Discover the Heated Exchange/Pulp Friction Series....
The Aristocrat and his Servant
A Rake in London Series, Book One
Lime Tree Press
Historical M/M Short Story
Buy at ARe
Pulp Friction: Heated Exchange…Leaving you Satisfied For Now
Gavin, Baron Stephenson is an aristocrat accustomed to taking his pleasures where he will, but he always comes home to his oldest friend, his dearest lover, his servant Marcus.
The Aristocrat & His Servant is a 5,500-word erotic story of lovers indulging in light-hearted banter and little afternoon frolic. This is Book One in a Series recounting the sensual adventures of Baron Stephenson and his lover, Marcus Jennings.
Contains explicit, consensual sex. Not for those under 18 years of age.
Gavin, Baron Stephenson is an aristocrat accustomed to taking his pleasures where he will, but he always comes home to his oldest friend, his dearest lover, his servant Marcus.
The Aristocrat & His Servant is a 5,500-word erotic story of lovers indulging in light-hearted banter and little afternoon frolic. This is Book One in a Series recounting the sensual adventures of Baron Stephenson and his lover, Marcus Jennings.
Contains explicit, consensual sex. Not for those under 18 years of age.
Teaser Excerpt:
The heavy velvet bed curtains muffled the noises in his chamber, but Gavin found himself dragged into wakefulness just the same, although he'd had all too few hours of sleep. He kept his eyes closed, attempting to keep hold of the tempting visions that had anointed his sleeping hours. He'd stumbled home as the sun rose in the sky, ebullient and more than a little tipsy after a night of cards in the gambling hells of London with his friends. Lady Luck had smiled upon him the night before in more ways than one. He'd come home with pockets full of coin, and a handful of scraps of paper that proved that luck at the card tables didn't of necessity mean no luck in the boudoir.
Yawning, Gavin reluctantly left behind sensual dreams of guinea gold curls and liquid blue eyes, of plump rosy lips wrapped around his aching length. Dreaming of the young man who'd lost hand after hand of cards to him the night before was hardly satisfying, not when he had the means to achieve a much more solid sort of repayment of the debt at hand. Stretching, Gavin kicked aside the thin bed covers. His fine lawn nightshirt rode up, baring his thighs and throbbing erection to the air. He didn't recall undressing the night before, and rather hoped he'd managed to do more than drop his clothing in a pile on the floor. Marcus never liked it when he was careless, and he'd be in for a few difficult moments if he'd destroyed any of his clothing in his drunken state. It wasn't the location of his garments that brought him awake though. It was the whereabouts of those all-important bits of paper.
The burgundy velvet drapes rattled as they were pulled aside. "Good afternoon, My Lord." Jennings's ruthlessly cheery voice pried his eyelids open and Gavin let go of the remnants of his dream seduction. Bright searing light from opened windows declared the accuracy of Marcus's assertion. It was indeed past noon. Squinting into the appalling light, Gavin spied his clothes neatly draped upon a brocade chair by the fireplace. His winnings appeared to be heaped upon the side table next to the chair, near a stub of a candle in a silver holder, an empty port decanter and a half-filled glass. Relieved, he turned his head from the sunlight streaming through the windows. Marcus had a bit of a cruel streak that surfaced at inopportune moments. No, not cruel, perhaps he'd be better to say his lover's sense of humor was just a bit off. Ordinarily he'd have chided the man for his mirth, but this day... He was inclined to allow his oldest friend his prank, especially as last night's drinking left him muzzy headed. He'd had just enough it seemed to make him malleable without causing the devilish headache of overindulgence. The young man from the gambling hell with his sweet limbs and complete innocence of the wicked ways of the ton would be his soon enough. Meanwhile, there were more urgent matters to take care of.
"Jennings," he paused, letting his desire show, revising the formality of his approach. The man might be his valet and trusted personal servant, but more than that, he was Marcus, Gavin's first lover, best friend and most cherished companion. "Marcus. Attend me." His voice was a combination of hoarse lust and alcohol induced huskiness that grated on his own ears, but Marcus didn't seem to mind. Twisting sinuously on the silky sheets, Gavin dragged a finger up the thick vein on the underside of his cock, smiled at his valet's sharp intake of breath, and stretched again, arching his back until his vertebrae cracked.
Yawning, Gavin reluctantly left behind sensual dreams of guinea gold curls and liquid blue eyes, of plump rosy lips wrapped around his aching length. Dreaming of the young man who'd lost hand after hand of cards to him the night before was hardly satisfying, not when he had the means to achieve a much more solid sort of repayment of the debt at hand. Stretching, Gavin kicked aside the thin bed covers. His fine lawn nightshirt rode up, baring his thighs and throbbing erection to the air. He didn't recall undressing the night before, and rather hoped he'd managed to do more than drop his clothing in a pile on the floor. Marcus never liked it when he was careless, and he'd be in for a few difficult moments if he'd destroyed any of his clothing in his drunken state. It wasn't the location of his garments that brought him awake though. It was the whereabouts of those all-important bits of paper.
The burgundy velvet drapes rattled as they were pulled aside. "Good afternoon, My Lord." Jennings's ruthlessly cheery voice pried his eyelids open and Gavin let go of the remnants of his dream seduction. Bright searing light from opened windows declared the accuracy of Marcus's assertion. It was indeed past noon. Squinting into the appalling light, Gavin spied his clothes neatly draped upon a brocade chair by the fireplace. His winnings appeared to be heaped upon the side table next to the chair, near a stub of a candle in a silver holder, an empty port decanter and a half-filled glass. Relieved, he turned his head from the sunlight streaming through the windows. Marcus had a bit of a cruel streak that surfaced at inopportune moments. No, not cruel, perhaps he'd be better to say his lover's sense of humor was just a bit off. Ordinarily he'd have chided the man for his mirth, but this day... He was inclined to allow his oldest friend his prank, especially as last night's drinking left him muzzy headed. He'd had just enough it seemed to make him malleable without causing the devilish headache of overindulgence. The young man from the gambling hell with his sweet limbs and complete innocence of the wicked ways of the ton would be his soon enough. Meanwhile, there were more urgent matters to take care of.
"Jennings," he paused, letting his desire show, revising the formality of his approach. The man might be his valet and trusted personal servant, but more than that, he was Marcus, Gavin's first lover, best friend and most cherished companion. "Marcus. Attend me." His voice was a combination of hoarse lust and alcohol induced huskiness that grated on his own ears, but Marcus didn't seem to mind. Twisting sinuously on the silky sheets, Gavin dragged a finger up the thick vein on the underside of his cock, smiled at his valet's sharp intake of breath, and stretched again, arching his back until his vertebrae cracked.
A Debt of Honor: Collected
A Heated Exchange Series, Book Two
Pulp Friction
Lime Tree Series
Historical/Regency M/M Short Story
Buy at ARe
Having won a sum of money at the gambling tables, Gavin, Baron Stephenson, is anxious to collect on the debt. He suspects that Bernard St. John hasn’t the funds to pay, and intends to offer the man a method of settling up that he hopes will satisfy them both.
WARNING: This 5,000 word short story, the second in a series detailing the amorous adventurous of a Rake of the London aristocracy, contains a touch of dishonor, a smattering of blackmail, a healthy dose of homoerotica, and a not so innocent victim.
WARNING: This 5,000 word short story, the second in a series detailing the amorous adventurous of a Rake of the London aristocracy, contains a touch of dishonor, a smattering of blackmail, a healthy dose of homoerotica, and a not so innocent victim.
Teaser Excerpt:
He ought to have been inert, unable, after the thorough romp he'd indulged in with Marcus. "Bernard Augustus St. John." He whispered the name almost reverently. The fulsome youth from Madame's gaming hell was set to arrive by quarter past, and Gavin had every reason to hope, based upon certain flirtatious repartee, that a most amicable arrangement could be made for the repayment of the debt the younger man had incurred.
"Pardon?" His secretary gazed at him, an auburn eyebrow lifted in inquiry.
"Ah. Martens. Last eve I had occasion to win a great sum off a gentleman at a gambling hell. He will be arriving shortly to make payment. It would be politic if you would make yourself scarce while we come to terms. It wouldn't do to embarrass the man."
"As you wish, sir." The man's smooth countenance, high cheekbones auburn hair and freckles didn't appeal at all to Gavin, though he had no trouble understanding what attraction the whip thin frame had for Marcus, and there was no denying the intelligence and humor in the pretty blue eyes. The man knew how to dress, too. His neat suit was of understated black, his linens pure white, fine quality. Discreet, not too expensive for his station in life, nor cheap. A knowledgeable spark, a fleeting expression of comprehension, appeared then vanished.
Gavin paused. The secretary couldn't possibly suspect the terms of payment that Gavin wished to enact, could he? Breaking eye contact dismissively, Gavin retrieved a key from the top drawer of his desk and unlocked the lowest drawer. Far at the back, behind a false panel, was a small, thin leather bound ledger in which he kept account of his gambling debts. Letting his fingers rest on the volume, he watched Martens intently. Nodding, the man wandered back to his own smaller desk with the signed letters and set about sanding, folding and sealing them.
A sharp rap came on the door.
"Come." A shiver rippled through him at the evocative word, and he castigated himself for the unlikely reaction.
The butler announced Bernard's presence, and stepped aside, ushering the young man into the room. Gavin nodded significantly at Martens, who gathered the letters and a small leather and gilt bound volume from his own desk. "I'll post these, sir. It's my afternoon away. I'll be in Green Park, if you have a need of me, my lord."
Gavin rose from his seat and crossed to the young man who hovered in front of his desk. Last night his cheeks had been flushed, eyes sparkling with enjoyment and drink. This afternoon his features were as finely drawn, but his skin was ashen and his brows drawn down. Ah, his father has indeed refused to part with the ready! Gavin smiled pleasantly; a warm tide of arousal washed over him. "Please be seated. May I get you a drink? Port? Whiskey?"
If possible the boy went even paler. For certain his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed rapidly. "No, thank you." The words were choked out. His blue-eyed gaze darted about, and then landed on a chair angled to face the desk. St. John sank into it and gripped the arm rests tightly.
Gavin leaned against his desk, crossed his ankles. He didn't care at all that the position stretched the fabric of his trousers tight across his groin, lovingly outlining the burgeoning erection he made no effort to quell. "Well then," he began. "I hold your vowels for the sum of not quite two thousand pounds, cub."
"Pardon?" His secretary gazed at him, an auburn eyebrow lifted in inquiry.
"Ah. Martens. Last eve I had occasion to win a great sum off a gentleman at a gambling hell. He will be arriving shortly to make payment. It would be politic if you would make yourself scarce while we come to terms. It wouldn't do to embarrass the man."
"As you wish, sir." The man's smooth countenance, high cheekbones auburn hair and freckles didn't appeal at all to Gavin, though he had no trouble understanding what attraction the whip thin frame had for Marcus, and there was no denying the intelligence and humor in the pretty blue eyes. The man knew how to dress, too. His neat suit was of understated black, his linens pure white, fine quality. Discreet, not too expensive for his station in life, nor cheap. A knowledgeable spark, a fleeting expression of comprehension, appeared then vanished.
Gavin paused. The secretary couldn't possibly suspect the terms of payment that Gavin wished to enact, could he? Breaking eye contact dismissively, Gavin retrieved a key from the top drawer of his desk and unlocked the lowest drawer. Far at the back, behind a false panel, was a small, thin leather bound ledger in which he kept account of his gambling debts. Letting his fingers rest on the volume, he watched Martens intently. Nodding, the man wandered back to his own smaller desk with the signed letters and set about sanding, folding and sealing them.
A sharp rap came on the door.
"Come." A shiver rippled through him at the evocative word, and he castigated himself for the unlikely reaction.
The butler announced Bernard's presence, and stepped aside, ushering the young man into the room. Gavin nodded significantly at Martens, who gathered the letters and a small leather and gilt bound volume from his own desk. "I'll post these, sir. It's my afternoon away. I'll be in Green Park, if you have a need of me, my lord."
Gavin rose from his seat and crossed to the young man who hovered in front of his desk. Last night his cheeks had been flushed, eyes sparkling with enjoyment and drink. This afternoon his features were as finely drawn, but his skin was ashen and his brows drawn down. Ah, his father has indeed refused to part with the ready! Gavin smiled pleasantly; a warm tide of arousal washed over him. "Please be seated. May I get you a drink? Port? Whiskey?"
If possible the boy went even paler. For certain his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed rapidly. "No, thank you." The words were choked out. His blue-eyed gaze darted about, and then landed on a chair angled to face the desk. St. John sank into it and gripped the arm rests tightly.
Gavin leaned against his desk, crossed his ankles. He didn't care at all that the position stretched the fabric of his trousers tight across his groin, lovingly outlining the burgeoning erection he made no effort to quell. "Well then," he began. "I hold your vowels for the sum of not quite two thousand pounds, cub."
A Visit to his Tailor
A Heated Exchange Series, Book Three
Lime Tree Press
Historical/Regency M/M Short Story
Buy at ARe
Having triumphed with his blackmail attempt, Gavin rejoins his beloved manservant to recount his adventure only to find that the man is intent on a sartorial make-over. The trip to the tailor is just the start of an all new erotic adventure for the lovers.
WARNING: This Regency era short story contains homoerotic sex acts, sounding, voyeurism and just a touch of yearning for a different world.
WARNING: This Regency era short story contains homoerotic sex acts, sounding, voyeurism and just a touch of yearning for a different world.
Teaser Excerpt:
After seeing his visitor to the door, Gavin Stephens spun about and raced for the marble staircase. He could feel the silly smile stretching his lips, but couldn't rein it in. His heart was light, his soul at peace. The clatter of his Hessians on the marble drummed a counterpoint to the beat of his heart as he loped upward, anxious to share his afternoon with Marcus. The scent of Bernard still clung to him, the taste of his seed lingered in his mouth. His hand sliding along the mahogany banister tingled with the remembered feel of Bernard's skin and his fingers itched to tangle those golden curls again. And he would, at the theater.
The door of his chambers stood open, indicating Marcus was present. Clearly the man's efforts at seduction had been less fruitful than Gavin's. Almost he could feel sympathy, but the urge to twit his best friend over his obviously inferior seduction technique was too good to pass up. Never certain what direction his confessions might take when shared with Marcus, Gavin shut and locked the door behind him. He made his way quietly across the sitting room's carpeted floor, thinking he might catch Marcus in some lewd or mischievous act. 'Twas another of the games they often played with one another. On the way, he scooped up a crystal decanter of fine French brandy that Marcus seemed to be able to keep in steady supply despite the embargo against importing goods from France during war time.
He pressed his ear to the bedroom door, but couldn't make out any noises beyond it. Carefully, Gavin twisted the knob and let the door swing open. Entering his chambers, Gavin found his valet and lover, Marcus, standing with his arms crossed in the center of the room. He appeared to be in deep thought frowning at a selection of waistcoats draped over the bed. Silently placing the decanter on a chest of drawers by the door, Gavin slipped up behind the man and covered his eyes playfully. "Guess who?" He demanded softly, thrusting his hips to grind his groin against Marcus's backside.
"My lord." Marcus answered without hesitation.
"Guess again," he teased.
Snorting, Marcus grabbed his hands and tugged them away, pulling Gavin around to steal a kiss. A teasing smile danced about his lips. "Think you that I cannot recognize that cologne? Or the faintest hint of that oriental oil that clings still to the palm of your hand?"
Flushing, Gavin sniffed his ungloved hand delicately. "It does rather cling, but as I find it stimulating, I will not complain." His lips tingled from their kiss and he wound his fingers in his lover's hair to pull him into another. Marcus acceded to his seduction, opening his mouth to suck in Gavin's tongue with a hungry moan. Their tongues dueled, twining together, sliding over slick teeth. Gavin stretched up on tiptoe, clenching his hands on Marcus's shoulders, hips twisting against the rising evidence of his valet's urges.
He drew back and gazed into stormy eyes. "I take it you are having no luck seducing my lovely secretary?"
Marcus frowned, pushed Gavin toward the bed. "He's either a complete innocent or a complete blockhead."
"Well, he's not a complete blockhead. The fellow is very astute with figures." He ducked his head to the side and added, "Perhaps he just doesn't find your figure appealing?"
The door of his chambers stood open, indicating Marcus was present. Clearly the man's efforts at seduction had been less fruitful than Gavin's. Almost he could feel sympathy, but the urge to twit his best friend over his obviously inferior seduction technique was too good to pass up. Never certain what direction his confessions might take when shared with Marcus, Gavin shut and locked the door behind him. He made his way quietly across the sitting room's carpeted floor, thinking he might catch Marcus in some lewd or mischievous act. 'Twas another of the games they often played with one another. On the way, he scooped up a crystal decanter of fine French brandy that Marcus seemed to be able to keep in steady supply despite the embargo against importing goods from France during war time.
He pressed his ear to the bedroom door, but couldn't make out any noises beyond it. Carefully, Gavin twisted the knob and let the door swing open. Entering his chambers, Gavin found his valet and lover, Marcus, standing with his arms crossed in the center of the room. He appeared to be in deep thought frowning at a selection of waistcoats draped over the bed. Silently placing the decanter on a chest of drawers by the door, Gavin slipped up behind the man and covered his eyes playfully. "Guess who?" He demanded softly, thrusting his hips to grind his groin against Marcus's backside.
"My lord." Marcus answered without hesitation.
"Guess again," he teased.
Snorting, Marcus grabbed his hands and tugged them away, pulling Gavin around to steal a kiss. A teasing smile danced about his lips. "Think you that I cannot recognize that cologne? Or the faintest hint of that oriental oil that clings still to the palm of your hand?"
Flushing, Gavin sniffed his ungloved hand delicately. "It does rather cling, but as I find it stimulating, I will not complain." His lips tingled from their kiss and he wound his fingers in his lover's hair to pull him into another. Marcus acceded to his seduction, opening his mouth to suck in Gavin's tongue with a hungry moan. Their tongues dueled, twining together, sliding over slick teeth. Gavin stretched up on tiptoe, clenching his hands on Marcus's shoulders, hips twisting against the rising evidence of his valet's urges.
He drew back and gazed into stormy eyes. "I take it you are having no luck seducing my lovely secretary?"
Marcus frowned, pushed Gavin toward the bed. "He's either a complete innocent or a complete blockhead."
"Well, he's not a complete blockhead. The fellow is very astute with figures." He ducked his head to the side and added, "Perhaps he just doesn't find your figure appealing?"
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