Family Man (28 page)

Waiting to welcome me into the family.

About the Authors

Heidi Cullinan has always loved a good love story, provided it has a happy ending. She enjoys writing across many genres but loves above all to write happy, romantic endings for LGBT characters because there just aren’t enough of those stories out there. When Heidi isn’t writing, she enjoys cooking, reading, knitting, listening to music, and watching television with her husband and ten-year-old daughter. Heidi also volunteers frequently for her state’s LGBT rights group, One Iowa, and is proud to be from the first midwestern state to legalize same-sex marriage. Find out more about Heidi, including her social networks, at
www.heidicullinan.com
.

Marie Sexton lives in Colorado. She’s a fan of just about anything that involves muscular young men piling on top of each other. In particular, she loves the Denver Broncos and enjoys going to the games with her husband. Her imaginary friends often tag along. Marie has one daughter, two cats and one dog, all of whom seem bent on destroying what remains of her sanity. She loves them anyway. Learn more at
www.MarieSexton.net
.

Look for these titles by Heidi Cullinan

Now Available:

A Private Gentleman

To seal their bond, they must break the ties that bind.

A Private Gentleman

© 2012 Heidi Cullinan

Painfully introverted and rendered nearly mute by a heavy stammer, Lord George Albert Westin rarely ventures any farther than the club or his beloved gardens. When he hears rumors of an exotic new orchid sighted at a local hobbyist’s house, though, he girds himself with opiates and determination to attend a house party, hoping to sneak a peek.

He finds the orchid, yes…but he finds something else even more rare and exquisite: Michael Vallant. Professional sodomite.

Michael climbed out of an adolescent hell as a courtesan’s bastard to become successful and independent-minded, seeing men on his own terms, protected by a powerful friend. He is master of his own world—until Wes. Not only because, for once, the sex is for pleasure and not for profit. They are joined by tendrils of a shameful, unspoken history. The closer his shy, poppy-addicted lover lures him to the light of love, the harder his past works to drag him back into the dark.

There’s only one way out of this tangle. Help Wes face the fears that cripple him—right after Michael finds the courage to reveal the devastating truth that binds them.

Warning: Contains wounded heroes, bibliophilic tendencies, orchid obsessions, a right bastard of a marquis, and gay men who get happily-ever-afters.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
A Private Gentleman:

Deprived of his glasses, Michael strained to take the man in: the great height of him, the contrast of his coat and cravat, the color and shape of his hair still damp at the edges from his bath. His short boots peeked out beneath crisp trousers. From this far away, Michael could not see his face, but even with the lord’s proper posture, his body movements belied his nervousness.

Belatedly, Michael realized he was not posed evocatively on the pile of pillows he’d spent fifteen minutes arranging, choosing instead to greet his lover dangled over the edge of the bed, banyan rucked up oddly around him and one foot lifted into the air for balance.

Damn.

He rolled to his side and tugged at the edge of the banyan as best he could as he carefully assumed a casually seductive pose. Fortune favored him at last, for his left nipple exposed itself all on its own, as well as a generous portion of his abdomen. Though he still couldn’t see Albert’s face, he saw his patron’s body posture quicken.

Michael smiled.

“My lord. We meet again.”

Across the room, Lord George Albert cleared his throat. Michael heard the careful intake of breath that meant he was getting ready to speak. “G-g-good day, Mr. V-Vallant.”

Michael’s pulse hammered so hard he felt it in the base of his throat. “Call me Michael.”

Another breath. A pause. “C-c-call m-me Alb-b-b-b—” Albert gave up and sighed.

He was very nervous, if that much preparation still led to that much of a stammer. Michael longed to put him more at ease. Of course, it would be nice if someone would return the favor.

“Albert.” He let his fingers slide into his hair and reached out his other hand to beckon to Albert. “Come here and sit on the bed.”
I want to see you.

But Albert seated himself in one of the chairs by the fire—well outside of Michael’s sight range. Michael swore at himself silently. If he hadn’t worn his glasses so much lately, he could have seen at least a little. Now he couldn’t even read Albert’s face. While reading the faces and body movements of people was usually a handy skill for maneuvering them into the place you wanted them, with Albert it was essential for simple communication. So here they were, blind and mute together.

The depths of potential disaster expanded endlessly around them.

“Wh-why am I h-here?” Albert said at last.

Michael combed his tone for clues. Caution, nerves still, and a great deal of reserve. He tried to relax him with humor. “I thought that was obvious.”

The pause was lengthy. It took Albert three breaths before he was able to speak, and his first two attempts were nothing but sputters of consonants.

Michael gave in and softened. “Relax, darling. Relax. Deep breaths. There’s no reason to be nervous.”

Albert barked out a rueful laugh.

Michael echoed his smile. “Very well, perhaps there is a little reason.” He stroked the sheet, mimicking the touch he would have given Albert, could he have reached him. “Take your time.”

Albert’s sigh made Michael shiver. Two more breaths, and then: “D-did you ask f-for m-me?”

Michael couldn’t help a frown. “Ask?” He watched Albert’s shape tense and spoke quickly. “Darling, no—don’t, please. I’m sorry, it’s my fault I don’t understand. Did I ask what for you?”

Albert held very still. Michael could read nothing, damn it all to hell.

“D-did y-you ask him t-t-to br-bring m-me h-here?”

“Bring you?” Michael’s eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. “Do you mean—Rodger
brought
you here? Against your will?”

The pause nearly killed Michael. “N-not p-p-p”—a sigh—“p-precisely.”

How could Rodger not precisely bring him? Either he did, or he didn’t. Michael started to ask this, then stopped. “Oh—he did bring you, but not precisely against your will?”

A soft laugh. Very soft. “Y-yes.”

“But partially.”

While Albert paused, Michael shifted nervously in his chair. “H-he p-p-promised t-to b-blackmail m-me if I d-did not.”

Michael clamped a hand over his mouth in horror and sat up. “He didn’t.”

“He d-did.”

Michael felt ill. “I’m so sorry. Please—if you want to leave, I promise I’ll make him—”

With what was clearly great effort, Albert overrode him, his voice coming out in a sharp breath. “I s-s-said only p-p-p—” This time his sigh was so frustrated it was almost a growl. “Only p-partially.”

I’ll kill him. I swear, this time I really will kill Rodger.
Michael ran his hands down his face. “I
am
sorry. I had no idea. I never would have asked for this. Not like this.”

The shape of Albert leaned forward. “But d-did you ask? F-for m-me?”

Heat rose in Michael, the sensation suspiciously like a blush, which was almost as horrifying as the thought of Rodger blackmailing Albert into having sex with him. He tried to give a coy smile, but he wasn’t sure it worked. “Does it matter, darling?”

“Yes.”

The short, clear word, delivered with no pause, cut straight into Michael. He felt dizzy, confused and afraid. And aroused. Between the distance, the stammer and the revelation of Rodger’s meddling, he hadn’t been able to read the question at all. Was Albert simply curious? Was he amused? Was he besotted? Was he suspicious? Was he planning on reveling in the thought that a whore had asked for him particularly?

And while he was wondering, why did Michael care about any of this?

Because even with the stammer, he could hear Daventry in Albert’s voice. Because more and more every day the dark clouds of the past closed in on him. Because somehow one night of sex with Albert had managed to take away everything he’d built in sixteen years, and now that Albert was in the blue room with him, he wasn’t sure that trying to fuck him again would do anything but make matters worse.

Michael could bear no more torture. “Come to the edge of the bed,” he demanded.

He watched Albert’s shape like a hawk, watched him hesitate, watched him rise slowly, watched him smooth his clothing. He watched the blurred figure move closer.

When Albert stepped into Michael’s field of vision, it was as if he stepped through a magic portal, morphing from shaped blob into man, into the man Michael remembered, only he was here now, not a memory but real. Dark hair, neatly combed, conservative clothes. Tall, wide frame. Same jaw as his father. Long, almost pretty nose.

Lips, parted and wet, revealing a hint of teeth.

Hands, strong and smooth, resting on his hips, fingers curved inward.

Soft, beautiful brown eyes trying so hard not to let Michael get the better of him, hoping so hard this would not be a disaster.

Michael stifled a sigh of relief.

Albert’s chin came up. “D-did you ask for m-me?”

Proud. So proud. So tender and gentle, yes, but proud, and so very strong.

Sitting in the center of the bed, Michael kept his eyes on Albert as he replied, “Yes.”

A blush crept over Michael at the confession, but he decided it was worth it when Albert smiled and reached up for the tie to his cravat.

The most dangerous lies are the ones you tell yourself.

But My Boyfriend Is

© 2012 K.A. Mitchell

Dylan Williams is
not
gay. Sometimes he gets off with other guys, but so what? He plans to get married someday—
really
married, like with a wife and kids. And he’s determined that his future family’s life will be the normal one he and his brothers never had.

Mike Aurietta
is
gay, but his job keeps him in the closet. He doesn’t usually risk frequenting infamous cruising places like Webber Park. But when he’s cutting through one night, he finds himself defending a victim from gay bashers.

It’s all Dylan can do to process the shock that anyone would want to hurt his quiet twin brother. At first he needs Mike’s eyewitness report to satisfy the gut-wrenching desire for revenge. Then he finds himself needing Mike’s solid, comforting presence…and the heat that unexpectedly flares between them.

In the aftermath, Mike quickly learns not to expect too much from his conflicted lover. Though he never thought his good deed would come back to bite him in the ass. Or that hanging on to the possibility of love could force too many secrets out of the closet—and cost them both everything.

Warning:
Contains more denial than you can float a barge on, bigger issues than a special end-of-the-year compilation of your favorite magazine, and better sex than most people deserve. After all, it takes place in Texas.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
But My Boyfriend Is:

Mike had lived through a lot of locker room explosions, through frustrations over injuries, through watching players learn what they’d worked for their whole lives was gone in an ankle-shattering instant. Dylan’s sudden calm, the brittle sheen of control visible in his rigid body and whispered words, was somehow more alarming than his earlier outbursts. “Darryl told me you were from Jacksonville. If your brother is flying—”

“I know.”

“Someone else you want to call?”

Dylan shook his head. “We have two sisters, but…” He swallowed. “I can’t— I don’t want to talk to them until we know.”

“He’ll be okay.”

“You don’t know that.” The anger was back, but Dylan’s voice was still pitched barely above a whisper. “No one here seems to know shit. Why don’t you find someplace else to wait for the five-o and leave me the fuck alone?”

“Because you look like you’re in as bad a shape as your brother.” And Mike couldn’t walk away any more easily than he could let someone bleed to death in front of him.

Dylan started following the blue line the nurse had told them about.

“So it’s true?” Mike asked, half-curious, half-trying to get Dylan to slow his long legs down.

It worked. Dylan froze. “What?”

“That twins have a bond where they feel sympathetic pains.”

Dylan looked at Mike as if a parasitic twin had suddenly sprung from Mike’s neck. “Like psychic?” Dylan’s lip lifted in disgust. “No way.” He strode to the elevator and punched the button for the fourth floor.

“So why do you look like you’ve been kicked in the ribs?”