The Dark Farewell (18 page)

“By God, how I’ve missed you.” Nicky chuckled and yanked Ian’s cravat free.

Ian felt his own lips curve in answer. There had always been so much laughter between them. For

years, that absence cut as keenly as the loss of Nicky’s touch.

Shoving away bolster and counterpane, Nicky flung himself onto the bed. “Now. Kindly divest

yourself of those clothes and get up here before I am forced to seek other amusements.”

Nicky arranged himself in a gloriously naked display, familiar laugh and cornflower-blue eyes at odds with the strangeness of a body more heavily muscled, more thickly pelted, but no less enthralling than the one that had filled Ian’s dreams as he slept in tents on the edges of battlefields. Longing clawed deeper hollows than all those years of denial, until again Ian was deprived of sufficient breath.

Such was the assault wrought on his senses by Nicky’s sprawl across the mattress that Ian had

stripped away waistcoat and shirt and unfastened his breeches before Nicky’s last words attached

themselves to a meaning. The haze of lust clouding Ian’s mind took on a red veil of anger.

“Other amusements?”

Nicky sighed and leaned forward, taking Ian by the arm. “I swear to provide you with a detailed

history of the past five years in writing and affix the bloody Carleigh seal to my testimony. But if I don’t have you right now, one of us will end up dead.”

Nicky pulled him with a force too gentle to be compelling, but it was easier by far to let Nicky drag Ian onto the bed than to make the decision himself.

Nicky rolled, trapping Ian beneath, the press of hard warm skin such a shock Ian had to close his eyes against the sensation. When he opened them, there was Nicky, the achingly familiar blue eyes and full lips all Ian could hope of heaven“Which of us?”

“Does it matter?” Nicky rocked against him.

Ian thought again of Aristophanes and Phaedrus and their tales of separated lovers. Of Achilles’

terrible grief for Patroclus. “No.”

Nicky kissed the word from his mouth in a gentle press of lips, but Ian brought his hand up to tangle at last in those curls and pinned Nicky tight, an upward thrust of hips to feel the harder, wetter kiss of Nicky’s cock on Ian’s belly.

Nicky wrenched free and reared up, hands working to finish his duty as substitute valet, shoving away Ian’s breeches and small clothes until at last their pricks slapped together. Ian thought he had exorcised it from his memory, but there was no forgetting that sensation, the silky heat of Nicky’s cock against his.

Adding his spit to slick the way, Nicky held them together, rubbing the thick ridges against each

other, washing the whole shaft with heat and pressure. Sweet enough to die from but not enough. God, not enough.

The ghosts of the past will shape your future. Unless you fight them.

Lessons in Power

© 2009 Charlie Cochrane

A
Cambridge Fellows
Mystery

Cambridge, 1907.

After settling in their new home, Cambridge dons Orlando Coppersmith and Jonty Stewart are looking

forward to nothing more exciting than teaching their students and playing rugby. Their plans change when a friend asks their help to clear an old flame who stands accused of murder.

Doing the right thing means Jonty and Orlando must leave the sheltering walls of St. Bride’s to enter a labyrinth of suspects and suspicions, lies and anguish.

Their investigation raises ghosts from Jonty’s past when the murder victim turns out to be one of the men who sexually abused him at school. The trauma forces Jonty to withdraw behind a wall of painful

memories. And Orlando fears he may forever lose the intimacy of his best friend and lover.

When another one of Jonty’s abusers is found dead, police suspicion falls on the Cambridge fellows

themselves. Finding this murderer becomes a race to solve the crime…before it destroys Jonty’s fragile state of mind.

Warning: Contains sensual m/m lovemaking and hot men playing rugby.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Lessons in Power:

“Jonty?” Orlando didn’t usually knock, making do with barging into his friend’s room unannounced,

hoping to catch him unawares. On this occasion he not only tapped at the door, but tentatively poked his head around it.

“Hello, sweetheart. Come in and stop making a draught.”

Orlando shut the door carefully behind him then wandered across to the huge brass bed, where Jonty

lay looking like a schoolboy in his striped pyjamas and with his hair all fluffed up from being washed. It was a sight which filled him with thoughts even more tender than those he’d entered the room with.

Orlando ruffled his locks. “Feeling better?”

“Much, thank you. Have you been chin-wagging with Mama?”

Orlando nodded. “A pleasant way to pass the time.” He sought refuge in bland words, hoping his

friend wouldn’t come up with any probing questions just yet.

“And would it be pleasant to pass some time in my bed?” Jonty reached out his hand to finger

Orlando’s tie. “I have a hankering to lie with my lover which won’t be easily gainsaid.”

“I think I would like that above all things.” Orlando started undressing, as brazen as he’d been the afternoon when he’d got drunk and insisted on using Jonty’s bath. That now seemed long ago, an age of

great innocence when they knew very little about each other. They knew much more now—hardly anything was kept secret and that only because it didn’t really matter in the greater scheme of their lives.

The innocence had now long gone—Orlando couldn’t believe what he’d been just a year or so ago.

Twenty-seven and a virgin. Twenty-seven and never been kissed. Twenty-seven and likely to remain

untouched until he died a dried-up death in a chair in St. Bride’s Senior Common Room. Then Jonty

Stewart came on the scene and all that had changed. Thank heaven he had.

Orlando wandered through the bathroom which connected their two bedrooms, found his pyjamas,

slipped them on, then returned to find Jonty snuggled down, book and reading glasses discarded. Orlando slid between the soft linen sheets, drawing Jonty to him. “I’d hoped it was all over, you know.”

“Hmm?”

“This business with the thunder. I always hoped that somehow I could overcome it with my affection

for you. ‘Perfect love casteth out fear’ and all that.”

“Well it should do, Orlando, but somehow it’s not as easy as it seems. We do have perfect love for

each other and I’d regard myself as blessed above all men ‘were it not that I have bad dreams’.” Jonty shuddered, as if he were shaking off memories as easily as he could shake off his jacket.

“Do you? Nightmares?”

“No, clown.” Jonty pinched his lover’s backside. “I was quoting your pal Hamlet. It isn’t the land of nod, wherever I go when the storms come. I don’t feel distressed or see visions, I just visit somewhere else.

Very odd.”

“I think you go there to protect yourself, in case you remember anything.” Orlando smoothed his

lover’s hair, admiring the golden tones, the hints of auburn the firelight threw up.

“You could well be right. I don’t want to remember the gruesome details, thank you.” Jonty snuggled

onto his lover’s chest. “Want to make new memories with you. I think we should somehow wangle it one night, you know, make love while a storm is at its height. That might just get rid of all the trouble. If I could keep
here
for long enough to take an active part.”

Orlando held him tighter, kissed his brow. “I suppose I could pinch you or something. Shame there’s

not been a storm since we got the house—being there would make it easier.”

“There’ll be plenty in the spring. We just need to plan things. You’ll like that, working out your

military strategy.” Jonty giggled and launched an assault on his lover’s collarbone.

“Seems you’ve got a strategy worked out.” Orlando responded by caressing Stewart’s back, little,

tender movements which always brought contentment to them both.

“Sort of. It’s been a long time since we shared the last favours, my love. I’ve been skittish for too long.”

The business with Jardine had become an ever-present menace, as if those who’d committed such

outrages on Jonty had somehow found access to his bedroom and were standing gloating, spoiling even the most innocent of pleasures.

Orlando had been frustrated yet endeavoured to understand—he had to be patient, the worst thing to

do would be rushing or forcing things. None of this logical reasoning had helped. Now the lowering clouds of unease seemed to have lifted and the sunshine of affection warmed him beyond measure. “If you’re sure, I’m ready.”

“You always are, Dr. Coppersmith. Since you discovered the delights of the flesh you’ve become

quite a hedonist. Just imagine if I’d taken up that post in Ireland, you’d never have known any of this.”

Orlando swallowed hard, hating to be reminded of how close he’d been to not having Jonty by him.

“Don’t remind me of that. Small turning points, that’s what life consists of. One little decision and the whole world changes.”

“It does. As it did for us.” Jonty reached up to kiss him. “Come on, I want you to lie with me. Been far too long.”

Orlando didn’t reply. Lips and hands could talk for him, kisses saying
yes
as loudly as tender touches did. Jonty’s skin was warmer than expected beneath his boyish pyjamas, and wafts of something lovely, which might have been lavender soap, assailed Orlando’s senses as he undid any buttons which had

survived his first assault. To feel Jonty’s chest against his own, downy skin on smooth, was a necessary part of their lovemaking for him, a sign that they were indeed one, and not meant to be split asunder.

He still wasn’t sure how far Jonty wanted to pursue this. There was hesitancy in his touch, some slight tentativeness which didn’t usually grace their bed. He gently caressed the small of his lover’s back and was pleased to find that, at least for the moment, his hands were allowed to carry on.

Jonty twisted in his lover’s arms, using his powerful muscles to turn Orlando, give himself the

dominance. He stretched over his lover, a protective canopy against the cold, the world, anything which might disturb them this night. Orlando burrowed into the security, enjoying the unusual sensation of being looked after. He preferred to be the protective one, guarding his most treasured possession, but Ariadne Peters’s words had stuck with him. He knew he shouldn’t always be the protector.

Tender kisses on the side of his neck made him tingle, firm strokes on his lower back made the

sensation spread. However far Jonty wanted to go, he was ready, more than ready. He inched his fingers from the smooth skin of Jonty’s lower back down towards their target, a movement which normally

brought delighted acquiescence, manoeuvring of body and legs to allow access. Not this time.

“What’s wrong?” Orlando spoke into his lover’s hair. Jonty had tensed—he was trying to hide it, but

Orlando knew.

“I can’t. I’m sorry.” Jonty pulled away, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling.

“Is it this wretched thunder?” Orlando laid a tentative hand on his lover’s arm. A protective,

comforting gesture, with no hint of desire.

“No. Yes. It’s everything.” Jonty crossed his arms over his face, shaking off Orlando’s hand in the

process. “I’m back there, in my mind. A boy of thirteen in a cold room praying for a fire alarm to sound, or anything that would make
it
stop.”

“Dear God.” Orlando knew this had happened before, but never with him—all he could do was wait

for Jonty to come out of the slough of despond.

“Put off the light and go to sleep, sweetheart. I don’t think I’ll be able to get off for a while.”

“Should I stay here? I’ll do whatever you think best.”

“Please, if you could bear it. I’ll be fine, soon. Just tonight…I couldn’t do it tonight.” Jonty turned, pulling the covers over his head.

“Of course.” Orlando didn’t attempt to touch his friend. For the moment they were beyond words or

contact. There was a chance, more than a chance, that it would be a long time before
doing it
became a viable option again.

A quirky holiday romance about Faith, Hope, and…er…glow-in-the-dark condoms!

The Dickens with Love

© 2009 Josh Lanyon

Three years ago, a scandal cost antiquarian “book hunter” James Winter everything that mattered to

him: his job, his lover and his self-respect. But now the rich and unscrupulous Mr. Stephanopoulos has a proposition. A previously unpublished Christmas book by Charles Dickens has turned up in the hands of an English chemistry professor by the name of Sedgwick Crisparkle. Mr. S. wants that book at any price, and he needs James to get it for him. There’s just one catch. James can’t tell the nutty professor who the buyer is.

Actually, two catches. The nutty Professor Crisparkle turns out to be totally gorgeous—and on the

prowl. Faster than you can say, “Old Saint Nick,” James is mixing business with pleasure…and in real danger of forgetting that this is just a holiday romance.

Just as they’re well on the way to having their peppermint sticks and eating them too, Sedgwick

discovers the truth. James has been a very bad boy. And any chance Santa will bring him what he wants most is disappearing quicker than the Jolly Old Elf’s sleigh.

Warning: This book contains an ocelot, songs by America, Stardust martinis, tinsel, long-lost

manuscripts, Faith, Hope and…Love.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
The Dickens with Love:

I dreamed that an ocelot was chewing on a first edition of
A Christmas Carol
. When I tried to snatch the book away, it sank its fangs into my hand.

Head throbbing, I opened my eyes to watery green daylight. I was in a hotel room. A very

comfortable hotel room that smelled of orange furniture polish and sex. The fluffy duvet and long draperies were in matching old-fashioned pink and gray cabbage rose print. Rain trickled down the windowpanes of a pair of French doors and sent sperm-shaped shadows twitching and jerking across the sage green walls.