Mischa knew his brothers were up to something. He didn't know it would lead him to Donovan Holloway and change his carefree lifestyle forever.
Donovan Holloway, advertising executive, newly made vice president of the company where he's worked for twenty years, grew up in a free love hippie commune, taking care of the parents who should have been taking care of him. He's worked hard to put himself through school and achieve the American dream. All he's ever wanted was a normal family life—house in the suburbs, two cars, two kids, a shaggy dog. A family to come home to—to care for, and to care for him.
Mischa Blake is the green eyed, liberally-pierced, black-haired, Mohawk-wearing spoiled youngest son of a Hollywood producer and his actress wife. Mischa has made a terrible mistake. In a fit of childish pique, he's accepted a dare from his older brothers. The dare? Live on his own, supporting himself completely for a year without accessing his trust fund. No problem. Except Mischa has never worked a day in his life, hasn't finished college, and has absolutely no skills that he can bring to the table.
So when he sees Donovan's ad for a housekeeper/gardener, he has nothing to lose by applying, because really...how hard can it be?
"So, tell me why you want to work for me." That should give him pause.
"I don’t. My brothers dared me to get a job, and it’s been a lot harder than I expected. I just came from a McDonald's where the manager had a guy with a BS cleaning the toilets and an MBA flipping burgers. The economy sucks." Mischa sounded dejected.
"Ahh." He wanted a job on a dare? What the hell? Who told a prospective employer they didn’t want to work for them? "Let me tell you a little about the parameters of the job.”
Mischa gazed at him quietly, waiting. Maybe the daunting aspects of the task would send the kid the way of the first applicant. "You’ll be responsible for preparing meals. I eat breakfast at six, daily, take a boxed lunch to work, and expect a minimum of a three course dinner. Sometimes I have guests, and occasionally dinner parties." He didn’t really, but threw out the possibility anyway. For a moment, he was distracted by the amusing vision of a room full of elegantly clad clients and coworkers staring in horror as a Goth-garbed Mischa, hair spiked and piercings glittering in the candlelight announced that dinner was served.
"Got it. Cooking. I can do that." Mischa seemed to be trying to convince himself as much as Donovan of that fact.
"You’ll have to do the shopping. I don’t have time for things like that. Then there’s the cleaning. I expect the house to be spotless at all times." He assiduously ignored the fact that the house was currently anything but clean.
Mischa wasn’t inclined to be so kind, though. He glanced pointedly around the kitchen, at the stack of dirty dishes in the sink, the debris from several takeout meals on the counter tops, and the unpacked boxes of kitchenware. "OK. Clean. I can do that."
"I need the house put together, too. The boxes," he waved around, "unpacked and stuff put away. The walls painted, furniture ordered and assembled and put in place."
Mischa looked shocked. "You trust me to decorate your house?"
"No. I have the plans here." He thumped the red leather-bound album that held the dream house drawings he’d labored on over the years on the marble counter. "I need my housekeeper to coordinate the workmen, decorators, deliveries and so on."
More nods. "I can do that."
Donovan stared helplessly at the kid. Stop calling him kid. It’s too pervy. What else? "References? Do you have references?"
Mischa bent over and the tight black t-shirt rode up as the skinny jeans inched down. Damn. All that creamy white flesh, hairless and smooth tempted him to reach out and touch, to examine the texture and resiliency. He wondered if there were any more shiny piercings hidden under that severe black garb.
"Hey," Mischa was waving a handful of papers in front of his face, and Donovan flushed slightly. Could Mischa tell he’d been staring inappropriately at his exposed skin?
"I’ll, ahh, I’ll keep these. I need to call on them later." He searched desperately for something, anything to turn the kid-man off the idea of working for him. Recalling the indignation and vitriol of the second applicant, he took a shot in the dark and threw it out there. "I’m gay."
"I said I’m gay, a homosexual, a flamer."
No response. Just inquiring green eyes locked on his face. Someone must have told the kid–man that eye contact was important.
"I sleep with other men?" Shit now he was making statements as questions.
The pierced brow rose slightly at that in an enigmatic gesture, but no response was forthcoming.
"This is a live in position. You don’t mind working for and living with a gay man?”
Finally, Mischa smiled. Donovan’s heart lurched at the sexy sweetness of that smile. The tiny silver hoop in his lower lip glinted seductively. Wonder how that piercing would feel when he pressed his lips to Mischa’s? It certainly drew attention to the swollen plumpness of the full red lower lip. Yeah—he really needed to get laid this weekend.
"No. I don’t mind working for a gay man, as long as you don’t mind hiring one." Mischa’s smile was now a broad grin, and he settled back more comfortably on the barstool, as though he were suddenly making himself at home.
Sudden sympathy overrode Donovan’s concerns. Why not give the kid a chance? If Martin Weston hadn’t hired him to work in the copy room at his company all those years ago despite his being an underage gay hippie he wouldn’t be where he was today. He’d probably regret this, but it looked like the skater-Goth-boy/man had talked himself into a job. And the corporate advertising executive was sentencing himself to a series of cold showers.
things first, are these sheets silk or cotton?
Hmm, I’m feeling in a silk mood
are you wearing?
An enigmatic smile and Channel Coco
are we snacking on in bed while we read tonight?
centered chocolates from a golden box, washed down with a cold crisp Rose wine!
I open this nightstand drawer, what will I find?
toys, cherry lubricant and a book or two! Oh, and, hopefully a corkscrew!
you roll up in the blankets like a burrito, or kick the covers off during the
can’t stand being cold so l stay under the duvet (afterwards, of course!) but l
quite like to stretch out!
I put my cold feet on your calves to warm them up?
not! But I like feet so maybe I’ll warm yours up with my hands, or even my
are we reading?
have been working on quite a few submissions for anthologies and a soon to be
released novella for Rebel Ink press, but this is my last self published eBook which
was released in November and is available to purchase from:
called ‘Master Me, Master You’ and
is a tale of sexual control.
A Brief synopsis:
quiet afternoon in a café leads to a chance meeting with Tom, an enigmatic man with
a dark compelling nature. His arrogant sexual demands grow in their intensity until
a visit to his neglected apartment reveals an even darker side of him that
Jenna is powerless to resist. This book is attended for Adults only and
contains strong language and explicit sex.
Excerpt from Master Me, Master You:
“Do you trust
me?” His soft voice questioned.
I nodded my
that tree, with your back to me.”
I hesitated, but only momentarily,
before pressing my elbows against the rough bark and feeling its rippled
texture against my fingers.
legs for me.” His voice was steady, slow and calm.
My heart thudded in my chest as l
spread my legs out behind me.
“I want you to
keep looking at the tree,” he said, “Push your ass out behind you; will you do
that for me?”
As if in a daze, l allowed my hands
to slide a little lower down the tree before pushing my bottom out further
beautiful,” he said, “Good girl.”
His hands lifted my little skirt
brushing against my trembling skin as they did so. The excitement building
within me was sending me dizzy; l felt the familiar throbbing beginning deep
within my pussy as every fibre within me ached for him.
He dropped to
his knees and with two strong thumbs opened me up slipping his wet tongue
deftly inside me. I gasped and jutted my butt up higher as he probed the folds
of my womanhood, causing exquisite pleasure and deeper arousal to surge through
On and on he
drove his tongue, pushing and lapping, l knew l was coating it with my juices
on each inward thrust; l could hardly hold back and began to stiffen as the
throbbing pressure increased.
He paused, stood
up behind me, and within moments filled me with his cock. The thrill of his
upward thrust and the harshness of the bark against my skin were almost more
than l could bear. I cried out noisily into the dense thicket l didn’t care if
anyone heard or saw us. I needed him, l needed this. It was just so good! I
clawed at the tree as his grip around my waist intensified and he thrust
he grunted in my ear, “Fucked against a tree!”
Good morning readers! Welcome back! This is our second post discussing whether men can write romance. Tom from A Bear on Books is sharing his views today. Be sure to leave us a comment with your views to be entered for a chance to win a $10 Amazon card. Come back each Tuesday this month for another chance to enter the drawing, and another view on this topic.
A Bear on Books on…
Can a Man Write Romance?
I read a little.
Okay, okay, that’s not quite true.
I read a lot. Anything from science fiction/fantasy to
serial killer books to humor to – surprise, surprise – romance. Especially gay romance.
In fact, you could say I’m getting to be a minor expert in
the genre. I have about, oh, twelve
hundred m/m books on my Kindle that I’ve finished. Everything from shifters to mysteries to
space operas to romance to flash fic.
And I found a little something to like in almost all of them. I can count on one hand the number I wish I
could wash from my brain. One in
Anyway, there are a few things the really good ones have in
common. Characters I care about. Realistic situations, appropriate for the
characters. Now, this can be shifters,
scifi/fantasy/horror too – the realism is specific to the world in which the
book is set. Good, crisp, interesting
dialogue and story telling.
I may be one of three who will say this, but unless the
editing is egregious, I won’t let it get in the way of my enjoyment. No book I’ve ever read is perfect – there’s a
flaw somewhere. But if the story grabs
me, a few missteps won’t break the spell.
And I think I’ve said this before, but it bears (ha – he
said “bear”) repeating. I don’t pay
attention to the name of the author unless it’s someone I know already and
love. Give me an Amy Lane or Sue Brown or Lee Brazil book
and I’m happier than Porky in poop.
Think about it.
So I don’t know going in most times if it’s a man or woman,
someone white, black, Hispanic, Asian, young, old, deaf, blind or whatever that
is writing. And I don’t care. If when I finish, I’m moved, I’ll read more and
maybe look up the author to see if I can find out a little something about the
person behind the talent.
This is a long way around to get to my point, maybe, but
that’s how I operate. Does it matter if
it’s a man or woman who wrote the story?
A resounding “Hell No”!
First, I guess, we have to define a Romance. To me, a Romance is a story where there are
(usually) two main characters who meet, fall in love and end up together. There may or may not be intervening
circumstances that keep them apart, interfere with their happiness, or break
them up temporarily. Here, we mean, boy
meets boy, boy loses boy, boy gets boy back and lives happily ever after.
With that as a working definition, I can name twenty good –
no, excellent – romance authors off the top of my head. And quite a few of them men.
Lee Brazil (shut up – I’ve read “Loving Jacob” and “The
Librarian” and “Loving Eden” and you get the point). Damon Suede. TJ Klune. John Goode.
Rick Reed. Xavier Axelson. Derek Adams.
Jake Mactire. Eric Arvin. Scotty Cade.
Need I go on?
Men feel emotions just as deeply as women. We just don’t necessarily always show them or
put them on paper. But it’s a gross
injustice to men AND women to think only a woman can write a romantic
scene. Or that only a man can write a
good action thriller.
We do each other such a disservice when we take the focus off
the books and worry about the hand that wrote them. Do we worry about the gender of an artist
whose sculpture we admire? The painting
that moves us? The movie that makes us
cry sitting there in the dark?
Art, of whatever kind, is about the WORK, not the artist.
So, yeah, men can write Romance. Do a damned fine job of it, too. Thank God.
Gives me more to read and enjoy.
To recap: You match six pieces of dialogue to the person who said it.
Email me the correct answers at lee(dot)email@example.com.
Havan and I will conduct a random draw from among those who correctly match ALL six bits of dialogue to the correct character.
The winner will receive a signed paperback copy of Truth or Dare.
(International players accepted, must leave contact email to win, must respond to notification of winning within seven days of April 29 or prize will be forfeit.)
That's it! Ready for the first round of questions?
1. "Now I want to do something just for me. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, spoiling our nieces and nephews and and sending them home high on sugar to torment their parents."
2. "Because you two don't know me well enough. You didn't trust me. That hurt. You should have known that I would never indulge in a on-night stand. It's just not me. So, I think we should date for a while, let our relationship progress from there as we get to know one another better."
Shh...now, you can leave me a comment if you want,
to let me know you're playing, but..don't give the answers!
To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting. ~e.e. cummings, 1955