Driftwood (25 page)

The last is hardest to ignore, and impossible when it comes to Mason. While sex with the hot, moody computer major gives John a rush as heady as diving, Mason's the only person John's ever seen surrounded by
two
distinct colors.

Mason feels like a stranger in his own life. His lover is dead, and he drowns his guilt in bourbon and sex—until John's innocence reawakens the man he used to be. After Mason gives the young virgin a proper introduction to sex, he plans to send him on his way. But John sees too much to make things that easy.

For John, their connection is more than just sizzling sex, it's something worth fighting for. The more he learns about the colors, though, the more he realizes the free-spirited Mason isn't free at all. John doesn't take second place to anyone—even the dead.

Warning: Anyone wishing to read this title should be an adult, free from any condition that might be aggravated by the presence of a not-too-scary haunting, sizzling sexual chemistry, and angsty young men having mildly kinky sex. Other restrictions may apply. No additional equipment needed—unless you like that sort of thing.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Life, Over Easy:

Mason's hand had been resting on the small of John's back and now it slid down to cup his ass through his Dockers. His dick liked that a lot. He hoped it wasn't far to Mason's house.

“So, John, what do you like?”

His voice. Screw the wind, Mason's voice curled around John's ears like dark purple velvet. John's favorite color, a purple so dark it was almost black. The same color as the collared shirt he'd worn to the party. It was bad enough for the sound to have color, but to feel it? That purple voice slid against his skin.

“You up for fucking?”

“I—uh—”

“Oh, man.” Mason moved closer, and that just made the color more intense as he whispered into John's ear. “First time? That's kinda hot.”

Mason's hand landed on John's dick. Maybe he was just being nice, trying to make sure John was really interested, but John thought the fact that he was here answered that already. And they might be in Albany, New York and not Waco, Texas, but John didn't want to stand out here as a target for anyone who decided that tonight was the night to get rid of some queers.

“C'mon.” Mason tugged him down a driveway made up of two uneven strips of sidewalk that ran parallel to one of the houses on the street. They climbed up the back porch steps, and Mason let them into a dark kitchen. As he opened the fridge, the light showed a sink full of dishes and a table full of books and papers and a laptop.

“Want another beer?” Mason asked over his shoulder.

John's throat was dry, but beer had too much vitamin pee in it, and he didn't want to screw this up by having to work on getting his dick to switch functions halfway through.

“No thanks.”

Mason uncapped a bottle for himself and drained half of it. Moving more swiftly than he should have been able to, he rolled the icy lip of the bottle across John's lower lip.

“You're fucking hot, but you look scared. You okay with this?”

John wasn't scared, just startled. And he was more than okay with it. It wasn't as if he were saving his virginity for a special occasion. When he found someone, he'd kind of like to know what he was doing. At the rate Mason was drinking, if John did something stupid, Mason either wouldn't know or wouldn't remember. Good enough for tryouts.

“I'm fine.”

Mason tipped the bottle, and John let some of the beer slide down his throat. With a small smile, Mason moved the bottle down over John's lips to his chin to his throat, until it rested in the notch of his collarbone. John shuddered.

“This is gonna be fun.” Mason finished the bottle and added it to the dishes on the counter, and then tugged John close for another kiss. Definitely beery this time, but still good, setting his heart pounding, blood reheating all the spots that Mason had chilled with the bottle.

“C'mon,” Mason said again, though John had hardly been the one to hold anything up. He left his cane at the foot of the stairs and followed Mason to a room with piles of clothes on the floor and a tangle of sheets on the bed—which was just a mattress on the floor.

Mason flopped on the mattress and unbuttoned his jeans. “Get naked. I can't wait to see what you've got.”

Mason had his jeans around his ankles and was kicking them away as John peeled off his shirt.

“Oh shit. Never mind. Slow down.” Mason reached up and pulled John onto the bed, running first his hand and then his mouth over John's chest. He jumped when Mason's tongue flicked hard over a nipple.

“All right. Let's get your pants off before anything else happens.” Mason's fingers had trouble with the rivet, so John arched his hips and shimmied out of the pants himself.

Mason did much better lifting the elastic of John's jockstrap. “Mmmm. This is why your ass felt so good even through those pants.” Mason dragged the elastic down over John's knees and tossed it away.

John was wondering if he was supposed to say something too. Mason was still in his T-shirt and shorts, so John couldn't see much besides his legs. He was glad Mason had left the lights off. It was easier, and John's head exploded less when it wasn't too bright. He was thinking he'd need to wear sunglasses to class, even if everyone called him Stevie Wonder.

Apparently, Mason didn't need any conversational skills from his bed partners since he pushed John onto his back and started flicking at his nipples with tongue and fingers.

“God, what I'm going to do to your ass.”

It was fine. Because John could just let that voice float all around him, wrap him in that warm purple velvet while every stroke of Mason's tongue made John's dick pulse and twitch.

“Gonna eat you. Loosen you up with my tongue until you beg for my dick.” Mason's mouth moved below John's navel and not talking was good because he was pretty sure that the only thing that would come out of his mouth was “Finally.” Roald didn't kiss, and reciprocating a blow job was out of the question.

“You're gonna scream a little when I get it in you, but then it's gonna feel so good.” Mason's thumbs started under John's balls and stroked up in the crease of John's thighs, coming to rest on his hips like he was going to hold him down.

Not necessary. John wasn't going anywhere.

“Sweet cock.” Mason licked the head. “Anybody ever do this to you before?”

“No. No one.” Maybe holding John down wouldn't be a bad idea because he wanted to arch up, slam his dick to the back of Mason's throat, and as he knew from personal experience, that took a minute or so to work up to.

Mason's lips wrapped tight around the head, tongue flicking the slit. Hot. Wet. Oh God. This was so worth…

The tongue stopped moving, the pressure eased. John brought his hands to that soft prickle of hair just above Mason's ears.

“Mason?”

Silence. John lifted his head and then propped himself up on his elbows.

If John didn't have a sense of proportion, he might have thought it was the shittiest thing that had ever happened to him. But shitty or not, Mason had passed out, head heavy on John's thigh, lips slack, stuttering breath teasing the wet skin on John's dick.

John let his head flop back against the mattress. This was so not his year.

Easy come, easy go…until the heart gets involved.

Pricks and Pragmatism

© 2010 J.L. Merrow

English student and aspiring journalist Luke Corbin should be studying. Instead he's facing homelessness, thanks to the lover who's just kicking him out of their posh digs. It's not his first rejection—his father tossed him out at age sixteen—but Luke has no problem trading his favors for a home and security. Especially with rich, powerful, handsome men.

Except now, with finals bearing down, there's no time to be choosy. He needs a roof over his head and he needs it now. Even if it means settling temporarily for a geeky, less-than-well-off chemical engineer called Russell.

Luke's fully prepared to put out for the guy—because after all, in this world no one gets something for nothing. But Russell isn't just a nerd; he's an honourable nerd who wants to save himself for someone special.

At first Luke is annoyed, but the more time he spends with Russell, the closer he comes to a devastating realization. He wants to
be
that someone special. Except he's fallen for the one man he can't seem to charm…

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Pricks and Pragmatism:

I clocked Russell the minute I walked in the door of the café. He was sitting on his own at a table in the corner playing with his mug, short stubby fingers moving nervously over the china. I was almost worried to say hello in case I made him spill his drink. Tom had been right. Russell
really
wasn't my usual type. He was… Well, he was a bit of a geek. Actually, he was a lot of a geek. Round face and too-long mousy brown hair, although at least he'd washed it. An actual beard to match; and we're not talking a neatly trimmed goatee, either. He wore a shapeless sweater over a shirt his mum must have bought him, and glasses from Nerds'R'Us. No spots, thank God. He looked around thirty, although from what Tom had said he ought to be a lot nearer my age. Still, it wouldn't be the first time Tom had given the truth the odd nip and tuck.

Three weeks to Finals, I reminded myself. And beggars can't be choosers. So I plastered on my best cheeky smile, pulled out the chair opposite him with a scrape and sat down. He looked up, startled, and just managed not to drench me in coffee. “Hi, I'm Luke. You're Russell?”

“Er, yes,” he said, like he wasn't really sure. “Nice to meet you.” He didn't say anything else, just stared into his coffee cup as if helpful suggestions were going to spell themselves out on the foam on top. His fingers linked around the sides of the mug like he was giving it a cuddle. I wondered who'd taken away his security blanket. Maybe it was in the wash.

“Coffee any good here?” I asked. Actually I'd been here a few times before and I knew it was shite. But they were really good about letting you hang around all day when it was cold outside, and one waitress in particular was always good for a free refill if you flashed her a smile.

Russell looked worried, like he thought it was some kind of test.

“Not that I'm fussy, mind,” I added to put him at his ease. Never a truer word, and all that.

“It's—it's all right, I suppose.” His eyes darted up to me briefly, and then returned to the safety of the coffee cup. “Their tea's better,” he ventured.

I shrugged. “Like I said, I'm not fussy. As long as it's hot and wet, it'll do me.” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table, and made my tone low and suggestive. Habit, really, more than an urgent desire to get into Russell's C&A slacks.

Russell blushed. Ye gods. Well, at least his innuendo detectors were working just fine. “Tom said…he said you needed somewhere to stay for a bit,” he said, looking up briefly from under his hair and then ducking back down for cover again.

“Yeah,” I said. “I know it's a pain, but I need somewhere by the weekend. Tom reckoned you might be able to help me.” He still wasn't looking at me, which wasn't helping at all, so I made my voice as warm and seductive as possible and reached across the table to place a hand on one of his.

He jumped a bloody mile and this time he did spill the coffee. “Shit! Oh, God, sorry!”

“Hey, don't sweat it,” I told him easily, seeing as about one drop had gone on my sleeve and the rest was soaking into his sweater. Shame it hadn't gone in his lap, but I made the best of it. I must have used half the paper napkins in the place to mop him up, even the bits that didn't strictly need it. He appreciated it. Believe me, I could tell. “Come on, we'd better get you home and into some dry clothes,” I said, taking his arm.

Russell lived in a development near the docks. Not the posh end, by Ocean Village where Sebastian lived so he could go and wank over his yacht any time he wanted, but it wasn't totally downmarket. His flat was on the second floor, up four flights of stairs. It was all right, I suppose. Nothing like Sebastian's, of course, but I'd known I wouldn't get that lucky again. There was a tiny hall that led into a smallish lounge/diner, with other doors off that must be to bed and other rooms. “Great place you've got here,” I said, slinging my rucksack on the floor.

Russell looked pleased. “You like it? I know it's a bit bare—I haven't had time to do it up much yet.”

“No, it's great,” I told him, walking past the squashy, lived-in sofa to the window. “That view is amazing,” I added, with a lot more sincerity this time. The flat looked out over Southampton Water, and you could see the lights of ships passing by underneath in the twilight. Farther up to one side was a bridge over the river with tiny little cars driving over it, visible only by their headlamps. Somehow it made me feel like we were right in the heart of things, but in our own little world; part of the city, but above it too.

“It's great, isn't it?” Russell said, coming up behind me. “It's why I bought the place. Just fell in love with that view. You look at that and you feel you can go anywhere, do anything.” It was more words than he'd strung together the whole time in the café.

“Yeah? You always lived here alone?”

Russell nodded once, clamming up again. “I'll just get changed.”

He disappeared into what must be his bedroom, and I looked around a bit, checking out the bookshelves and the DVD collection like you always do, although hopefully I'd have plenty of time to do that later. There were the engineering books like you'd expect, and the complete works of Terry Pratchett snuggled up to
Gormenghast
and
The Lord of the Rings
, but there was also a whole shelf full of books in French, mostly crime stories, which made sense. You don't need half as big a vocabulary to read thrillers in a foreign language as you do for science fiction. There were a couple of Arsène Lupin paperbacks that looked familiar from my teenage years, and a solitary Maigret. It made me nostalgic for childhood holidays in Brittany. Back when my dad had still been speaking to me.