New Contest: The Park at Sunrise-

Releasing December 2

from 

Breathless Press

The Story Orgy Anthology

featuring

The Park at Sunrise

First they were three, now there are two.  

Can Jason and Morgan make a relationship work without Paul?

For years the three of them had been inseparable, first as friends, then lovers. It's been ten years since they parted for what was supposed to be a year apart to pursue their dreams.   This isn't the reunion they planned then.  It's nine years too late for one thing, and they are one man short for another.

In the years since Paul's death, Morgan hasn't exactly been waiting for Jason to reach out to him.    He's been too busy trying to forget, to move on.  Until Jason sends the right message. Is the painting just an excuse to see his ex again?

Excerpt —

"I see you're dressed for the weather as always, Morgan." Jason's voice was husky, hesitant.

A pair of black knit gloves landing in my lap tipped me over that edge from making a snide remark to throwing an uncalled for hissy fit.

My jaw clenched tightly. Screw breathing deeply. I yanked the cap from my head, pulling long strands of black hair from the band at my neck, and winced at the tiny pain. I flung the cap to the ground in front of us and looked up the black denim clad legs to the black pea coat and beyond. My mouth opened to swear, but no sound came out. The hissy fit drained away to something else entirely. My pulse still raced, but for an entirely different reason.

How fair was that? How fucking fair was it that after ten years apart, my hair showed silvery streaks and my face showed my age, but Jason was still the slender boyish youth of years gone by? Yeah, he'd shaved the dirty blond dreadlocks. Those wire rim glasses were new, but he appeared as youthful and vibrant, untouched by life, alive as he had when we'd all parted years ago to make those sunrise dreams reality. His black jeans had the tell tale smudges of paint, and I'd be willing to bet that underneath those leather driving gloves lurked more paint.

This wasn't the reunion we planned then. It was nine years too late, for one thing. We were one man short for another.

The bench creaked as he perched next to me on the top slat, and instinctively I grabbed his knee to anchor both of us so we wouldn't topple backward. His hand covered mine before I could jerk it away and he refused to relinquish it when I tugged. I gave in with ill grace. Jason’s touch stirred physical responses I’d rather not experience.

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