Tag Archives: in the closet

New Release Blitz: Why Can’t Life Be Like Pizza? by Andy V. Roamer

Why Can’t Life Be Like Pizza? |Andy V. Roamer

The Pizza Chronicles #1

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Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: March 30, 2020

Heat Level: 1 – No Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 55,100

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Blurb

RV is a good kid, starting his freshman year at the demanding Boston Latin School. Though his genes didn’t give him a lot of good things, they did give him a decent brain. So he’s doing his best to keep up in high school, despite all the additional pressures he’s facing: His immigrant parents, who don’t want him to forget his roots and insist on other rules.

Some tough kids at school who bully teachers as well as students. His puny muscles. His mean gym teacher. The Guy Upstairs who doesn’t answer his prayers. And the most confusing fact of all—that he might be gay.

Luckily, RV develops a friendship with Mr. Aniso, his Latin teacher, who is gay and always there to talk to. RV thinks his problems are solved when he starts going out with Carole.

But things only get more complicated when RV develops a crush on Bobby, the football player in his class. And to RV’s surprise, Bobby admits he may have gay feelings, too.

Excerpt

Why Can’t Life Be Like Pizza?
Andy V. Roamer © 2020
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One—Why Can’t Life Be Like Pizza?
Why can’t life be like pizza?

I’ve been asking myself the question a lot lately. I love pizza. Pizza makes me feel good. Especially since I discovered Joe’s. Joe’s Pizza is quiet and out of the way and allows me to think. And Joe’s combinations are the best. Pepperoni and onions. Garlic and mushroom. Cheese and chicken. And if you really want that little kick in the old butt: the super jalapeno. Mmmm, good. Gets you going again. And lets you forget all your troubles.

What troubles can a fourteen-year-old guy have? Ha! First of all, I’m not a regular guy, as anyone can guess from my taste in pizza. My parents are immigrants who are trying to make a better life for themselves here in the United States. Besides the usual things American parents worry about, like making money and having their kids do well in school, my parents spend more time worrying about the big things: politics, communism, fascism, global warming, and the fact they and their parents survived violence and jail so I-better-be-grateful-I’m-not-miserable-like-kids-in-other-parts-of-the-world.

Grateful? Ha! As far as I’m concerned, life is pretty miserable already. Instead of thinking about the World Series or Disneyland, I worry about terrorists down the street or the dirty bombs the strange family around the corner might be building.

I don’t know why I worry about everything, but I do. It’s probably in my genes. Other guys have genes that gave them big muscles or hairy chests. I got nerves.

And then there’s my name. RV. Yeah, RV. No, I’m not a camper or anything. RV is short for Arvydas. That’s right. “Are-vee-duh-s.” Mom and Dad say it’s a common name in Lithuania, which is the country in Eastern Europe where my parents were born. A name like that might be fine for Lithuania, but what about the United States? Couldn’t Mom and Dad have named me Joe, or Mike, or even Darryl? My brother, Ray, has a normal name. Why couldn’t they have given me one?

I even look a little weird, I think. Tall and skinny with an uncoordinated walk because of my big feet that get in the way and make me feel like a clod. Oh, yeah. I’ve been getting some zits lately, and I wear glasses since I’m pretty nearsighted. Not a pretty sight, is it? At least the glasses are not too thick. Mom and Dad don’t have a lot of money to spend, but they did fork up the money to get me thin lenses, so I don’t look like a complete zomboid.

What can I do? I try my best, despite it all. I’m lucky because I’ve done well in school, so at least my genes gave me a half-decent brain. Hey, I’m not bragging. It’s just nice to feel good about something when most days I feel pretty much a loser at so many things. When I was in grammar school, there were enough days when I came home from school and cried because some big oaf threatened me, or I got hit in the stomach during my pathetic attempts to play ball during recess.

Mom always tried to comfort me. “Nesirūpink,” she would say. “Esi gabus. Kai užaugsi, visiems nušluostysi nuosis.” We talk Lithuanian at home. Translated, that sentence means, “Don’t worry. You’re smart. When you grow up, you’ll show them.” Actually, not “you’ll show them,” but “you’ll wipe all their noses.” Lithuanians have a funny way of expressing themselves. Not sure I aspire to wiping anyone’s nose when I get older, but that’s what they say.

Whatever. I’m determined to put all that behind me. I’m starting a new life. My new life. Today was the first day of high school. I’m going to Boston Latin School. You have to take an exam to go there, so it’s full of smart kids. Besides smart kids, it has heavy-duty history too. It was founded in 1635, a year before Harvard. They already gave us a speech about that.

And about pressure. The pressure to succeed with all this history breathing down our necks. Pressure, ha! Doesn’t scare me. I know all about pressure. I’ve gotten pressure from cretinous bullies at school. I get it from cretinous Lith a-holes, who Mom and Dad keep pushing me to hang around with because they say it’s important to be part of the immigrant community. And I even get pressure from cretinous jerks in the neighborhood.

Cretinous. A good word. That’s something else about me. I like words. Real words and made-up ones. There’s something cool about them. Yeah, yeah, I know what people would say. You think words are cool? Kid, you’ve got more problems than you thought.

Well, I’m sorry. I do think words are cool. There’s something fun about making them up or learning a new one. Kind of unlocks something in the world. And I like the world despite all my worrying. It can be an okay place sometimes.

Okay, okay, I’m getting off track. I want to write about my first day of school. Mom and Dad gave me this new—well, refurbished, but new to me anyway—computer for getting into Latin school, and they keep after me to make good use of it. So, I’ve decided I’m going to write about my new life. My life away from cretins—Lith, American, or any other kind.

The first person I met at school today was Carole. Carole Higginbottom. She’s in my homeroom. She was sitting in the first row, first seat, and I was sitting right behind her. We started talking. She’s from West Roxbury, too, which is where we live.

West Roxbury is part of Boston. You have to live somewhere in Boston in order to go to Latin school. West Roxbury is a nice neighborhood, for the most part, with houses, trees, grass, and people going to work and coming home. Kind of an all-American place, I guess. We used to live in a different, tougher part of Boston, but Mom and Dad moved away from there because they said the neighborhood was getting too rough. They promised I wouldn’t get beat up so much in West Roxbury. I don’t know. West Roxbury is better, but I still have gotten a few black-and-blue marks with “made in West Roxbury” on them, so as far as I’m concerned it isn’t any perfect place either.

Carole lives in another part of West Roxbury, near Centre Street, which is the main street in the area. People like to hang out there. Mom says that part of West Roxbury is a little dicey. (Mom thinks a lot of neighborhoods are too dicey. Maybe that’s where I get my worrying from.) Anyway, Carole sure doesn’t seem dicey. As a matter of fact, she’s a little goofy. Tall and skinny with red hair, red cheeks, and a million freckles. And she has a really sharp nose that curves up like those special ski slopes you see in the Olympics. But I get the feeling she’s smart. She says she likes science. That’s good because I might need help with science. I’m better with other subjects like history and English.

Our homeroom teacher is Mr. Bologna, Carmine Bologna. He’s a little scary with slicked-back dark hair and even darker eyes that stare at you forever. He looks like he’s part of the organization we’re not supposed to talk about—you know, the scary one from Italy that’s into murder, racketeering, and drugs. Two guys were horsing around in the back of the class and Mr. Bologna came right up to them, said a few words under his breath, and just stared at them. Boy, did they settle down fast. I’m no troublemaker, but I’ll really have to watch myself. Don’t want to deal with the Bologna stare if I can help it.

Today was mostly about walking around, learning about our subjects, and meeting teachers. Besides all the regular subjects, I have to take Latin. I don’t have anything against it per se, but is it really necessary to learn a dead language? And then there’s the teacher, Mr. Aniso. He’s kind of light in his loafers. That’s another new phrase I learned recently. It refers to gay guys, and Mr. Aniso is so gay it hurts. I just hope he can’t tell anything about me. I don’t wave my wrist around the way he does, do I?

Yeah, that’s something else I have to come to terms with. I might be heading in that direction. Yeah, me. I can hardly believe it. Me! Why? It can’t be true, can it? I’ve been praying to God, asking Him not to make me gay, but I don’t think He’s listening. If He exists, that is. Maybe He’s not answering because He doesn’t exist.

I don’t know. People on TV and in books say being gay is okay. Movie stars and rock stars are gay. There are gay mayors and other gay political types. That’s fine for them, but they don’t live with my family. Mom’s a heavy-duty Catholic. Dad’s a macho, “what-me-cry?” kind of guy. And my younger brother, Ray, well, Ray probably doesn’t care one way or another, but he doesn’t count anyway since he hates everybody. And then there are all those Lith immigrants, the community that’s so important to Mom and Dad. Most of them are so Old World and conservative. I don’t think being gay would go down well with them.

Not that I am gay for certain. I’m just saying it’s crossed my mind because…well, because I think about guys sometimes. And I notice them. Notice how they look when they’re coming down the street. Notice their eyes or their hair or the way they move. Just notice them.

Oh, I notice girls, too, but something about guys is different. I can’t put my finger on it, but I think about them as much or maybe more than girls. And I want to be with them. Is that normal? What’s normal anyway? To be honest, I’m so inexperienced. Never dated. Never even kissed anyone. Not like that anyway. No, I’ve spent my time worrying about communism, terrorism, and global warming. Like I said, I’ve always felt a little out of step with the rest of humanity.

Dealing with all this is just too much. To be nervous about things the way I am. To be speaking a language most people haven’t heard of. To have a strange name. To wear glasses and look nerdy. And now I might be gay? It’s all too confusing. I might as well start on antidepressants, or something stronger, right now.

But no. I try to look on the bright side of things. Take Carole for instance. She seems nice and fun, and maybe we’ll be friends. And if she likes me, I can’t be too weird, can I? I guess I’ll find out. I better not think about it. There’s enough to worry about as it is. I just have to take a breath and focus on my homework. Yeah, we got homework already. At least that’s one thing I’m good at. And when I go to Joe’s, well, life’s not so bad, at least while I’m eating my chicken and cheese or super jalapeno slice.

About the Author

Andy V. Roamer grew up in the Boston area and moved to New York City after college. He worked in book publishing for many years, starting out in the children’s and YA books division and then wearing many other hats.

This is his first novel about RV, the teenage son of immigrants from Lithuania in Eastern Europe, as RV tries to negotiate his demanding high school, his budding sexuality, and new relationships.

He has written an adult novel, Confessions of a Gay Curmudgeon, under the pen name Andy V. Ambrose. To relax, Andy loves to ride his bike, read, watch foreign and independent movies, and travel.

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New Release Blitz: Stay A Little Longer by Jess Bryant

Stay A Little Longer | Jess Bryant

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Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: November 19, 2018

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 56100

Genre: Contemporary, LGBT, in the closet, coming out, being outed, law enforcement, musician

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Synopsis

Country music superstar, Trent Thorne is on the run. What he’s kept hidden from the world is no longer a secret. He trusted the wrong person, a man he’d stupidly thought he was in love with, and instead of a happily ever after all he’d gotten was outed. Unwilling to sit around and watch his private life get plastered all over the news, Trent hits the road and somehow ends up in his best friend Lemon’s small hometown of Fate, Texas.

Lance Nichols knows a thing or two about hiding. He’s so deep in the closet he can’t even see daylight. The former womanizer finally admitted the truth to himself a few years ago but he never thought he’d be able to say the words aloud, not to his family, not to his friends, and certainly not to his secret celebrity crush when the guy stumbles awkwardly into his life.

Fate brought these two together, but will it also tear them apart? One newly outed man refuses to go back in the closet. The other can’t imagine coming out of his.

Excerpt

Stay a Little Longer
Jess Bryant © 2018
All Rights Reserved

Fuckin’ Heath motherfuckin’ Barber could go fuck himself.

Trent Thorne had been betrayed by a man he’d thought he could trust. The man he’d considered his best friend. The man who he’d convinced himself he was in love with. The man who he’d been delusional enough to believe might be in love with him too.

He white-knuckled the steering wheel and cursed his ex-best friend for the millionth time. He was an idiot. An idiot to have ever thought Heath reciprocated his feelings. An idiot to have ever said those three little words, to have ever said a thing about how he felt or who he was. A major idiot for ever having believed he could have it all.

He’d told Heath his biggest secret. The one thing he kept from everyone but a trusted few in his inner circle. Nobody on the outside knew. Not his record label or his band. Certainly, not the millions of people that bought his albums or the legions of women who threw themselves at him. He’d told Heath he was gay, and it had turned out to be the biggest mistake of his life.

Heath’s reaction to his confession had been swift and brutal. He’d recoiled, and he’d called Trent a liar. He’d said Trent had been lying to him from the moment they met. He’d said Trent had been lying to him every day for two years. Been lying ever since he’d hired the retired professional athlete as his trainer and then his personal assistant. Heath had been the person in his life he was closest to, only he’d said he didn’t know Trent at all.

And the thing was, Trent hadn’t been able to deny it. Of course, Heath didn’t know him. Very few people could say they did. Not the real Trent. Not Trenton James Thorne, Texas native, long-lost brother and exiled son with an unhealthy fear of firearms and dying alone. Because to be Trent Thorne, country music superstar, charmer and all-around lady’s man, he couldn’t be himself.

He couldn’t be gay.

That had been made clear to him from the day he set foot in Nashville, and in the years since, covering up and hiding his truth had been as much a full-time job as performing or recording. The first time that spotlight had hit him and the crowd went wild, he would’ve sold his soul to the devil to make that feeling last.

In a lot of ways, he knew now that he had.

He’d sold himself out for the money and the fame and the success of being worshipped by a bunch of strangers. Because he’d just wanted to play his music and he’d thought it was the only way. Because his manager, his record label, and his throng of adoring fans wanted the Trent Thorne who wiggled his hips and winked at all the girls, who sang bro-country anthems about hooking up with hot chicks down by the lake and crooned about soft bodies in moonlight.

Nobody wanted the real Trent Thorne. They never had. They never would.

The cell phone vibrating in the center console of his rental called him a liar now too. It hadn’t stopped ringing all day. Not since the news broke. It seemed the entire fucking world wanted a piece of the real Trent Thorne now, and it was all because he’d trusted the wrong person, fallen for the wrong person, shown his true self to someone who hadn’t liked what they’d seen.

Heath had fuckin’ outed him.

Considering it was his life being broadcast over every entertainment outlet in the western hemisphere, Trent was a little fuzzy on the details of how it had happened. He’d woken up to his ringing phone this morning. His manager, Rick, had said something about Heath telling a friend who told a friend who told someone who wasn’t a friend… or something like that.

It sounded so cliché. High school drama multiplied to the umpteenth level. Trent almost could have laughed. Almost. All of his carefully laid plans, skillfully guarded secrets, and he’d been outed by a game of telephone gone awry.

The entire fuckin’ world knew he was gay now, which meant life as he knew it was over.

Just that fast and just that easily, he was done in Nashville. He knew it. Had always known it would be the end of his career if he trusted the wrong person with his true identity and it got out.

But he’d thought he was in love with Heath, which was just so goddamn ridiculous in the bright light of today that he had no explanation for how he could have so monumentally screwed up.

Meet the Author

Jess Bryant is an avid indoorswoman. A city girl trapped in a country girl’s life, her heart resides in Dallas but her soul and roots are in small-town Oklahoma. She enjoys manicures, the color pink, and her completely impractical for country life stilettos. She believes that hair color is a legitimate form of therapy, as is reading and writing romance. She started writing as a little girl but her life changed forever when she stole a book from her aunt’s Harlequin collection and she’s been creating love stories with happily ever afters ever since.

Jess holds a degree in Public Relations from the University of Oklahoma and is a lifetime supporter of her school and athletic teams. And why not? They have a ton of National Championships! She may be a girlie girl but she knows her sports stats and isn’t afraid to tell you that your school isn’t as cool as hers… or that your sports romance got it all wrong.

For more information on Jess and upcoming releases, contact her at JessBryantBooks@gmail.com or follow her on her many social media accounts for news and shenanigans.

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Release Day Blitz: Living on the Edge by Taylor V Donovan

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LIVING ON THE EDGE

TAYLOR V. DONOVAN

GAY ROMANTIC FICTION

RELEASE DATE: 24-11-17

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BLURB

Damián Laporte Ortíz is an expert at leading a double life. Most people know him as a war veteran and highly decorated cop working for F.U.R.A., a specialized police unit in Puerto Rico. Others know him as a crook. His family sees him as an honorable man and an exemplary single dad. The truth is he’s morally ambiguous and willing to bend rules. His peace of mind, happiness, long-term relationship, and survival depend on keeping his worlds apart. It isn’t until his professional career takes a series of unexpected turns that he’s forced to reconsider his priorities and stance.

Gay rights activist Gael Cisneros Beltrán dedicates his life to representing the marginalized LGBT community in a place he otherwise considers to be paradise. Fighting for their rights consumes his days. Going home to his closeted boyfriend replenishes him at night. Balancing their needs, goals, and responsibilities is a complicated act, but their commitment to each other continues to stand.

No challenge is too great to overcome. Nothing can tear them apart. Not until the past comes knocking and their carefully built parallel lives finally collide. Now they must decide what matters more—the common good or their love.

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EXCERPT

Leaning closer to Alexis so that he could be heard over the music without having to yell, Gael asked, “Did Frankie mention any particulars about the incident he wants to discuss?” He closed his fan and took his Sidekick phone out of his small black leather satchel bag. He had no messages, so he sent one to Frankie telling him to hurry up, all caps and twenty exclamation points.

“No idea, but my bet is another instance of police brutality, because you know they always feel provoked.” Alexis shook his head, then his delicate features twisted in rage. “It could be anything from gay guys merely existing and breathing the same air as the cops, to getting caught having sex. Sodomy might’ve been decriminalized, but you know some of those homophobic pricks don’t give a fuck.”

Gael clenched his jaw. “No, they don’t.”

Corruption, widespread abuse, and brutality with zero accountability were major problems within the PRPD. Many cases arose out of illegal searches and arrests, but the matter was much worse between the gay community and cops, especially during rallies. Gael ought to know. He’d gotten pepper sprayed, tear-gassed, suppressed from exercising his rights, “moved out of the way” with excessive force, handcuffed, stomped on, and tasered more times than he cared to remember. The mostly young, tall, muscular officers in the Tactical Operations Division, or “la fuerza de choque,” as everyone called the impact unit, were the worst.

Then there were the cops that actively accosted gay men at cruising spots. They harassed them, roughed them up, humiliated them and even arrested them on prostitution and drug possession charges for heroin and cocaine they’d planted themselves. Civil Liberties Advocates, the legal association Gael did pro bono work for, had its hands full with abuse cases against law enforcement officers whose bigotry was sanctioned by the police department. Literally. A disciplinary rule existed prohibiting Puerto Rico police officers from associating with lesbians and gay men, and way too many cops had taken it as their marching orders to eradicate homosexuality from the island.

For Gael and his colleagues at CLA, that regulation of the PRPD disciplinary code was a challenge. It violated First Amendment rights, prevented queer cops from coming out and forming a local affiliate of the Gay Officers Action League in Puerto Rico, and made gay and lesbian citizens pariahs to their own police force. Over at CLA, they’d been working their asses off to get it struck down. If they won their case, cops would be forced to treat the LGBT community with respect, which would do wonders for their battered morale. Their day in court couldn’t come soon enough. Gael hated the Puerto Rico Police Department as a whole.

Eager to find out if he had another potential case against the PRPD on his hands, he put his phone and fan away, glanced at his watch, then scanned the red lit club. “What in the world is taking Frankie so long?”

“Maybe the guy left, and Frankie went looking for him,” Alexis said into his ear. “I heard he really isn’t into the Homme crowd. He came tonight for Mr. Gay, but he usually hangs out at The Beehive. That’s where Frankie knows him from.”

The Beehive, located across the street from Homme in the Santurce Arts and Culture District—aka the Gayborhood—was one of the drag clubs where Frankie performed four times a month, super popular with the general public. Gael adored the place. It was fun, top notch, and he was close with all the girls. In fact, The Beehive’s Queen B’s had been the first volunteers to work at Puerto Rico Diverso when Gael started it in 2002 to fight for inclusion and equal rights. Their outreach program was one of the more effective tools the center had to get non-queer volunteers and donations. He could never repay them for their efforts.

“Should we go to The Beehive, then?” Gael asked as his gaze swept over the dancing crowd, the people waiting by the bar, and the short hallway leading to the main entrance one more time, then his shoulders stiffened, and a tingling sensation spread across his back.

He twisted his head right and left like a man possessed, frantically searching every dark corner of the club for— There. Next to the passageway to the backroom and the basement, dressed in dark clothes that blended with the shadows, a baseball cap pulled down low over his face.

Next to him, Alexis asked, “You okay?”

“I need a moment,” he rasped. “He is here.”

Alexis grinned. “Hooked him good during that brief conversation yesterday, didn’t you?”

“I hope so.” Gael swallowed hard. “Have Frankie and his friend wait for me when they come back.”

Mouth dry and heart hammering in his chest, he made a beeline for the object of his desire, then almost tripped over his own feet when Damián’s gaze collided with his.

The previous day, when they’d talked for the first time, Damián was guarded—hyperaware of his surroundings. That caution was nowhere to be found. Tonight, he was a gay man in his element. Someone who took up as much space as humanly possible, and knew what he wanted and how to get it. He oozed confidence, and the expression on his face took Gael’s breath away.

That was unadulterated hunger and intent shining in his striking hooded hazel eyes. He looked at Gael as if he was mentally stripping off his clothes…as if he was thinking something dirty…as if he was imagining Gael on his knees, lips wrapped around his cock and cheeks hollow from sucking him off.

Gael readjusted the erection threatening to rip through his slacks.

Damián licked his lips.

Gael had no idea how a such a simple gesture could be so quick and filthy at the same time, but his body ignited at the sight and a shock of desire surged through his veins, making him feel feverish and a bit out of his mind.

He couldn’t wait a second longer to get his hands on that man.

He had never needed sexual gratification so badly in his entire life.

He was two steps away from dropping to his knees and doing what they both so clearly wanted when Damián reached out, hooked his fingers around Gael’s belt loops, and tugged him flush against his muscled body.

“It took you almost seven minutes to realize I was here,” Damián said into his ear in a sultry voice. “You’re off your game tonight.”

“You’ll have to cut me some slack.” Gael placed his hands over Damián’s buff chest and swallowed a whimper. He had hard, slightly rounded, and perfectly contoured pecs under his skin tight long sleeve shirt, complete with fully erect nipples that poked at Gael’s palms. “I didn’t want to socialize, so I blocked everyone to avoid sending mixed signals and keep people from approaching me.”

“Did I interrupt anything important?” Damián backed into the dark passageway, pulling Gael slowly until the music wasn’t as loud and they were secluded from curious eyes. “You seemed to be pretty engrossed in your conversation with your friend.”

“It can wait a few more moments.” Thankful for their similar heights, Gael aligned his body to Damián’s. “What are you doing here?”

“Dance with me.” The inner fire burning in Damián’s eyes made him look primal as he clutched Gael’s hips and started swaying to the music in the way only natural born dancers could. “I love this song.”

Gael followed his lead and rhythm in a daze, his heart beating in tandem with ‘Búscame’s’ bass, the sexiest tune written to date.

Reggaetón music lyrics were usually steamy but Luca Jay, the Puerto Rican singer and composer currently caressing everyone with his voice, was a master at combining emotion and innuendo, and could write sultry songs with his eyes closed. Adding perreo to the mix made everything ten times sexier, as the steps to the dance called for total inhibition and lack of restraint, and had the sole purpose of turning one’s partner on. Gael couldn’t think of a single thing he’d rather be doing at the moment.

In a husky voice, he asked, “Are you a B-Unit fan?”

“I am. Yours, too.” Touching his forehead to Gael’s, he added. “Rabid.”

Gael wasn’t sure what startled him most—the way his heart swelled at Damián’s words, or the realization that his reactions to him were beyond his self-control. “Why mine?”

“I can only imagine what it must be like to fight for the rights of guys that won’t stand with you, but you keep doing it every day.” One corner of his mouth lifted in a self-deprecating smile. “And even though I have zero intentions of coming out, I appreciate what you do for us. In my opinion, you’re the rock star of the local gay rights movement.”

Gael nodded, his mouth too dry to speak.

“What are you doing here?” he repeated seconds later, nuzzling Damián’s smooth cheek and inhaling his woody, sharp, heady scent. And then, because he couldn’t help himself, he nibbled at his earlobe and jaw. It was a natural thing to do—almost automatic, as if somehow, he was convinced he had every right to touch this man any way he pleased. “Didn’t you say you don’t do Homme on Saturdays?”

“I don’t, and I can’t stay long.” Damián thrust his hips forward, giving Gael a taste of the massive bulge in his pants for the first time. “But I couldn’t wait to see you again.”

Weak in the knees, Gael latched his arm around Damián’s wide shoulders, holding on for dear life as his emotions and thoughts spiraled out of control.

What was it about him that made Gael act like they’d known each other their entire lives? What was this…thing he recognized when he looked into Damián’s eyes that he didn’t dare to name because it made no sense after only two brief encounters? Gael didn’t understand the reason for his monster-sized attraction, and he certainly couldn’t comprehend why he felt like he’d been swept away and was only noticing now.

He was a logical guy. Shit like this never happened to him, so why now? What was different from all the other times he’d hooked up with a guy? What, exactly, was happening?

Was he simply flattered that a hot closeted guy had broken his own rule just so that he could see him tonight? Was it chemistry? Lust? And for the love of all that was good and holy, what the hell was up with the fireworks exploding in his head?

What Was. Happening?

“You look like a deer caught in the headlights.” Damián’s gaze darted from Gael’s eyes, down to his mouth, and back. “Did I read you wrong? Are you not interested in seeing where this might go?”

“You meant it, didn’t you?” Gael cupped Damián’s cheek with his hand and brushed his thumb over his bottom lip. “You really want to get to know each other.”

Damián stopped dancing. “Don’t you?” he whispered, their lips a breath apart, sounding uncertain for the first time.

Gael traced his cheekbones with his fingertips, connecting the faint freckles he couldn’t see in the dark and learning the shape of his nose as he said, “Yes.” No hesitation, no two ways about it. “But I still want you in my bed as soon as possible.”

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Taylor V. Donovan is a compulsive reader and author of m/m romantic suspense. She is optimistically cynical about the world; lover of history, museums and all things 80s. She is crazy about fashion, passionate about civil rights and equality for all and shamelessly indulges in mind-numbing reality television.

When she is not making a living in the busiest city in the world or telling the stories of gorgeous men hot for one another, Taylor can be found raising her two daughters and two terribly misbehaved furry babies in the mountains she calls home.

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Website: http://taylorvdonovan.com/

Blog: https://sixdegreesandcounting.blogspot.com/?zx=516173e62be8a940

Twitter: https://twitter.com/taylorvdonovan?lang=en