when Mike took pity on him, helped him, it was like chasing a ball bearing inside a water balloon. It kept slipping away. This is what you get after a lifetime of wanking willy.
It was when he heard Mike panting, jerking his own shaft, doing only inches away what Cal had imagined watching him do so many times, that Cal found his release.
As if in answer, two warm hands ran over his thighs. Used him to push on, to stand up. Mike’s face came into view. “Hang on,” he said.
He retrieved Cal’s pants, shook them out and laid them on the table top. Mike leaned over and cocked an eyebrow.
“Glad you liked it, but you have to stand up, now. I have my own pants to deal with.” He grinned.
After Mike got his briefs off and folded up in his pocket and his pants back on—after Cal made himself neat and slipped into his shoes—Mike perched on the edge of the chair.
“I was going to invite you to dinner,” he said.
“That was my big bold plan. Last day just us together. I was going to say let’s have dinner.” He pulled Cal close and draped his forearms over Cal’s shoulders. “But then you gave me that superheated eye-laser thing when I came in and shit, I just had to-” He shook his head.
Cal’s face had gone still. “And what about now? What do you want, now?”
Mike searched Cal’s face. “I want you to tell me you’re okay. You made me crazy. I – maybe got a little carried away.”
Cal felt his face heat. “You were – it was …”
Mike grinned. “Good?” Cal nodded. “Dinner later?”
That’s it? Now we have dinner? “It doesn’t bother you?”
“It’s killing me, I want to fuck you over the desk right now. But we need to have our meeting because Sandusky recommends a parking garage. Fact is, the numbers are in his favor.”
What? “Nonono. We never even considered another structure,” Cal said, looking around. “The numbers say yes? Where’re the figures?”
Mike crossed his arms pulling Cal close and kissed him. Mouth and tongue and shoulders and whiskers. Cal let go again, his arms went around Mike, and he kissed him back. It was every kiss he’d ever dreamed of, hot and romantic, slow and strong. It was the kiss he thought he’d never receive, never give.
Mike disengaged, and smiled. “I’ll get the plans. Meet you back here in a sec—your chair.” He slid off to retrieve the plastic tube.
“Wait!” Cal said.
“I meant my willy. The way it is. It doesn’t bother you?” Cal’s breath caught as Mike’s eyes went immediately dark. He reached between Cal’s legs and cupped him with firm authority.
Cal whimpered, stretching and filling. Again.
Mike took him between his thumb and two fingers, rolling and stroking him through the fabric. “Bother me? Yes, it most certainly bothers me.”
Mike’s voice, again suffused with lust, seemed to stroke Cal along with his fingers.
“It will bother me through the meeting and for the rest of my the day and every minute of our dinner. After which, we’ll come back here. Because the very thought of this”—he gave willy a hard squeeze—“will be bothering me so very much.
“I’ll bend you over that desk in the dark and you can watch the city lights while I open you and stretch you and slick this very bothersome little dick with lube. I’ll tease little willy until you beg me to fuck you and I swear Calvin Derricksen, when I finally let you come, you will scream.”
Cal felt the pulse pounding in neck. “Oh.”
“Nature,” Mike told him, “Did me a hell of a little favor.”
Sometimes it’s the cop who needs to hit the floor…
As a homicide cop, every blood-soaked crime scene settled in my bones and snaked around my spine. There was only one way to exorcise the images from my soul …
Inside the club, I stopped to scan the room. He was here, Camden Snow. A Norse sex god in the guise of unpretentious youth. Only his ice-blue eyes gave evidence of the Dom who took whomever he wished, whatever way he wanted, with a look and a nod. Merciless.
Cam found me watching him and fixed me with his arctic gaze. This time, I didn’t walk away. He cocked an eyebrow. Well?
The last thing I needed was mercy.
I dropped to my knees.
— THE HUNTER DANE-CAMDEN SNOW ORIGIN STORY —
M/M BDSM 13k words. A frank exploration of the D/s dynamic between two powerful men.
Help us celebrate Cam’s birthday with this fantastic giveaway and introduction to one of the best D/s; BDSM; Erotica; Detective series we’ve read in a long time! Camden Caulfield Snow and Hunter Dane. An amazing story. Claim your copy of the the book that started it all.
And now I give you our interview with the fabulous Adira August
First of all, thank you for this interview with us, it’s a pleasure having you.
The pleasure is absolutely mine. When you’re just starting out, and I’ve only been writing prose fiction about a year and a half, a newb writer looks at books bloggers like gods on the mountaintop. But y’all have been so kind to me and my guys, now it’s like, “Oo! New friend on the horizon!”
You have quite a few BDSM books, however they are from what I can tell, all M/F books. What prompted you to go into the M/M realm?
Uh … okay, I had no idea I was.
Hunter Dane is a character in Desire for Bliss, the 2nd in a billionaire romance trilogy I planned. (3rd should be out late this year or early next) But I kept having these ideas for short stories, so after Bliss I took a break and wrote the ideas.
I knew Hunt was a switch. His was the last story I wrote of that series. I thought it would be a femdom story. I’m being very literal when I say I opened a new doc and started writing, fully expecting Hunter to be having an evening with one of the Assistant D.A.’s we also met in Bliss.
I thought we were starting in the office, the Homicide squad bullpen. But he was in the shower and he was all hard inside from some bad shit on the job. And then we went to the club. I had no idea there was a club or that he’d go there. So I figured, cool, she’d be there. And then this happened:
Once inside, I’d known what I was looking for. The realization shallowed my breathing.
I was looking for Cam
What? Who the fuck in a fix-it shop is Cam?
And it was just all there. Right up to Hunter kneeling. I stopped for the night and had a major anxiety attack. I can’t write this. How could I? And every time I sat down I’d be almost sick with it, but then, it was like being possessed. It would come back. I only worked that hard one other time, where writing felt like I was ripping off strips of my flesh. I was sure it was total garbage. But I had to finish. So I told myself I never had to publish it. That’s how I got them to the Church scene.
By the end, I knew them. And by the end I knew I’d always be taking dictation. I was stunned at the response when I published it. The positive and the negative. The answer to your question is: I didn’t have any choice. Now I have this great gift of these characters and their world.
Hunt and Cam are such well developed, multi-faceted characters. Are they based on people you have come across, or…?
I guess they’d have to be, but not really, no. SANH (Scene And Not Heard) is a real place. Well, based on a real place. I was a cop in Denver at one time, so I know what Homicide used to look like. I think we just live and soak people up, you know? And all kinds of things meld together and form these characters who are so very real to me. I love Chez, the longer I know him. Ad leaves me cold.
One of the great things about these books is that, yes, they are BDSM erotica and quite good erotica at that, and yet they are also magnificent detective/whodunit stories. How much research have you done on that aspect?
That’s the Research Links page on the Dancing Men site. I research everything. I research stuff I know. To make sure I have it right. There are links for how temperature affects clay. How temperature affect diamonds. The Denver Museum was infested with dermestid beetles, not sure that’s in there. The genetics of … something spoilery. But on the mystery-detective front, I come from four generations of cops and lawyers. Criminal lawyers. And I was a cop married to a cop who was the son of a cop. But I still researched the crap out of decomp gases.
Your erotica is just wow! You get the whole power exchange and the rationale behind the two men. You also delve quite well into some of the more intense practices with spot on feelings and sensations. Care to expound on this for us?
Is this an open invitation to TMI? Like I said, I’m just taking dictation here. Except, they make me feel it. The hardest part is finding words to describe the feelings. Not feelings even, the state of being in that perfect moment of control and surrender, for either of them.
That was the source of most of my anxiety when I started – how can I write about this? But it’s just there. Overwhelming.
Dancing Men is the third Hunt and Cam book and to date the most fascinating one as we really delve into the two main characters. I have to admit that when Hunt finally solves the puzzle of Cam I was shocked at what he found. It adds a whole new dimension to their relationship. How are you going to handle this in the future? And I do hope they have future stories.
I’m with them til I die or go senile, I think. That thing is another I didn’t know. Until they were in front of the lift on the deck at SANH? That’s when I found out. I know this sounds like BS writers make-up, but I swear I’m being straight with you. – so to speak – Anyway, when you ask how I’ll handle it, nobody handles Hunt and Cam. They handle me, believe it.
I only have one scene for the next book that I know will happen. Other than that … I got nothin.’
To me there’s yet more to tell about Cam. He’s a really rich character. Hunt is absolutely fascinating and also worthy of more telling. Any plans for spinoff characters? Mike Merisi? Twee?
Uh – I hate to promise because I’m never sure until it happens, but I’m writing the last of the Desire books and at least one of the boys and some of the Dancing characters will be in it. Probably both guys, cause Hunt and Avia are so close. All my shorts are “spin-off” characters, I guess.
I’ll give you this, but it’s not really a cover reveal because I make like 174 covers for all my titles before I settle on one and then that usually changes!
Thanks so much for having me! I … oh, good lord. Hunt’s over here with a big shit-eating grin from the sex question. I swear, I’m gonna get Cam some porcupine quills ….
Oct 31, 2017
I’m waiting for the grounds to soak into the water and become coffee. French Press. It’s dark out, cold, damp. And Hunter Dane is arriving in a few minutes – tap-tap-tap – or now.
… back later …
AA: I swear if you don’t wipe that smirk off your face, those quills won’t just be a threat!
Hunt laughs at me.
Hunter: You know that won’t work, Cam never does anything he doesn’t want to do.
My turn to smirk.
AA: He already showed me.
Hunter: You’re lying.
AA: You know I don’t lie to you. Or him. Can’t. … Hey! Don’t go getting all thinking about it now, you promised me an interview.
Hunter: Yeah, that was supposed to happen early so I could be at the office by seven-thirty!
AA: Why do you care? You’re the boss. And you don’t have a case.
He sighed and went to the kitchen for more coffee. Which is about two steps for him. He’s really seriously tall and rangy and graceful and has nice … bluejeans that fit him well. He’s got that wonderful warm brown skin, like he’s been hanging at the beach only it’s October and Denver has no ocean. He is a lovely man.
Hunter: I have to write a procedure manual for the unit. We aren’t supposed to exist without one.
AA: Too late. So you’d rather hang out here?
Hunter: I shouldn’t, though. But, we can’t talk about anything, so what’s the point? Unless you want to answer that guy’s question.
Grin. Dimple. Eyebrow.
AA: OJ. And behave. We can talk about stuff. We can talk about you.
Hunter: What can we talk about that isn’t a spoiler for something?
AA: Tell me why you don’t like the word “bisexual” applied to yourself.
Hunter: Why are people obsessed with this shit?
AA: I assume that’s a rhetorical question.
Hunter: Never assume, Addi.
I waited him out. So, going back, when he knocked at the door I saw there was a message and I got the interview questions from OJ and wanted to get that off my desk so I could concentrate on Hunter.
Hunter isn’t like Cam at all. It’s easy to feel close to him, but then you realize you aren’t. He doesn’t let people in. Cam seems like he’s kind of unattainable, but he’s very real, not guarded at all, so being with him is actually more intimate.
I realized Hunt had gone into waiting mode also. He was serious.
AA: Ben Hart said you were a bisexual switch and you didn’t contradict him. But I know you don’t apply the term to yourself. Tell me why.
Hunter: People think things and if you say you are something, they have these expectations. But those are about them, not me. I say I’m a cop and people lay all kinds of stuff on me. You know that, you were one.
AA: Yeah. And I get that, but you like sex with men and women, doesn’t that make you bisexual?
Hunter: No. I don’t “like sex with men.” I never had sex with men. I guess I’m a masochist because I get off on what a Dom does to me. But it’s like mechanics. Except with Cam. It makes me a CSH: CamSexual-Heterosexual. But Cam doesn’t change anything about the rest.
AA: You mean women?
Hunter: I meant going to a Dom when I need stress relief.
AA: Huh. I didn’t know that.
Hunter: See, this is why I don’t talk about this, Addi, because it always leads to me endlessly explaining myself and why do I owe anybody an explanation? I thought your people were all about accepting everybody.
AA: My people?
Hunter: In your world.
AA: We’re trying, Hunt. I didn’t mean to … look, you ask me a question.
Hunter: I only have one question and you know what it is.
AA: I don’t know the answer.
He was quiet for a long time.
Hunter: He changed everything.
AA: I don’t think so, exactly.
Hunter: What do you mean?
AA: You changed everything. You picked him. It was your option. You knelt. You were ready. I think … you just didn’t know another way.
Hunter: Another way to what?
AA: Ask him to dance.
We talked about some stuff after that. Spoilery stuff. And he did let me know him a little more.
After he left me, I got thinking the first three books are kind of like an Overture to a symphony. There really is so much more to come, so many layers and themes. And we’re just starting the first movement.
It was munch night at the most elite underground BDSM club in the Rockies. Relaxed and informal, highlighted by the weekly Matchstick Challenge game.
Detective Sergeant Hunter Dane, reigning champion, looked forward to a relaxing evening to start his 3 days off. A few beers on the deck. An interlude with a sweet sub. Stumping a challenger with a new puzzle. Home early for a decent night’s sleep.
Some people are SO deadly serious about their games.
Now Hunt has a fresh body and a new puzzle to solve in twenty-four hours if he wants to find a killer.
Don’t miss this amazing Rafflecopter of the 2nd book in this phenomenal series by Adira August.
The first book in the series, On His Knees, is also available via Instafreebie
As a homicide cop, every blood-soaked crime scene settled in my bones and snaked around my spine. There was only one way to exorcise the images from my soul …
Inside the club, I stopped to scan the room. He was here, Camden Snow. A Norse sex god in the guise of unpretentious youth. Only his ice-blue eyes gave evidence of the Dom who took whomever he wished, whatever way he wanted, with a look and a nod. Merciless.
Cam found me watching him and fixed me with his arctic gaze. This time, I didn’t walk away. He cocked an eyebrow. Well?
The last thing I needed was mercy.
I dropped to my knees.
TYPOS ARE MY TRADEMEARK
I write mostly BDSM EROTICA because I love exploring the power dynamics and expanding the limits of what that is for my readers. The work is EXPLICIT but not HARDcore. I write about ALL the elements. If you have triggers about certain kinds of practices, use discretion. I do not make kink lists for my titles.
I went to school interminably, it seemed like. I studied anthropology and paleontology and genetics and literature and theology and ancient Greek. I chased down bad guys, raised children, climbed mountains, played poker, searched for dinosaurs and have had a rather large number of lovers. (I’m not giving up any numbers.) Through it all, I wrote.
Hey everybody, just wanted to pass along this Freebie Alert from one of our favorite authors, Joseph Lance Tonlet. He’s giving away copies of his dark and brilliant Brothers LaFon, Part One: Crucial Lessons
Warning: This is dark BDSM. Please check the tags.
This work of Gay Literature contains graphic content and can be considered triggers for some readers.
Fresh out of school, Dr. Crane takes on a new patient who both intrigues and unnerves him. Charming, manipulative, and amoral, Max has exactly the sort of mind Crane finds himself drawn to with fictional characters.
As Max weaves himself into Crane’s life, Crane realizes that while fiction might be safe, Max certainly is not.
When the professional line between them thins, who gets to define where one man ends and the other begins?
This work contains certain potential triggers including, but not limited to: mental health issues, substance abuse, sociopath/psychopath tendencies, violence, patient/therapist confidentiality issues, infidelity, extreme sexual acts between consenting adults, fatal attraction, manipulation, torture, murder.
When I saw that Bey Deckard had a new work out I giddily started to read it, not sure in which direction he was going with this, what with his previous works of Better The Devil You Know, and Sarge, and Murphy, and all of his other brilliant works, in my humble opinion, I wasn’t sure what I was in for, but it definitely wasn’t going to be a ‘palate cleanser’ book. No, I would need a palate cleanser after reading Max.
Max, for me personally, took me down the rabbit hole, figuratively, literally, and mentally. This book had so many triggers for me and it was so incredibly intense that I found myself reading it in bits, whilst alternating with two other books and an audiobook, just so I could get back into this work and do it the justice it truly deserves. This is brilliant writing, no two ways about it. Intense, twisted, depraved, and oh so brilliant! What a spectacular finish. I most definitely did not see that coming. Bravo, Mr. Deckard!
“The last tic in Max’s cycle showed itself as he scratched at the back of his neck and then lifted the peak of his battered old army cap high enough to show his squashed brown curls beneath it. Crane made another small dash in his notebook, feeling like he’d accomplished something by discovering the repetitive pattern of Max’s nervous tics. …
Reaching for the doorknob, Max threw a look over his shoulder. “I’ll do them all in reverse next week, just for fun,” he said with a wink. Then he was gone. Crane looked down at the page where he’d been keeping track of Max’s tics. He slowly tore it out of his notebook, crumpled it up, and threw it in the garbage. Looking out at the bright sun, he was struck with the urge to cancel his next appointment and bike home…”
Manipulative, handsome, highly intelligent Max is the personification of the textbook example of an extreme psychopath.
With a wealthy, connected stepfather and his enabling mother Max really has no wants in life. His only want seems to be how to get his next ‘kick’, regardless of who, or what, he destroys in the process. Sure, why not? It’s all part of life’s big game.
Dr. Dennis ‘Doc’ Crane:
“…you told me watching Silence of the Lambs was what inspired you. You told me that darkness and depravity drew you like a moth to a flame. You said you wanted to study evil and see if it held up to your expectations. Do you remember that?”…
“…Are you afraid of me, Dennis? You shouldn’t be. I’m trying my very best to make you understand that I like you. And I’m offering you the very thing you desire the most: me. You know I’m a fine specimen of amorality. I’m giving you the opportunity to look behind the curtain. No holding back.”
Dr. Crane, handsome Anglo-Canadian Dennis Crane, moves to Montreal upon graduating from university with his wife, Mary, who is a successful nurse on her own and starts working at a mental health clinic when he meets Max, one of his very first patients.
Doc is literally drawn to Max as a moth to a flame, circling, circling, ever closer to the burning inferno that is Max.
Max is a psycho-thriller tour de force that grabbed me by the throat, squeezing ever so slowly, pressuring and constricting my throat in that tantalizingly slow way until I saw those wonderful pinpricks of light and felt that delicious surge of sweet darkness start to envelop me. This is masterful, brilliant writing that drew me in and I couldn’t let go.
Doc Crane is drawn down the rabbit hole by Max, just like he secretly wanted to, and is taken into Max’s depraved existence where people are mere objects of pleasure to be used and discarded at will after Max has satiated himself with his mental orgasm. What Max does to/with Doc Crane and the way it is written is nothing short of a psycho-thriller masterpiece.
If you’re looking for a powerful, masterful, dark and twisted read then congratulations. It really doesn’t get much better than this. Few authors can evoke this level emotions and passions – and not necessarily ‘sexual’ passions, either.
I have but one word to say about the writing: flawless. The editing? Magnificent.
I don’t give many five star ratings and this is most definitely one of them. The characters are so well developed it’s incredible. Max took some serious research. Either that or there’s something about Mr. Deckard that we don’t know. Possibly both.
Max is the epitome of a psychopath/sociopath/user/enabler/abuser and Doc Crane is the embodiment of someone who is so completely drawn in he tells himself that he doesn’t realize where it’s all going, yet deep down inside he really does know. He feels it. Every. Single. Time. Yet, like the addict that he is, he keeps on for more.
The ending of this book is simply, deliciously spectacular. I didn’t see it coming to this ending. Brilliant. Taka a bow, Mr. Deckard.
I would like to thank Bey Deckard with providing OJ He Say! with a free advance review copy of his work in exchange for my honest opinion.
Artist, Writer, Dog Lover.
Born and raised in a small coastal town in northern Québec, Bey spent his early summers on his uncle’s boat and running wild on the beaches of the surrounding islands, lighting fires and building huts out of driftwood and fishermen’s nets. As an adult, he eventually made his way to university and earned a degree in Art History with a strong focus on Anthropology. Primarily a portrait painter and graphic artist, Bey sat down one day and decided to write about the two things that he felt most passionate about: sex and the sea. Bey currently lives in the wilds of Montréal with his best buddy, a spotty pit bull named Murphy.
Don’t forget to check out the giveaway package JLT has put together for a very lucky winner at the end of this down and dirty interview.
The Debauched Denial Interview – Part 2
Thanks so much for the privilege of this interview. I’ve been dying to ask you some questions about Wes’ Denial.
OK, here goes: As a Dom, I’ve focused more on Wes than Grif, even though I love Grif for reasons we’ll get into…
OJ – How did you get into a Dom’s head space so well. It was pretty darn much on point. You pretty much got it. How?
JLT – Wow! No, I’m serious, WOW! Thank you so much for that compliment, OJ. As I was saying to Lisa, one of the most challenging things about writing Wes’ Denial was trying to ensure I got the ‘feeling’ of being a Dom down. I’m a sub – something I find great fulfillment in – and I have no desire to dominate another person sexually, so this particular aspect of the book was concerning for me. To be honest, it took me a little bit to find an angle I felt comfortable writing from. What I came up with was this: What do I, as a submissive, ‘hope’ a Dom is feeling when he’s with a sub – when he’s with me? I found that if I wrote that, that if I tapped into what I truly hoped a Dom was experiencing on an emotional level – the exhilaration of hurting, or humiliating, or controlling his sub – I could give voice to that. The following passage from Grif’s Toy finds Wes and Grif deep in a sexual scene and picks up with Wes asking Grif a question:
“And if it’s pain I decide I’d like to offer your meager prick? If it’s seeing you hurt that makes me hard, that gives me pleasure?”
And there it was, the key combination. Sure, I enjoyed the submission, the pain, and the denigration. But it was the combination—the indubitable knowledge—that he enjoyed my submission, inflicting the pain, and delivering the denigration, as much as I enjoyed receiving it. That’s where the complete bliss lay.
The above succinctly conveys my personal feelings about being a sub. Sure, I enjoy much of what trips Grif’s trigger but, like Grif, I wouldn’t enjoy having any of it done if I weren’t absolutely certain my Dom were deriving just as much pleasure and fulfillment out of doing those things to me. Knowing, without question, that he is enjoying hurting me, degrading me, using me for his desires… I have known no greater pleasure! With those basic truths and tenets in mind, I set about writing Wes’ character.
OJ – Grif is phenomenal. Again, how did you get into that headspace. He’s a complete person, tell me about that – getting into that subspace.
JLT – *blushes* Again, thank you. I admit, writing Grif – both his character, and from his perspective – was relatively easy. As I mentioned, we share very similar sexual tastes. So, once I overcame my initial hesitation of putting into writing some of the most private aspects of my life (Grif and I share not only congruent sexual kinks, but also certain anatomy characteristics) I found writing him – and his story – both easy and surprisingly liberating.
OJ – Henrik and Paul. Wow. OK. The two scenes with them. How did you develop those? I’m really curious here. They’re off the scale. Really?
JLT – Those two characters not only profoundly impact how Wes sees himself, but they are also pivotal to the overall arc of Wes’ Denial. Without delving too deeply into the scenes themselves, I will say they had to be hard-hitting. Indeed, each were defining moments in Wes’ life and colored many of his future decisions. Thus, the challenge in writing them was twofold: one, their significance would need to be unquestionable, and two, they had to be written in a way that was truthful to Wes’ character. I believe within each of us lies the ability to do something heinous, something tragic, something unforgivable, if the right circumstances present themselves. The key, I believe, when writing a story is finding the exact circumstances that both fit the character and, when presented with them, will subsequently push that character over the edge…cause him to (justifiably?) do something he’d never otherwise do. And, not coincidentally, both of the future-shaping events/scenes you mentioned, OJ, are motivated by love and compassion. Wes feels deeply and with his entire being.
OJ – Grif’s Toy and Wes’ Denial was not a quick project. How did you plot these two out, or did one come naturally out of the other?
JLT – LOL! I laugh because these books were a VERY lengthy process. The first draft of Grif’s Toy was written in just under 4 weeks. That’s about six chapters a week, or slightly under a chapter a day. Needless to say, when I started writing, things just…flowed. But, that was just the first draft – countless others would follow. Wes’ Denial was written directly after that. In fact, some rather small parts were penned while I was writing Grif’s Toy. Both books were written in the spring/summer of 2013. Grif’s Toy wouldn’t be published until the fall of 2014, and Wes’ Denial was just released last week. To describe the process of shaping Grif’s Toy from ‘first draft’ to ‘publication ready’ as a learning experience would be a huge understatement. I wrote both books without any prior writing experience at all. (I don’t consider the mandatory writing I did while in college worthy of the designation ‘experience’.)
It’s generally accepted that there are two types of writing: 1) Plotting – meaning the entire book is plotted out prior to writing the first word, and 2) Pantsing – meaning nothing is plotted out and one simply sits down and starts writing. With the exception of the beginning and the ending of both books, I Pantsed the entire thing. I knew where each would start, and where each would end, but nothing more. Aside from that, what’s on the page is the result of placing my fingers on a keyboard and letting the story take me where it would. As you might imagine, there can be some significant drawbacks to this method of writing. Pictured below are the chapters in Wes’ Denial. One night, rather than rip my hair out yet again, I took the rather drastic step of ripping the book apart, spreading it on the table, and rearranging the entire thing. Once that was done, I went about rewriting the affected parts. I now consider myself a reformed Pantser and a firm Plotter.
OJ – Thomas. I love Thomas. Might we see more of Thomas’ life in the future?
JLT – Thanks so much! I’m so glad you like him, because I simply adore him. Thomas is a much harsher Dom than Wes will ever be, but I found it nice to explore a less outwardly jovial character. Where Wes mostly derives pleasure from the psychological Thomas’ kink is much more physical. His love, his rush, his euphoria is causing physical pain. Thomas asks the question below of his sub and Wes, who were having a whispered conversation while Thomas was preparing his next implement of pain inflection:
“Are we about done with the chit-chat, ladies?” He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck side-to-side before snipping, “My dick is hard and I want to hit someone.”
One of the things I find most attractive about Thomas, and Wes, is how they own their kinks. Neither apologizes for what turns them on – they embrace who they are, and what they like, wholly.
OJ – Quinn and Gage. What an amazing, and complimentary to Wes and Grif, couple they are. That beach scene, as a Dom, was one of the single most erotic things I’ve ever read. Creating a reward for your sub and kicking back with your fellow Dom to enjoy the results, like a fine glass of Scotch served neat. Yeah! That so works. Care to tell us more about that and perhaps there’s more to Quinn and Gage? A rich story there.
JLT – As an erotica author, I can’t easily convey how much that means to me, OJ. I write about sex, sure. And, without a doubt, I sincerely hope it titillates. However, I honestly believe their appeal is directly related to how much the reader has become invested in the story and with the characters. In fact, in addition to titillation, and of equal importance with these scenes, is conveying feelings, motivations, and forwarding the arc of the story. That difference – using sex as a vehicle – is what I feel defines and sets erotica authors aside from our non-erotica counterparts. It’s funny, I was talking about this very thing the other day with my friend Katie. Well, more specifically, we were discussing how much dialogue my sex scenes tend to contain. Again, the primary reason for that IS to further the story through sex. And why do I choose sex? Well, for one, it’s just downright fun to write about. But beyond that, it’s been my personal experience that people are either very emotionally closed, or very emotionally accessible during sex. Often times people are most real when they’re flayed open and vulnerable. And what better way to illustrate that vulnerability than to toss a submissive into an unfamiliar, perhaps even uncomfortable situation? Again, I’m so glad you found that scene enjoyable.
I also can’t easily put into words the joy writing about another D/s couple gave me. Quinn and Gage intrigue me tremendously! Of course I know most of their story; how they arrived where they are when we meet them in Wes’ Denial, what challenges they faced in the past, and some of the hurdles that face them in the future. Will their stories ever make it onto the page? I honestly have no plans to do so. But, again, never say never, right?
Thanks for stopping by and getting down and dirty with us. We sincerely cannot wait to see what other phenomenal stories you have up your sleeve, or caged up waiting for release.
Wes has spent his life looking for that one special guy who will understand and love him—all of him. From his tender vanilla side, to his darker debauched side.
Throughout high school, his successful career in the Marines, and as a BDSM Dom, he’s remained confident his partner is out there waiting to be found.
However, several events shake his normally unflappable self–assurance.
And, even after he finds Grif, will his past catch up with him and possibly drive his soul mate away?
Check out JLT’s Rafflecopter Giveaway! You won’t regret it:
JOSEPH LANCE TONLET is a born and raised Southern Californian—with a twenty-year stint of living in the Midwest. He loves the laid-back lifestyle of San Diego and considers himself lucky to live where people dream of vacationing. A lifelong reader of m/m fiction, he began his writing career one night sitting at his MacBook and has never looked back. He writes to bring the characters he dreams about to life. #PleasureThroughDenial