Good Morning! Today I have exciting news. I was able to complete
the re-release of another of my Breathless Press titles, Mark's Opening
Gambit. This one features gorgeous cover art by BP artist Victoria Miller. It
was originally published in 2012 and is one of the first stories I wrote back
when I began my career as a writer. There haven't been any significant
alterations since the initial edition. This edition is available at Amazon All Romance Smashwords (and its distribution outlets, to include B&N, KOBO, etc) and can be purchased direct from me, if you have a Paypal account, via the Payhip service.
MARK'S OPENING GAMBIT
The son of a wealthy business man, Mark Addison is an expert at chess and
hiding. Mason Grant labors with his hands in a menial position; he's open about
who he is and what he wants in ways that terrify Mark. Their paths shouldn't
have crossed, but now that they have...
They came from different backgrounds, yet each adheres to his own version
of family duty and responsibility. One would make any sacrifice for his
family's well-being. For Mason Grant that means leaving school at sixteen and
working hard while living as a man of integrity to set an example for his
brothers.
The other would sacrifice anything to keep his family life calm. If that
means hiding who he really is from his high society, narrow-minded parents,
then that's what Mark Addison will do. He just wants to run his shop, host a
few tournaments, play a few games of chess.
When Mason meets fussy, precise chess tournament director Mark, he isn't
expecting much more than a few hours of uncomfortable sleep in his car while
his brother plays.
One disdainful look from Mark changes that.
EXCERPT:
Mason surreptitiously glanced around the
neat interior of Mark's Opening Gambit. The café-slash-chess parlor wasn't his
first choice of places to spend a Saturday, but when his brother begged a ride
to the tournament, he'd caved immediately, despite the exhaustion and body
aches he'd earned the night before. Unloading trucks and stocking shelves at
the grocery store wasn't a mentally challenging job, but the night shift paid a
dollar an hour more and the extra money came in handy. Times were tough, and a
guy without a high school diploma didn't stand a whole lot of a chance of doing
something better. It also left his mom free to take the day shift at the
hospital where she worked, and Mason was available during the days to ferry his
brothers around to their high school events and activities.
Such as chess tournaments hosted by button-down
dress-shirt-wearing, hot as hell, snooty men. He might have been a bit more
eager to play chauffeur if he'd realized the Mark his brother had spoken of
glowingly was such an eyeful. He'd stepped through the shop door behind Johnny
to find his gaze locked with a pair of eyes so deep and golden it was like he'd
stepped into honey. He couldn't glance away for the longest time, and it took
the other man's slow flush to make him realize he was being rude. That first
sight of the tournament host had sent a warm awareness through him. He really
wished that the sight of Mark Addison—Jesus, even his fucking name was holier
than thou—wasn't so appealing. Mark was perfect. Fucking perfect, or perfect
for fucking, with his neatly trimmed brown hair, touched with golden
highlights, his slim, wiry body, not the product of a gym but of a man who led
an active life. His lips enticed Mason, and he wanted to pull the puffy lower
one between his teeth and bite down, to suck it into his mouth and devour the
man with kisses. He wanted to touch the pale skin and see if it was as soft as
it appeared, as cold as it seemed, to stroke away the distance in those eyes
and make the Mark notice him.
The golden-brown gaze didn't warm in the
slightest under his own admiring regard, but scanned his faded Levi's and tight
T-shirt with disapproval. Mason half expected to be informed he didn't meet the
dress code for the elegant little shop. Instead, Mark Addison looked him over
and dismissed him as though he were beneath notice.
Shrugging off the snobbery, Mason slapped
his brother on the back. "Go get 'em, kid. Or whatever you guys call
it." Hoping to sleep in his car while his brother played, he turned to
leave immediately.
He met Addison's eyes again, tried for a
smile, but the arrogant host stared right through him. "Students
participating in the tournament are to be supervised by adults at all times."
The inflectionless voice grated on his
nerves as much as the pronouncement. It wasn't like these were two-year-olds,
for God's sake. It was Chess Club. By virtue of their very geekiness, they were
mature, well-behaved teens.
Too bad such a sexy voice and face
belonged to such a prick. Unfortunately for Mason, he couldn't focus on Johnny's
progress through the tournament. All he seemed able to focus on was that slim
figure moving between the tables, the unconscious grace of the small man's
movements, the seductive draw of tightening khaki across his backside as he
bent to survey a board or pick up something from the floor.
Addison scowled as Mark glared at him
again, turning and facing resolutely out the window into the parking lot. In
the reflection the glass provided, he watched Mark excuse himself from Ainslie,
the kids' coach, and head in his direction, a determined expression on his
face.
Good. The self-righteous prick had noticed
him. Mark stopped right next to him, and they stood gazing out into the parking
lot together.
"Stop staring at me like that."
Mason snorted, turned to look down at the
shorter man. "Like what?"
The older man twitched and licked his
lips. Mason stifled the groan that wanted to escape. He shifted restlessly.
"You know. Like...that."
"Like I want to throw you over my
shoulder and take you out of here and fuck you? Sorry. Can't do that."
Fascinated, he noted the flush on Mark's cheekbones deepen, heard the hitch in
his breathing, and knew that he'd been right. Chemistry burned between them.
"You..." Mark glanced cautiously
around the shop at the kids concentrating so fiercely on their chess games, the
proud parents and coaches peering anxiously at their little darlings. Mark stuttered
to a stop before starting again. "Not here. We need to talk privately.
Meet me behind the shop in ten minutes."
Whoa. He hadn't expected that. Maybe Mark's
buttoned-down appearance was deceptive. Mason looked forward to cracking that
calm reserve and proving to the man that the clothes they wore didn't define
their roles. He nodded in acknowledgment, and Mark wandered away to check on
the progress of the tournament. Mason headed straight to the front door, aware
all the while of Mark's furtive glances. He exited the shop and headed to his
beat-up old Jetta, so at odds with the shiny BMWs and SUVs that surrounded it
in the parking lot.
A brief stop at the car to pick up some
things he'd need, and he strolled casually around the corner of the building,
thankful that the chess café was at the end of the strip mall and not in the
middle. Behind the shop was a Dumpster, and strangely enough, a wrought-iron
table and two chairs on the cemented area that should have been an unloading
bay. Mason noted with interest the ashtray and coasters on the table. A few
potted palms provided a bit of shade and some privacy, but not enough for
anything too intimate. Mark had created a little garden back here. Mason's
absorption in the details of the environment convinced him that he'd
overestimated Mark's intentions. More private than the store itself, yes, but
hardly secluded enough for any real interaction of a physical sort.
He spied Mark peering through the back door of the shop. At the grocery
store where Mason worked, the back doors were battered and grimy. Not so at Mark's
Opening Gambit. The door to the back room of the shop was a shiny, pure white,
fresh scrubbed, or painted or whatever. Not so much as a fingerprint marred its
pristine surface, much like not so much as a hair on Mark's head dared stray
out of place. It made Mason want to grab a crayon and write on the walls, muss
up the environment just like he wanted to muss up those locks of brown
hair. Mark's sweet lips pressed tightly
together, and his cheeks flushed, from anger or arousal maybe, as he caught
sight of Mason.
Mason found his gaze drawn to those lips, wanting to pry them apart and
soothe the tension from them with caresses of his mouth and tongue. He licked
his suddenly dry lips in anticipation as Mark approached.
Honey-colored eyes sparkled with emotion as Mark came within touching
distance. Mason fought the urge to yank him even closer as Mark halted, gazing
up. He felt again the strange drowning sensation as he stared down into those
eyes, unable to glance away. Thank God Mark seemed to experience it, too,
because whatever angry words he'd been about to spout died on his lips as Mason
ran a big, calloused palm along the smooth-shaven curve of Mark's jaw, feeling his
indrawn breath as much as he heard it. The softness of Mark's jaw on his own
work-roughened skin was thrilling, and Mason bent down, tilting his head to the
side before smoothly bringing their lips together. With the merest brush of
contact, he paused to allow Mark the chance to refuse the kiss, to pull away,
to slap his face, to ream him out for having the gall to touch.
When no protest came, he sighed with relief. His eyelids drifted shut, and
he pressed his parted lips more firmly on the soft, sweet lips below his own.
Carefully, ignoring the throbbing demands of his body, he tasted the plump
curves that had held his gaze. Not wanting to startle Mark, Mason ran his
tongue lightly over those sensual lips, sliding his hand from the taut line of
jaw around to the nape of Mark's neck, burying his fingers in the fine, silky
strands of hair there.
Mark's unresisting acquiescence was far from the response he wanted. He
guided the man's head to a better angle and slipped his tongue into the waiting
cavern. Mark trembled in response. Mason wanted Mark to burn as he did, to feel
the same urgent desire to throw caution to the wind and make love here in the
open behind the shop. He wouldn't go that far in this public setting, of
course, but he wanted to strip away the distance in Mark's eyes and make him a
part of the present, force him to respond, to reach for Mason with the same
urgency that Mason yearned for him.
He'd nearly given up when Mark shoved him abruptly away, glaring at him
with angry golden eyes. Instead of the passion he'd hoped to inspire, the other
man appeared scared, panicky even. Mason stepped forward, guilt urging him to
offer comfort.
Mark scowled at Mason and pushed backward, dropped into one of the
wrought-iron chairs, and reached into a pocket to pull out a packet of
cigarettes. His gaze darted left and right as though searching for someone. "No.
What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Guilt at causing Mark's near panic, anger at being pushed aside, and,
to some degree, sheer exhaustion had words spilling from Mason's mouth before
he could evaluate them. "Hey, I get it. No means no. Yeah. Like I'd want
to kiss a wax doll again anyway."
He spun on his heel and stalked away from the little oasis in back of
the strip mall, ignoring Mark's harshly indrawn breath behind him. He shoved a
hand into his pocket and curled his fingers tightly around the condom and lube
he'd shoved there. Thinking with his dick. Fucking lucky he hadn't gotten
knocked on his ass literally instead of figuratively.
