Love in a Cold Climate

I learn stuff when I write. Which is one of the reasons I love to write. I knew that the Thames froze over pretty often in years gone by but had never sat and wondered how and why. When I set out to write a book about the last one, held in 1814, I needed to find this stuff out.

This is the science bit so please concentrate.



Aside from global warming, there's a good reason why the Thames doesn't freeze up now - it's the bridges. Old London Bridge was supported by many piers, each one leaving a much smaller gap than any modern bridge - and this acted like a dam. Chunks of ice floated against the bridges - and like one of those pushing slot machines - the ice jammed up, and the river froze over. When the new bridge was built in 1831, the gaps were larger and the Thames didn't freeze again, or at least, not sufficiently to have a vast "Frost Fair" on the ice - and the famous fair of 1814 was the last one.

OK. That's your lot. On with the smut.

So - the reason behind the snow and ice science and the gratuitous pictures of half naked men in the snow?

Well, my book - Frost Fair is out tomorrow! So it seemed a good excuse.

Frost Fair is set in 1814 when the weather was pretty damned nippy to say the least. England was in a mini-ice age, but was gradually warming up.

It's officially a Regency in the time frame, but there's no drawing rooms, no Bath, no balls. (Well, there are balls--obviously, this is me we are talking about, but they are round and warm and squeezable and no-one dances in them.)


Gideon Frost is an impoverished printer, trying hard to keep his business afloat and only just managing it. To help make ends meet, from time to time he visits the areas notorious for male prostitution (Cock Lane, Lad Lane, and St Paul's Churchyard) to make a few extra shillings.

Then he falls in love--with a client--but not of the Lad Lane type, a client of his print shop and suddenly, when the object of his affection seems about to reciprocate, it's vital that Gideon's secret doesn't come out.

Here, as you can tell, my boys haven't quite got together yet...


Joshua was sure that he could help Gideon. As much as he longed to keep the man by his side forever, he couldn’t see him satisfied with the post of a valet forever. Schemes and ideas swirled around in Joshua’s head, each one more implausible than the last, each daydream sweeter than the one before. He imagined himself as Gideon’s mentor, his patron, setting him—one day—back in business with a new shop, a new press—“Sponsor: Joshua Redfern” across the shop door. And then one day, Gideon might turn to him in gratitude, slide his hand into his own and press those sweet lips to his face. Redfern felt himself hardening at the very thought of it, the way he always did whenever any daydreams of physical contact with Gideon plagued him.

He wondered how it would feel to have him naked and pliant, held tight against him. How his skin would feel, as his fingers traced the line of his backbone from that elegant neck, along the delicious curve of his back to the heaven—and entirely imaginary perfection of his arse. His cock
began to ache as he closed his eyes for a second and flexed his fingers, visualizing how that arse would feel as his hands closed over it. Lean, he was sure. Very little fat, and hard, harder when Gideon clenched... And what else, what delights awaited him... He shook his head and opened his
eyes, letting the vision and phantom body in his arms work its magic, letting the lust course down, down into his loins.

God. He was in danger of spending his seed here in his drawing room without even touching himself. If Gideon’s imaginary form could have this effect, what might his real body do? Whatever it might do, Joshua was quite sure it would not be a disappointment. He strode to the door and took the stairs two at a time, flinging open his bedroom door and slamming it behind him, grateful that he was currently without a valet.

In the seclusion of his room, he allowed himself to revisit his vision of Gideon, grateful, sweet and entirely naked in his arms. Releasing his cock from his breeches, he grasped it firmly, then groaned as the imaginary Gideon dropped to his knees and engulfed the end of Redfern’s swollen cock in that beautiful, wide mouth. Oh God, he thought. Would he look at me like I’m imagining he would as he swallows me? Would he welcome me as I move back and forwards in his mouth—like this? He pumped gently into his hand, his eyes tight closed as his vision lapped and sucked at him.

It was too much, too much. With one fist pressed hard against his mouth, he came, and his seed pulsed over his sliding fingers. It was needful, cathartic, but it wasn’t satisfying, and never would be until his dreams came true.

And another excerpt... a little later when they DO get together.

Gideon’s hands were in his hair, and his head was tipped back as he cried out softly with each fresh attack. He hooked a leg around Joshua’s, and ground his hips and a sizeable erection into Joshua’s hip.

Joshua needed no further invitation, pausing only to divest himself of breeches and boots before throwing himself down on top of the man, claiming his waiting kiss with his mouth and his eager hot cock with one hand. To his delight, Gideon grasped him in one swift and mutual movement and then finally, face to face, they paused and looked at each other. Joshua gave a growl as Gideon’s hand moved on his prick, oh so slowly but sure, firm and so bloody good. Gideon’s fingers slid down the shaft, teasing his sac with each downward movement and Joshua copied the action, watching Gideon’s face as it twisted in pleasure, taking kisses whenever he could and trying to remember to breathe.

God, he wasn’t going to last, that was certain. It had been too long, and he’d longed for this moment, imagined this too many times. “Gideon...” he whispered, “wait.” He moved his hand over the hot flesh in his hand, pulling and squeezing, loving every sound that Gideon made.

“Too late,” Gideon groaned, and Joshua kissed his words away as warm liquid flowed over his fingers. Gideon’s hand tightened around his shaft, causing Joshua to spend a moment later, hot and far too fast, like a schoolboy with his first fumble.

“Gideon...” He crushed Gideon into an embrace and took kiss after kiss until they were both breathless. “Heaven.”

It sure seems like heaven to me! I hope you enjoyed the smut (and the science!) and if you leave a comment, you might win a copy. I can supply a download pretty sharply, but the print version won't be out for a few weeks, and then I'll need to get copies from the publisher, so you'll need to be a little patient. There's further excerpts on my website, and on the publisher's page.

Keep warm! Shared bodily warmth, remember! Enjoy the video!


Erastes
www.erastes.com

A Bluffer's Guide to... Gay Historicals

Along the lines of the other Bluffer's Guides I thought I'd do a Gay Historical 1-0-1 today.

Top facts:

* Sadly not yet published by Black Lace. I live in hope as they do have m/m/f plotlines.
* Covers. Usually pretty naff.(with the exception of those below)
* Committed Lusties, Erastes, Madelynne Ellis - hell, just about all of us!

In a nutshell

* There's not enough of it, for a start.
* Some Gay Historicals address the very real problems of being gay in a time when it wasn't just unacceptable, it was reviled and illegal. (Basically after Christianity kicked in) However, there were times when man on man love wasn't just acceptable, it was a normal part of everyday life. (The Greeks had a word for it.)
* Thankfully, due to pronouns they are not called things like "The Mediterranean Tycoon's Depraved Heiress" (With thanks to the Random Romance Title Generator)

The heroes

Not too different from the heroes in other historical romances. They are generally aristocratic (tall and handsome goes without saying - plus they are ALWAYS - always hung like horses, this is the law.) So, create your character: Rich, check. Commanding, check. Handsome, check. Cock of unusual size. Check and double check. OK, you can stop checking now.

The, er, OTHER heroes

Now here you can play around a little. You can either make your other hero a match for your arrogant alpha in every sense of the word (and sit back and watch those sparks fly and those buttons go flying (gotta have flying buttons, more later) OR you can create a sensitive little soul. A downtrodden artist, perhaps, or an impoverished tutor. A kidnapped sex slave or an abused and rescued young man. As long as you get a vast gulf between your alpha and your omega, it doesn't really matter. Any excuse to make that boy cry his little heart out because the rough tough alpha doesn't know how to handle him. Or rather - he doesn't know how to handle his feelings - he knows how to handle him all right. (hur hur) The important thing is the desecration of innocence - but don't worry. No matter how nasty the alpha is, your sensitive soul will fall in love with him as he tops from the bottom.

The best bit about writing gay historicals
* Buttons. Oh GOD the buttons. I've coined the term breeches ripper before, but for me waistcoat ripping is far more exciting. Also cravats. You can have a LOT of fun with cravats.
* UST. (No, no, not there, Unresolved Sexual Tension. Buckets and buckets of it. "I'm homosexual!++ Argh! God he's pretty. I wonder if he's homosexual too? How can I let him know? What if he's not? All right... so he is - he's sleeping with Lord [Whossit] - how can I get him?"A writer of gay historicals have immense fun torturing her characters - making every glance count, and when one's passing the port (to the left, of course) at dinner, fingertips are just bound to brush against each other.
* It's much easier to get men together on a day-to-day basis. Whereas a hetero historical writer will have to write about dances, and chaperones and perhaps elopements men can simply hang out with each other, ride in each other's carriages (and no, that's not a euphemism!) without anyone fainting or ruining anyone's reputation. Of course it's pretty difficult to get them into sexual situation, but that's another post...

The best bit about reading gay historicals

* Buttons! Ok, Is it just me and the button porn?
* Appreciating that the author knows exactly what the difference is between a sailor's whipping and a double fisherman but that you don't need to know anything as silly as long as the hero gets tied up.
* Sponge baths.
* Cocks! (sorry, but it did have to be said.) Lots of 'em. Members, yards, rods, poles, perches, arbor vitae, gaying instrument. (yes, really.)

Top tip: beige...biscuit...blasé bleeding anachronisms

Check check check. You may think that it's all right to say your hero's breeches are beige but it wasn't so and any eagle eyed reader will Mock You. They will, however realise if you are trying and make a small slip-up, but they won't appreciate sloppy (or no) research, modern day speech patterns and contemporary men in fancy dress.

What not to say

* “Where's the lube?”
* He climaxed, spunk spurting over his fingers.
* "He's got such a cute ass."

What to say

* “Spit, and have done, man.” (other lubricants are available...)
* GOOD LORD, SHAG HIM ALREADY!
* I'm learning something! Oooo... cocks....

Over to you...

* What gay historicals would you like to see?
* What cliches are you sick of?
* Do you want better covers?
* Anything else?

And if you are interested in finding out more: (and in a more sensible fashion)

Speak Its Name has The Definitive List of Gay Historical fiction.
The Macaronis: Fiction out of the Closet


++homosexual is also anachronistic until the early 20th century, too.

Guest Post: Sedonia Guillone

We're thrilled to have the lovely Sedonia Guillone visiting us here at Lust Bites today. Please make her feel welcome as she introduces us to her Men of Tokyo.

A bit about Sedonia:

Birthplace: Norwood, Massachusetts
Astrological signs: Taurus, Rooster in Chinese zodiac
Favourite films of all time: Seven Samurai, Yojimbo, Sanjuro
Favourite music: anything by Gackt
Foods: olives, pizza, Thai curry
And I’m a coffee freak. I think my blood type is “caffeinated”.

The work I’m most enthusiastic about at this time is my White Tigers series published at Total-E-Bound. I feel that with these stories I am finding my voice a bit more as a writer, as this series incorporates so many elements of my life in a strange and new synthesis. You wouldn’t think that a Jewish girl from New England would have anything in common with gay men in Japan, one of whom was a high ranking yakuza in a crime family. However, I will tell you that I grew up with a gay father in a house surrounded often by all these handsome guys he and my “stepfather” were friends with.

The kernels of the stories were planted in my psyche at a young age. However, unlike my household, the White Tiger is an intentional community in which the members are consciously working on their spiritual development and learn to place the welfare of their unique and deeply bonded friendships first. I am incredibly fortunate to have a community of friends in which such cooperation is our intention. Although we’re not even remotely like the White Tiger, the elements of sacrifice and friendship and deep acceptance are what I infuse into my characters and which fuel my love of these characters and stories.

I was initially inspired by Jade Lee’s Tigress (Dorchester Publishing) series of erotic historical romances set in turn-of-the century Shanghai in which she incorporates the incredibly erotic practices of the White Tigress with the development of a romance between the hero and heroine.

At the time however, I’d begun writing M/M and became absolutely enamored of the genre, wanting almost to write nothing else. That, along with my growing fascination with samurai culture, inspired by the magnificent films of Akira Kurosawa, presented me with a incredible source of story elements. Back in 2007, I wrote His Beautiful Samurai (Torquere Press), only my second M/M novel and first romantic suspense. Although it is set in contemporary Tokyo, there is an ill-fated romance between two samurai of the past that plays a part in the present mystery.


By then, I’d learned much more about the teachings of the White Tigress and was looking for a way to transpose this incredibly juicy venue into M/M. Hence, the White Tiger, a gay men’s hotel in Tokyo. As often happens with writers, ideas kick around in our minds and marinate, developing into a story the characters want us to tell. I’d had the idea in my mind of having two men go undercover in the White Tiger where they would undergo incredibly erotic experiences while solving the mystery. Of course! I had my two lovers from His Beautiful Samurai, Toshi Genjin (named for Toshiro Mifune, of course) and John Holmes (I swear I didn’t know then of the porn star by the same name, lol). This book became the sequel, Beautiful Samurai, White Tiger. However, once I wrote this story, I realized that the men of the White Tiger each had a romance and story of his own that needed to be told.



My boyfriend had given me a title to write a story for, as he’s done several times (Ace in the Hole, Loose Id and Enter the Hero (Red Sage Secrets, vol 25). Hence, Men of Phuket: Tongue-Thai’d had risen in my mind. The segue was perfect
and I was able to continue the story of Ryu, who appears briefly in Beautiful Samurai, White Tiger but who was deeply affected by the events in the novel. From there, I was like a racehorse let out of the gate. The romances of the White Tiger men have clamoured ever since to be told. I ended up going back in time a bit before the mystery that brings readers to the White Tiger and zoomed in on the men’s stories, i.e. how each of them came to be a part of the White Tiger, how the place got established, the development of the romances. The romance between Kiku (also named for Toshiro Mifune’s character in Seven Samurai) and Yuzo in Men of Tokyo: Sudden Surrender is the pivotal romance that sparks the events of Beautiful Samurai, White Tiger, yet the stories are structured so that the mystery can be read completely separately without needing the other White Tigers novels in order to understand what’s going on.

Blurb for Men of Tokyo: Sudden Surrender (current release)
In desperation for his life, Yuzo Kitano escapes the sadistic clutches of Taro Suzuki, one of Tokyo’s fiercest yakuza, and seeks refuge with Suzuki’s arch-rival, Kikuchiya Fujimara, owner of the White Tiger, a luxurious love-hotel for gay men which also serves as a spiritual community for its inhabitants. From early meetings with the handsome, charismatic leader who trains men in the sexual Tao, Yuzo senses deep inside he’s found someone he can trust and who will keep him safe. What he doesn’t expect is the absolute sensual bliss he finds with Kikuchiya’s skilled lovemaking and realizes he’s found what he’s really wanted his whole life. But does Kiku want him in return? At first, Kiku sees only Yuzo’s alluring beauty and desperate need for protection. But the headstrong impulsive Yuzo is also the first man Kiku has ever met whose touch is healing and calming for him, rather than a distressing channel for his psychic abilities, and the more he makes love to Yuzo, the more Kiku is in danger of losing his heart to another for the first time in his life. However, Kiku also knows that when Suzuki finds out where his slave has gone, there will be hell to pay. Kiku has already made one harrowing sacrifice to the yakuza in return for his freedom and might not survive a second…

Excerpt:

Kiku rolled over with Quan Chan in his arms so that he lay atop the other man. Chan Chan, as Kiku affectionately called his friend and sometime lover of ten years, nearly matched Kiku in physical size, so there was no mistaking the power in the possessive grip of Chan Chan’s thighs as they pressed into Kiku’s hips.

Brushing a kiss over his friend’s full parted lips, Kiku braced himself for the painful images that always assailed him during lovemaking. Didn’t matter who the man was, or even if they were making love. The visions came, as they did now when Quan Chan’s hands started to knead Kiku’s back muscles. Chan Chan as a boy in Shanghai, running wild in the streets while his mother earned their keep in a whorehouse. Dirt-streaked, hungry, often beaten up for fun by bigger, older boys and left to bleed and cry. Chan Chan had known only this life until he miraculously stumbled upon the White Tiger Temple, the original place that his own White Tiger was loosely modelled on.

Kiku turned his head from Chan Chan, but more images were coming. His dear friend as a young, troubled man searching for shelter by learning to stroke and lick another man’s dragon properly. Something about that always tore at Kiku’s heart.

“Kiku, are you all right?” Chan Chan asked in Shanghainese, the language Kiku had grown up speaking with his Chinese mother. The whispered question made him realize the tension seeping into his body.

Kiku sighed. “Yes. Fine.” No need to make the other man feel badly about what neither of them could control. He stroked a thumb across Chan Chan’s high cheekbone, knowing that their time as lovers would probably be ending soon, the way it had with Ryu when the visions grew too intense and frequent to bear while they were in bed. Lowering his face to his friend’s, he kissed him again, stealing between his lips to taste the moistness there.

As Chan Chan always did, his mouth softened in surrender. His hands resumed their caress on Kiku’s back and Kiku registered the deepening of emotion in the other man. Chan Chan had always been taken with him, but had started to fall deeply in love with him in recent months. Though Kiku wanted to return the romantic feeling, as he’d wanted to with Ryu, the visions held him off as if with spikes.

Tension clenched in his back and shot down his arms and legs. Kuso! Kiku shifted his hips forward to make their dragons slide together. The sensation was pleasant but didn’t make blood surge through his organ as it usually did. He was softening again. The third time this week. That had never happened to him before, no matter how bad the images were. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to Quan Chan.

The other man’s arms stayed around him. “What is it, Kiku? Please, talk to me.” Chan Chan’s insecurity hovered around them now, like a cloud. “Did I do something?”

Kiku cupped his cheek. The poor man still carried within him the child who blamed himself for every misfortune that befell him even though he was absolutely guiltless. “It has nothing to do with you, my friend.”

Chan Chan stilled. “It’s the visions, isn’t it?” Of course, after ten years of friendship, he’d be more tuned into Kiku than Kiku had given him credit for.

“Oh no,” Chan Chan moaned. He knew about how this same thing had forced Kiku to stop being lovers with Ryu who still pined away for his friend while living in the bedroom next door. “Does this mean…?”

Kiku winced at the pain in his friend’s voice. He smoothed a hand over Chan Chan’s brow. “I don’t know.” He looked down into the other man’s sad eyes, visible in the hushed lighting of the room. “Would you still be my friend if it did?” He couldn’t bear the thought of losing Chan Chan over this. Quan Chan was the man who’d brought him to the path of the White Tiger on his past trips to Shanghai for the Suzuki family’s business. Quan Chan had first taught him the promise of spiritual well-being through the proper use of his yang force. Taro Suzuki had once accused Kiku of being a “collector of people,” but Kiku knew the truth. To let go of a true friend like this man would be a foolish, stupid act.

“Of course, Kiku. I would never—”

A knock on the soji screen to his room interrupted Quan Chan.

“Yes?” Something about the urgency in the knock made Kiku’s heartbeat rise slightly.

“Kiku-sensei, forgive me for disturbing you.”

It was Naoto, his right hand around this place. The White Tiger ran as well as it did because of this young man’s service and Naoto would never disturb his private time unless there was a damn good reason.

“It’s all right. Come in.” He sat up as the screen slid open, revealing Naoto’s brawny form.

Naoto bowed. “I’m sorry. Ryu thought I should get you immediately.”

Ryu also would never disturb him for something superficial.

A strange energy skittered up Kiku’s arms. Beside him, he felt Chan Chan sit up, taking care to keep the covers over their groins. Not that it mattered if Naoto saw them. Naoto had once been a lover too, while Kiku taught him the practices of the White Tiger. “What is it?”

“Yuzo is here.”

The name took a moment to register in his consciousness. “You mean Suzuki’s uke?” What the hell would Suzuki’s submissive be doing here without Suzuki?

Naoto nodded his head of long hair. “Hai. He ran away from Suzuki and came here, asking for you. He’s in bad shape.”

“I’ll bet he is.” Kiku threw back the covers and shot to his feet. Suzuki never left anyone better than he found him. Always worse. “I’ll come right away.” In the past few months, Suzuki had brought the young man with him when he came to use the White Tiger. Kiku hated having Suzuki in his place and generally banned yakuza, but use of the facilities had been part of their agreement. As he threw on a kimono and tied the belt, a memory came to mind of the last time he’d seen Yuzo here with Suzuki. He hadn’t missed the way Yuzo looked at him with longing. Nor had he missed the hatred simmering in Yuzo’s large eyes when Suzuki’s back was turned.

Naoto was waiting in the hallway for him. At the threshold, Kiku remembered Chan Chan and turned. The man had also risen from the bed and was tying the sash of his kimono, a sad expression on his face. Though Quan Chan was still learning Japanese, Kiku knew his friend spoke enough of the language to have understood the exchange with Naoto. Their gazes met.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” Kiku murmured.

A touch of light infused Chan Chan’s eyes. “Friend is all that matters,” he said softly.

*******

Kiku followed Naoto’s lead down into the kitchen.

“He ran quite a distance,” Naoto said as they walked. “All the way from Suzuki’s flat. Barefoot, practically naked. Ryu heard someone pounding on the back door, and there he was.” He pushed open the door leading to the kitchen.

Kiku nodded his thanks and stepped in, already seeing a flash of shaggy hair. Proceeding into the kitchen with Naoto behind him, Kiku paused at the scene.

Yuzo sat in a chair by the large stainless steel centre table. The white button down shirt he wore was pushed back over one shoulder while Basho, the cook here at the White Tiger, was smearing cream over one side of Yuzo’s chest. Ryu knelt in front of Yuzo, his pink-dyed head bent over the task of wiping Yuzo’s bare feet gently with a wet cloth. A teapot and cup of tea already sat on the table beside Yuzo.

A flush of pride mingled with the foreboding Kiku already sensed. He’d trained his men well and they’d come a long way on the path of service and compassion from the basket cases each one had been in earlier years.

Ryu saw Kiku first. He looked up, hand freezing in mid-wipe of Yuzo’s left foot. “Kiku,” he said softly. He rose and stood aside, his eyes, Kiku grimly noted, stricken. No doubt, Yuzo’s plight brought back Ryu’s own nightmarish rape by Suzuki at the tender age of seventeen. Unlike Yuzo however, Ryu had been innocently asleep in his own bed, only to awaken with Suzuki and one of his goons hovering over him.

Although Ryu had set Yuzo’s foot back down, the young man in the chair kept his gaze down, as if not noticing what was happening.

“He’s really hurt,” Ryu went on, his voice tight. “That’s why we disturbed you. We wouldn’t have—“

“You absolutely did the right thing.” Kiku touched Ryu’s shoulder briefly before approaching the chair. When he did, Basho moved away also, revealing the reason for his use of cream on Yuzo’s chest.

Unprepared for the anger that spiked through him, Kiku clenched his fists at his sides and stared at Suzuki’s name tattooed there. The job was obviously freshly done, judging by the rawness of the skin around them as well as the darkness of the Nara ink, not quite blue-green as it would shortly turn.

“Suzuki held him down while his goon…” Ryu’s voice choked off.

“I understand.” Kiku’s own voice sounded tight to his ears. It was one thing to undergo the tattooing process by free choice as he and Ryu had done. Quite another to have it done as a branding, no matter how small the mark.

Only then did Kiku notice the slight trembling of Yuzo’s shoulders. The young man’s face remained tilted downwards, causing the shagginess of his hair to hide his eyes as if he were afraid or ashamed to make eye contact.

Kiku didn’t wonder about that. Even a man in Yuzo’s shattered state had to understand the risk he’d taken as well as the grave danger he put anyone into who gave him shelter.

No matter. Kiku’s soul-driven need to protect always won out, especially when it concerned a victim of Suzuki’s depravity. He knelt down and studied Yuzo’s hunched over form.

Suzuki’s pernicious yang force roiled in the air around Yuzo, like a noxious stink that permeated the young man’s skin and hair. No telling what the rotten energy had done to Yuzo’s heart and soul from prolonged intimate exposure. Ryu still had nightmares ten years after the rape. “You’re safe now, Yuzo,” Kiku said.

Yuzo’s ragged breathing made the bangs over his eyes ripple. His lips, full and pouty, were slightly parted, and his neatly manicured hands clutched his knees so tightly, his knuckles were white.

At first, Kiku thought the man was in such shock he wouldn’t answer, but then Yuzo lifted his gaze and looked directly at Kiku.

Large, liquid brown pools stared out from under thick heavy lashes. Kiku found himself staring back, disturbed at the sense of capture he experienced. He glanced away but felt drawn back, as if Yuzo’s silent will were stronger than any other force, and saw that the fear and horror in Yuzo’s eyes had already begun to ebb. “Thank you,” he whispered. Then, as if touched with a cattle prod, he sat up straighter, eyes wide. “I…I promise, Fuju, I won’t stay. I just needed to get away. Please believe me.”

Yes, he did understand. But there was something else in what Yuzo was saying, something that told Kiku that Yuzo had been planning to escape Suzuki and to take refuge here. No doubt a touch would tell him more.

Carefully, so as not to startle Yuzo, Kiku took gentle hold of Yuzo’s arms over the white shirt. Suzuki’s shirt, no doubt, judging from the way it draped so largely over Yuzo’s slim form. Yuzo’s triceps, though also slim, were hard and sinewy against Kiku’s fingertips. “We’ll talk about that later, Yuzo-san,” he said softly. “For now, you’ll stay here.”

Yuzo’s large eyes were staring down into his, unflinchingly and Kiku found himself studying every contour of the man’s face. The brush-like lashes, the shaggy way his hair framed his delicately-boned face, the poutiness of his full lips as well as the barest hint of moustache on his upper lip. Without that, his beauty would have been quite androgynous, very much like the boy-band type that was wildly popular these days. What wasn’t androgynous was Yuzo’s slender body of lightly chiselled muscle. That was all male.

Kiku caught himself staring and silently chided himself. To be objectifying the man at a moment like this. Only then did he realize the absence of images. He brushed his thumbs over Yuzo’s biceps, also hard and enticing as the rest of him. Nothing. Only Yuzo’s fear, mingled with relief and the continuing burn of Suzuki’s raw, angry qi.

How was this possible? Never mind that, he continued to chide himself. No doubt, once he got Yuzo into the shower, naked with him to cleanse him of Suzuki’s negative energy, the images would come. They always did.


You can visit Sedonia here.

Smut slot: A Friday Smutty art lesson

Chiaroscuro (Italian for clear-dark) is a term in art for a contrast between light and dark. The term is usually applied to bold contrasts affecting a whole composition, but is also more technically used by artists and art historians for the use of effects representing contrasts of light, not necessarily strong, to achieve a sense of volume in modeling three-dimensional objects such as the human body........

Yeah yeah - blah blah. It's been used by Rembrandt and it's still being used today - think of Frank Millar's Sin City and you get modern chiaroscuro. But for me it was a good excuse to write a sexy tale of an artist who falls in love - or is it under the thrall?- of the beautiful young man he's been commissioned to paint as Icarus Fallen.

Chiaroscuro is a novella in Aspen Mountain Press' "Night Moves 1"anthology and tells the story of Michel di Posco who is being paraded around 19th century Florence by his Patron, showing him off as his new prodigy.

It is a vampire story as the cover suggests - all four novellas are - but it's not the emphasis of the story. It explores the good and evil in humanity and vampires. Where are lines of light and dark drawn? Who is good? And who is evil?

I hope you enjoy these two smutty snippets!

Michel has his first sitting with Yuri.

I moved back to him then, ready to start work, my shirt drying on my body in the warmth of the room. Kneeling down beside him, I arranged the sheets beneath him into the shapes I needed to give the impression of lightness and softness.

His gaze did not move from my face and his was impassive, nothing in his elegant countenance showing any emotion except those ageless, deathless eyes. I turned to him and without words unbuttoned his waistcoat with eager fingers, which stumbled and faltered, finding themselves almost incapable of such a simple task.

I do not usually, I add at this point, make a habit of undressing my models; an artist who commits such a faux-pas even once would never find models to pose for him a second time.

But there was no thought of him undressing himself; somehow we both knew such an unveiling was no sexual act, no prelude to eroticism. I had moved above and beyond my lust for him. I was simply preparing him as I would any still life.

He kicked off his house shoes and shrugged his way out of his waistcoat almost without levering himself from the floor. He went to sit up to remove his shirt but I pushed him back down, moved around to his head and pulled it up and over his head. Looking back now, I can hardly believe just how matter of fact I was in disrobing him that first time.

So many times since then have we playacted our first moments, cheated as it seemed we were of the sensuality of disrobing by my concentration and haste. We peel the clothes from each other like the layers of an onion, taking hours to become fully naked for the delectation of the other. It seems inconceivable that that at first I did no more but tug the clothes from him as roughly as if I were undressing one of my small nephews for bathing.

But the muse was within me; I did not see him as he became exposed to me. Did not see the pure lasciviousness of him, the maleness of his sensual perfection.

All I saw—as more and more marble-white flesh was uncovered—were the tones and shades of his body. The places where the light hid, or gleamed in brightness. Places that were breathless in their mystery. A hollow at the base of his neck, a pair of matched and wonderful shadows on his cheeks, soft adumbration causing a sudden and unexpectedly glorious magic in an otherwise rounded hip. Shadows deepening in a delirious and dangerous fashion as the heavenly triangle of his hips curved inward to meet in an abundance of golden fleece so glorious that Jason would have cast aside his rancid ram skin and sworn allegiance to these bright crisp curls.

And even Buonarroti himself could not have done justice to the proud flesh that which rested between his pale thighs. The most perfect and the most sacred part of him. Buonarroti had a talent for understating a man's anatomy and his David was sadly underrepresented. This sublime column of flesh would be faithfully depicted, I promised myself, and my mouth watered at the anticipation of transposing it onto the canvas.
I realised I was staring at his member, and for the first time since the early days in my master's studio all those years ago, when the male model stood in the centre of us apprentices and removed all of his clothes, I blushed deeply.

To cover my embarrassment, I picked up charcoal and sketched furiously; ignoring the deep chuckle my subject gave.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And later....

I followed Yuri up the stairs and into the studio. It was much as it had been the time before, save that the curtains were drawn, no doubt to save the furnishings from the damaging sun.

He saw me glance at the windows. “The light; I hope that it’s not inconvenient?”

“No, not at all, the candles give you more colour anyway.”

He smiled, closed the door upon us and took hold of my arm, pulled me close. “I want you, Michel.”

“The work.”

“Can wait.” He was breathless and impatient, and God forgive me, once more I was swept away and I forgot all about duty and Bettano and even the consuming passion of my art as he buried his mouth in my neck and kissed me, causing my spine to shiver in delight.

He undressed me with rough haste, shrugging his few items off and pulling me to the soft rug beside him. “I have thought of nothing else than you for days, since we met. You consume me.”
He interspersed his words with kisses and all the while he stroked my cock, which shuddered with delight in his hand. “I want to take you Michel, want to fuck you and to spill my seed inside you. Do you want this? Do you? I think you are a virgin.”

The flutter of fear I felt at his words calmed as he kissed and stroked. His hand gradually moved further down my shaft until it left it completely and cupped my balls.

“Yes,” was all I could manage, gasping as his hand slid behind my balls and massaged the sensitive skin behind. Already he knew my body as well as I knew the intricacies of a canvas, knew every bump and crevice, every action to give me pleasure. “Yes.”

“I’ll take that as answer to both,” he said with a deep chuckle. He reached up to the settle behind us and pulled off the bolster cushions, put one under my head. “Roll over onto your side,” he ordered. I did as I was told, but in spite of the warmth of the room I shivered; I felt goose-flesh spring across my skin.

He settled behind me, lovingly. “Don’t be frightened, Michel.”

“I’m not,” I lied.

His hands moved all the while, over my shoulders, my back, my arse. I pressed back against his touch, relaxing more and more. Then one hand slid forward to take hold of my cock again while the other slid between my arse cheeks, and his finger slid up to find my entrance. Instinctively I tensed, but he kissed my neck and stroked my cock so slowly that I found that before I knew, it his finger had slid inside.

It was like a ripple of pleasure that started behind my balls and travelled all the way to the tip of my cock, like the disturbance caused by a pebble in a pond, wave upon wave of something like I’d never felt before. Within minutes, as his finger moved further and further in I found I was pushing back against him, as if wanting more. I did, although the fear was still there.

Something inside of me trembled when his finger touched a place deep within. The sensation was like nothing I’d ever experienced. I thought I’d spend myself immediately, but the urge passed, then returned when whatever it was he’d touched, he touched again. I gasped, arching my body like a bow, pushing my arse into his hand and leaning backwards to receive his kisses. “Again, again, I beg of you.”

He worked me for what seemed like hours, from time to time resorting to a little bottle of oil that he’d hidden beneath the settle. Such foresight and care made me love him more, and the scent of that the oil, pungent and deep, will ever remind me of him. Finally, he pulled his hand away and I felt his cock slip into the cleft.

“I love you, Michel,” he said. He did not so much as push into me, but pulled me by my hips back against him. It was uncomfortable, at first, but not painful. I blushed to feel my own erection wilt.

“It’s all right,” he murmured, his mouth at my neck. “It’s normal. Just breathe.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Want to see what happens next? Buy the book (and you get 3 other novellas too!)

An electronic copy is up for grabs for one lucky commenter!

Erastes

Gentlemen Behaving Badly: "Speak Its Name"

SPEAK ITS NAME is out now!

What is this Speak Its Name of which you speak?

Call it SiN for short. It's a three-novella anthology of gay historical romance. Published by Linden Bay Romance and containing stories from Lee Rowan, Charlie Cochrane and Erastes.

Three novellas? Sounds like a bargain!

It is! Aftermath from Charlie Cochrane is a tale of 1920's Oxford Undergraduates, Gentleman's Gentleman by Lee Rowan is a Victorian Spy drama, and Hard & Fast from Erastes is Jane Austen on Viagra.

SiN will be available first as an ebook, and then 4-6 weeks later in a print edition you can grasp firmly with one hand.
So - here's some snippets from each, and I hope you enjoy them!

AFTERMATH by Charlie Cochrane

When shy Edward Easterby first sees the popular Hugo Lamont, he's both envious of the man's social skills and ashamed of finding him so attractive. But two awful secrets weigh Lamont down. One is that he fancies Easterby, at a time when the expression of such desires is strictly illegal. The second is that an earlier, disastrous encounter with a young gigolo has left him unwilling to enter into a relationship with anyone. Hugo feels torn apart by the conflict between what he wants and what he feels is "right". Will Edward find that time and patience are enough to change Hugo's mind?

"Hugo!" Easterby's deep voice split the still sharp air of the April evening. Lamont didn't turn, nor was he steering a course for his own rooms. Edward kept up a pursuit, eventually abandoning words and grabbing his friend's arm. "Hugo, I only asked you to come and take a glass with me. Can't we do that, like any two civilized human beings?"

Lamont turned, hot tears welling in his eyes. "But we're not civilized human beings, are we? I told you before that a lost legion of temptations lies in your room and I haven't the armor to fight any of them. Don't tempt me, Edward. Please."

Easterby looked stunned. "I never meant to tempt you. I…"

Hugo laid a hand on his friend's arm, equally quickly removed it. "I know, you're innocence itself, honestly. But can't you see that I'm burning?"

"But your letters…I thought that you were perhaps warming to the thought of being close friends. There was so very much affection in each line. Or so I thought. Perhaps I simply imagined it all; wishful thinking on my part again." Edward turned away, gulping as though swallowed pride had stuck in his craw.

"Letters were safe, Edward. It was easy to pour myself into them, and like a fool I succumbed to the temptation to do so. I could kiss your letters and not be tainted. Having the same feelings while being so close to you is agony." He reached out again, merely brushed the wool of Easterby's jacket and shook his head sadly.

"Will you meet me tomorrow, then?" Easterby's voice was full of defeat and sadness. "Not in my room if you can't bear it. At a café or in the bar. Anywhere. I need to talk to you." He raised his hand, let it stop within a hair's breadth of Lamont's face. "I've missed you so much."

Hugo nodded. He didn't dare say anything—his treacherous tongue would betray him. He gently grazed his own hand along Edward's, resisting clasping the fingers.


GENTLEMAN'S GENTLEMAN by Lee Rowan

Lord Robert Scoville has lived in a reasonably comfortable Victorian closet, without hope of real love, or any notion that it's right there in front of him if he would only open his eyes and take notice of his right-hand man, Jack Darling. Jack has done his best to be satisfied with the lesser intimacy of caring for the man he loves, but his feigned role as a below-stairs ladies' man leaves his heart empty. When a simple diplomatic errand turns dangerous and a man from their past raises unanswerable questions, both men find themselves endangered by the secrets between them. Can they untangle the web of misunderstanding before an unknown attacker parts them forever?

Jack said nothing. He didn't dare. The truth was stirring in him like a living thing, but he simply did not know what to say. No, he wasn't mistaken. I would love to have you take advantage of me! That would hardly do. In fact, he was grateful for his lordship's integrity. How wretched it would have been to serve under an officer who expected sexual favors, if the attraction were not mutual.

But was it mutual? Jack could not deny what he himself felt. And hope stirred again, a tenuous thread of possibility. A man who would not take advantage might be exercising self-restraint, not indifference. Did he dare speak?

Lord Robert was still fuming, oblivious to Jack's dilemma. "He must have thought me absurdly naïve. I suppose I was. It had never occurred to me that anyone would stoop so low as to make such an assumption about me. Or about you!" He looked up, his eyes full of some unspoken emotion. Anger? Guilt? "My dear fellow, I am deeply sorry. You must believe I never intended to subject you to anything like that. I can't do a damned thing about my own nature, and I'm grateful beyond words for your tolerance. I had no idea you would be offered such an insult."

"Insult, my lord?" Jack's chest felt tight, and his heart was suddenly pounding. Here it was, then—the chance of fulfillment or the destruction of all he had come to know.

"That you were my—that I would—" Lord Robert flung a hand into the air, helplessly.

"The only insult Captain McDonald offered," Jack said carefully, "was the assumption that I would be willing to lie with him."

It was Lord Robert's turn to hesitate. "I'm not certain I understand."

Their eyes met once more, and Jack could not look away. "He was not mistaken about my nature." And, since at this point there could be no going back, he added, "Nor my feelings for you."

HARD AND FAST by Erastes
Major Geoffrey Chaloner has returned, relatively unscathed, from the Napoleonic War, and England is at peace for the first time in years. Unable to set up his own establishment, he is forced to live with his irascible father who has very clear views on just about everything—including exactly whom Geoffrey will marry and why. The trouble is that Geoffrey isn't particularly keen on the idea, and even less so when he meets Adam Heyward, the enigmatic cousin of the lady his father has picked out for him... As Geoffrey says himself: "I have never been taught what I should do if I fell in love with someone of a sex that was not, as I expected it would be, opposite to my own."


I sat up, dazed, with the terrible realization of how much my life had just changed. He was smiling, just a little. He lay there, looking so delightfully debauched, his lips swollen from my mouth’s assaults, his eyes huge and so dark as to be almost black, that my heart twisted with emotion for him. He reached down and took my hand, still resting on his thighs, caught it in his hand and brought it up to his mouth. With slow, deliberate movements of his tongue, he licked my fingers clean, then turned my hand over and kissed my palm, his eyes closing as he did. It was such a simple and heartfelt declaration of love without words that I was unable to do anything but swallow hard.

Our situation and the danger of it came to us both as the madness receded. We had already been too long closeted together; we could not afford much more time. But our preparations to appear to the others of the house and his gradual re-dressing were delayed again and again by tenderness and kisses as he came to me, again and again.

“One more,” he said, pushing himself against the door and myself. “For I’ll have to live on this moment for who knows how long.” I too, saw the future stretching away from me with nothing more than circumspect glances, unendurable social contact and nights spent lonely, hard and longing.

How my life had reversed in so short a time. From being determined to grant him no quarter, to stand against him in every endeavor, now I was his to command. Just a pressure behind my neck brought my lips down to his; the smallest of his touches had tamed me, just as I fooled myself that I had mastered his recalcitrant nature. I brushed the back of his hair with my fingers, curling it where it had been flattened, and I wanted to say how my heart felt but he had confounded me—as ever.

I tried, knowing that something was needed of me. We could not open that door and resume our lives without some declaration of our intent. And yet, I thought—rational in spite of the glow of new found love—what intents could there be? This madness could never happen again, not in his aunt’s house, and would, inevitably sink to degradation, hidden away in the class of houses that such...tastes were enjoyed, becoming as vile as it was rumored.

I was not sure we had escaped scandal as it was, but to repeat the experience (although every inch of my body wanted to repeat and repeat and repeat) would be insanity of immense proportions.

“Heyward...”

His eyes hooded in a sensuous manner and he leaned against me, his hands almost kneading my chest, like a cat does. “I think, my dear Geoffrey, that now perhaps we might be a little more intimate than that? At least in private.”

From Josh Lanyon, author of Adrien English Mysteries

"Dashing spies, bold Regency bucks, and the flower of English manhood vie for readers' attention in this smart, original and engaging trilogy.This is not your mother's historical romance!"

I hope you'll give it a try, please leave a comment to win a copy in print or ebook, whichever you'd prefer. All three authors will be on hand during the day to answer any questions you have, or perhaps share further snippets!

Erastes
(and in spirit, Lee Rowan and Charlie Cochrane)

How do you solve a problem like smegma?

Ok – that’s not a particularly sexy title. I admit it. But it is a valid point when one writes historical fiction. Writing bed-scenes when your writhing couple didn’t own a bath or shower and wouldn't do for several hundred years could be a turn-off for the reader.

These days we are all Germ Free Adolescents, washing our hair every day and brushing our teeth whilst wearing scented panty liners but history, in general, is not famous for its hygiene. We all know the stories of people carrying posies around so they couldn’t smell the world around them, or scattering rue and rosemary on the rushes to keep down the fleas. I believe the rumour is that Elizabeth I took a bath twice a year, whether she needed it or not.

Once the Romans left England, plumbing because a lost art, and wasn’t really rediscovered for about two thousand years. In the interim times, well, let’s say that the natives were sometimes a little revolting.

There weren’t a lot of cosmetic dentists around in earlier times, and although the toothbrush had been invented in the 15th century, it didn’t really catch on that well (just as well we STILL don’t have to brush using badger or pig’s bristles…), and flossing? Forget it, that’s not caught on in England even today... (joke… joke…).

The Romans definitely had it right, and I don’t know why there’s not a huge slew of authors writing in this era because it’s very easy to get your men naked ("Fancy a trip to the Baths, Lividius?" "Don’t mind if I do, Maximus, old Beanus.") and nice and clean and ready for action.

The Greeks too, were sticklers for cleanliness, and not only that, they were accepting of male love, so no problems there.

It’s when you push ahead a few centuries that you begin to have problems, particularly in more northerly locations where people are covering themselves in skins and bear fat and not peeling off until Spring. Cowboys - out on the range for months on end in a dust bowl, Shakespearian Luvvies sharing their beds with lice and bed-bugs, naval commanders rogering the cabin boy who hasn't seen warm water or fresh fruit for an Atlantic crossing.

So how do get your hero’s todger out of his breeches and into the willing hand of his boyfriend or girlfriend without worrying whether their bed holds more life than just the humans? Ha ha! It’s possible, and with a little bit of suspension of belief without being totally anachronistic, too.

Say for example, you have a couple of lusty young shepherds who have been working on the farm all day in an 18th century small-holding and they look at each other over the sheep dip and they are sweating, the curls sticking to their foreheads, both covered in sheep-muck – and….Hmmm. Problem.

So – here are your basic guidelines for smexxing it up in days gone by:

1. Remember your characters come from a time when hygiene wasn’t a great issue. They were used to smells; they aren’t going to be put off when it comes down to it. Concentrate on manly sweat, and accurate scents that might be there, rosemary, juniper and cinnamon. Celery and cardamom (often chewed to freshen the breath)

2. Ignore teeth. It’s better not to keep referring to everyone’s perfect teeth because that’s going to be pretty damned unlikely before modern times and National Health dentistry. Assume that your hero and heroine are savvy enough to eat well and haven’t been stuck on long ship voyages. Snogging someone with bleeding gums or a jaw full of wooden dentures ain’t never going to be sexy.

3. Make them a little unusual for their time; remember Horatio Hornblower? . He used to shower daily on deck to the general amusement of all (which included his fellow lieutenants who were probably a little more fragrant than he was.) Horatio’s skin would have tasted deliciously of salt, and not of rancid sweat. What a damned shame that Lieutenant Bush never took advantage of this, canonically. I’m pleased to say, though, that there are now a few Age of Sail novels (Lee Rowan’s Ransom, Alex Beecroft’s Captain’s Surrender) that are exploring the love of 17th Century sailors - for other sailors.

4. Have a sex scene after swimming, that’s always an ideal time to avoid problems like fleas….

5. Bedbaths! An Erastes staple! I have had a bed-bath in both my novels so far. Not only are they a great way to get rid of any revolting smells, smeg and other things wot shouldn’t be on skin when a tongue is going to be stuck in any orifice handy, but they are sexy as hell and get the juices flowing, and the blood surging to places where it should be surging. Natural sponges=teh sexy.

6. Don’t forget the times when hygiene WAS important. Even in Britain, before the Romans buggered off and us English reverted to smelly painted savages, there was underfloor heating, hot water, communal baths, massages, showers and hot and cold running slaves. Egypt, China, Japan too - all had higher civilisation than northern Europe.

7. And yes! There were showers in Regency England! Here’s proof. Of course it meant that one’s man had to stand on a step-ladder and pour water into the top – but perhaps one’s man enjoyed this task – and he’d certainly enjoy drying sir off afterwards. But not with a soft thick towel please!!!

I hope the following scene from Transgressions (due out Spring 09 from Perseus Books) illustrates and illuminates.

Our heroes have been on the road for several days, deserting their brigade after Naseby, the battle that just about finished the English Civil Wars. They are muddy, and smelly, and when the finally reach shelter a bit of how’s your father is just what the Cavalier ordered, but I was all too appreciative of just how dirty they would be.

“Patience,” Tobias murmured again "Close your eyes, keep them closed." David did as he was told, and he was rewarded with a brief caress feathering over his scrotum. Tobias' weight lifted, there was a noise David didn't at first recognise, then a delicious feeling of warm wetness sweeping up each leg and ending with a soft massage of the skin between his thighs. He squirmed in abandoned pleasure, spreading his legs wider and wider to allow Tobias more access, with what he now realised was a sponge.

"Don't stop..." David arched from the bed, hoping the sponge would be moving up further still.

"I have no intention of it. You appear to have got mud everywhere." Tobias' voice was wryly amused. "Your face, Master Caverly, is filthy. The sponge was rinsed again and David felt his face being wiped gently, and wherever the sponge touched, so did Tobias' lips. As the lips passed David's mouth, David attempted to capture the teasing tongue but Tobias was moving onwards and would not be stopped. As sponge, fingers and hands explored his chest, swept over aching erect nipples and dragged slowly and blissfully downwards, David stopped thinking completely. All he could concentrate on, with his eyes closed tight, was where that tongue would go next. It teased into a newly washed navel, then tickled its way down the trail of every hair till he felt the sponge rest lightly on the base of his cock.



"How you got mud here, I can't imagine." David gasped as the sponge slid across the head, then arched as gentle fingers pulled back the foreskin and once again the cool sponge slid across the tip, which felt like it was on fire, and ten times bigger than usual. He gasped again as water dripped down upon it, running in rivulets down the shaft and pooling around his balls before sliding deliciously between his arse cheeks. With his sight removed, every touch was a delight his skin felt alight with sensation and the anticipation of where the next touch would come from. It was hard not to pull Tobias down and to forget his orders but he did it; for love of the man and for love of the sensations he was causing him.

When he felt his cock pulled in the sweet warmth of Tobias' mouth he had to bite his lip to stop himself from spending immediately. He pushed his hips up, just a little, to stop that teasing tongue from wasting time around the crown and Tobias let him enter him more fully. Tobias' kept his head still, and encouraged, David began a series of slow, self-indulgent and wonderful thrusts into his friend's welcoming mouth. It was like nothing he'd experienced before and although he'd never taken a man in passion, he wondered if it could possibly be as beautiful as this. Was this the pleasure that Tobias took from him? That Hal had - that Jon had? Gradually he had to increase his speed, he wanted release and his thrusts became faster and deeper. When he felt Tobias' hand between his legs, he spread his knees as wide as he could, thinking the man would enter him, but Tobias kept his head in place and slid a wet finger into David's entrance, sending David spiralling out of control as he felt him climax ripping through him. He shouted Tobias' name, pushing the man's head down even further onto his cock and emptying himself into Tobias' mouth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Finally to paraphrase Bing Crosby:

You've gotta accentuate the positive,

Eliminate the negative.

Latch on to the affirmative.

Don't mess with Mister not-so-clean

Have good clean fun!

A Gentleman's Wager's US re-release

by Madelynne Ellis

Tomorrow marks the US re-release of my Georgian set historical ménage-a-trois, A Gentleman's Wager. It's been out of print for years, so naturally I hope you're all going to rush out and buy a copy, read it, leave me lots of Amazon stars and tell all your friends how wonderful it is too. All in time for the release of the next part of the story, Phantasmagoria, at the end of the month.

Failing that, I hope you'll stick around to read the teaser excerpt posted below. And maybe stop by the comments and tell me which two men you'd most like to see making out. If you already have pics and video clips, so much the better. Gimme links.

Personally, I'm rather fond of this pair.



EXCERPT:

Lucerne closed his eyes and offered no resistance to Vaughan’s intimate caress. So it had all come down to this. He could sometimes deny his attraction to the other man, but he didn’t have the willpower to force him away. The muscles of his stomach tightened and his mouth opened, but he didn’t make a sound. Vaughan’s thrilling attention was worth the risk of weathering discovery here or gossip at Court. He reached out to Vaughan and met his friend’s desire with an urgency of his own. Outside, the muted hubbub of the inn went on. He hoped the latch was firm.

They clawed at each other’s clothing and ground their pricks together, rubbing and kissing, while Lucerne tried not to think too hard about what he was doing. He slipped his hand inside the waistband of Vaughan’s figure-hugging pantaloons, touched his sensitive glans and heard him gasp. The sound gave him a surprising sense of satisfaction, and he allowed Vaughan to pull away long enough for the marquis to pull his black cambric shirt over his head.

Vaughan’s body was lean but muscular and tapered neatly at the waist. His arms and shoulders were strong from his love of fencing, the same sport that gave him his oft-admired thighs. However, the most striking feature of his near-nakedness was the pale silvery line across his left side that marred the surface of his skin. Lucerne traced its length curiously with his fingertips, and then with his tongue. It appeared to be a duelling scar.

‘An unpleasant scrape,’ elucidated Vaughan, as he tilted his head forward to watch Lucerne. A fiery gleam showed through the shadow of his dark lashes, while his lips curled into an aggressive smile. ‘Deuced Italians. I swear they’ve fire for blood.’

Lucerne smiled and pressed himself against Vaughan’s warm body, glad that whatever implement had caused the wound hadn’t done more damage. He felt Vaughan’s arms snake around him and pluck at his coat. Lucerne shrugged it off, for once letting it fall to the floor. Then he unknotted his cravat, while Vaughan drew the curtain across the small, grimy window.

They fell upon each other again, as if mere closeness was not enough. Lucerne sank to his knees, then felt Vaughan about to follow suit and stopped him. He eyed the erect penis before him uncertainly. This would be a first. He cautiously closed his mouth over the head. It tasted salty against his tongue.

Vaughan inhaled sharply and sagged against the panelled wall for support, holding Lucerne’s head to his cock as he moved. He didn’t speak, but Lucerne didn’t need him to. He knew how this felt, knew exactly how incredible such focused attention was. What surprised him was the pleasure he was deriving from the friction against his lips, and the addictiveness of having his mouth repeatedly filled.

Vaughan’s fingers tangled in his hair. His hips rocked slowly. Lucerne knew he was resisting the urge to thrust deeper. He tried to take a little more, but felt the tip brush the back of his throat and had to fight back the instinctive cough that threatened to explode. He circled his fingers over Vaughan’s cheeks, and then moved one hand to cup his friend’s balls. Vaughan stiffened. He gave an emotive sigh and his whole body flexed as he came, shooting his seed into Lucerne’s waiting mouth.

Lucerne released his hold and kissed him once, intimately. He watched Vaughan’s prick continue to twitch as the afterglow of his orgasm washed over his body, and saw a contented smile spread over his face. Vaughan’s eyes flicked open as Lucerne stood; they were dilated and unnaturally bright. They fastened on the trickle of come at the corner of Lucerne’s mouth.

‘Come to me,’ he beckoned.

‘No.’ Lucerne wiped away the evidence of their encounter. ‘Later,’ he soothed, when he saw anxiety cloud the joy in Vaughan’s eyes. ‘Somewhere more private.’ The risk of discovery suddenly felt very real.

Vaughan smiled and nodded. He rose to his feet and dressed quickly. There was a fresh glow to his skin now, and he positively radiated sexuality. Once he’d buttoned himself, he turned to Lucerne and caught his wrist, then forced a kiss on him. This time Lucerne accepted it without question, then they went out to collect Charles.


More excerpts available at my website.

Madelynne Ellis

Addendum: Read Bev's new review of A Gentleman's Wager at The Good, the Bad & The Unread.

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Credits: Film clip: Velvet Goldmine. Photo: Anthony Gayton.