Hard Tail (30 page)

I stalked off to the sound of a most un-Olivia-like squeal of triumph.

When I got back home, Matt was sitting on the sofa with Wolverine on his lap, purring gently. By which I mean Wolverine was doing the purring, although Matt was looking pretty content too. He—Matt, that is—looked up at my arrival and gave me a smile that made my heart start doing back-flips. “Did it go all right?”

I leaned against the doorframe. “Well, I was by turns confused, humiliated and treated to the sight of Jay and Dad bonding over women’s breasts, and we’ve got to go round for lunch on Sunday—which if you’d rather break up with me than suffer through, I’d totally understand—but basically, yes, it went all right.”

“Brilliant. Gerroff, you,” he added, and with total—and, it turned out, justified—disregard for Wolverine’s lethal claws, he tipped the interloping cat off his lap and stood.

I gave the wretched beast a look that said plainly
I’ll deal with you later
.

He flicked his tail at me, cat-speak for
Do I look like I’m bothered?

“Well, I was thinking,” Matt said, stretching. “Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day at the shop. Maybe we ought to get an early night.” There was a mischievous glint in his eyes.

I looked at my watch. It was half-past six in the afternoon.

I gave the worst impersonation of a yawn ever in the entire history of the world. “Good point,” I said. “Got to keep our strength up and all that.”

Matt nodded, mock-solemn. “Or something.”

“
Definitely
or something.”

“In fact, something’s coming up right now.”

“You’re right, there. You. Me. Bed.” I grabbed Matt by the hand and pulled him towards the stairs. “And Wolverine?” I threw over my shoulder. “You are
not
invited.”

“Is he ever?” Matt asked with a laugh.

“Good point. We’re locking the door. I’d like to see him get round that one without opposable thumbs.”

“You know, there’s a lot of things you can do with opposable thumbs…”

“Less talking, more doing,” I said and kissed him.

About the Author

JL Merrow is that rare beast, an English person who refuses to drink tea. She read Natural Sciences at Cambridge, where she learned many things, chief amongst which was that she never wanted to see the inside of a lab ever again. Her one regret is that she never mastered the ability of punting one-handed whilst holding a glass of champagne.

She writes across genres, with a preference for contemporary gay romance and the paranormal, and is frequently accused of humour.

Find JL Merrow online at:
www.jlmerrow.com

Look for these titles by JL Merrow

Now Available:

Pricks and Pragmatism

Camwolf

Muscling Through

Wight Mischief

Midnight in Berlin

A stranger could light up his world…or drive him deeper into darkness.

Wight Mischief

© 2011 JL Merrow

Will Golding needs a break from his usual routine, and he’s been looking forward to a holiday helping Baz, his friend-with-benefits, research a book about Isle of Wight ghosts. When an evening beach walk turns into a startling encounter with Marcus Devereux, Will can’t get his mind off the notoriously reclusive writer’s pale, perfect, naked body. And any interest in ghostly legends takes a back seat to the haunting secrets lying in Marcus’s past.

Marcus, painfully aware of his appearance, is accustomed to keeping to himself. But the memory of tall, athletic Will standing on the beach draws him out from behind defenses he’s maintained since age fourteen, when his parents were murdered. While his heart is hungry for human contact, though, his longtime guardian warns him that talking to anyone—particularly a journalist like Baz—is as dangerous as a day in the sun.

As Baz gets closer to the truth, the only thing adding up is the sizzling attraction between Will and Marcus. And it’s becoming increasingly clear that someone wants to let sleeping secrets lie…or Will and Baz could end up added to the island’s ghostly population.

Warning: Contains perilous cliffs, elusive might-be ghosts, a secret tunnel, and skinny-dipping by moonlight.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Wight Mischief:

Feeling with his toes for his flip-flops, which had disappeared somewhere under his desk apparently of their own accord, Marcus shut down his computer. Slip-slapping into the hall, he grabbed his Maglite and keys.

Halfway from the house to the tunnel entrance—his own private shortcut to the beach—Marcus started to wonder if this was such a good idea. On cue, the security light on the house clicked off, leaving him in darkness. Marcus quickly switched on his Maglite to cover the last ten yards.

The light at the tunnel entrance didn’t come on until he was almost upon it—Marcus had had it adjusted that way on purpose. He rather liked the idea of the tunnel being hidden this end unless you knew it was there. Not much he could do about the other end, thirty feet of aluminium staircase being rather hard to miss, but then there was no reason anyone should be on his property in the first place.

Of course, that hadn’t stopped them last night. Marcus’s feet skidded nervously on the loose chalk as he entered the tunnel. He cursed. It was his beach—why the hell shouldn’t he go for a midnight walk? This time, though, the clothes were staying on. If there
had
been someone there last night, and if he happened to turn up tonight in the hopes that the Marcus Devereux strip show was playing all week, he was in for a big disappointment. Followed by a prosecution for trespass.

Reaching the lower end of the tunnel, Marcus unlocked the gate and switched off his Maglite, preferring to let his eyes adjust to the moonlight as soon as possible. Wrapping his arms around himself, he picked his way down the metal staircase toward the sand, his light tread and rubber-soled flip-flops making his steps almost silent. He halted abruptly as he realised there
was
someone there.

He was down by the water’s edge, in a pair of baggy shorts that ended at the tops of his well-muscled calves. Marcus could make out a bulky shape that must be his shoes slung over one impossibly broad shoulder. The man was just standing there, staring out to sea. As if he was waiting for someone. As the turning tide lapped against his ankles, Marcus shivered in sympathy. Then recalled this was, in all probability, the man who’d made him throw himself into the icy water only last night.

Why was he here again? Did he hope to see Marcus—or any other naked men; after all, there was nothing to indicate he was particularly choosy—or did he just like the beach?
My
beach, he reminded himself angrily.

Could this be Barrie? He’d sounded like a young man on the phone. And it would certainly make sense—he was probably hoping for a glimpse of the ghost, or at least a bit of atmosphere to add colour to a report of its non-appearance.

It must have been he who’d startled Marcus the previous evening. Marcus ought to feel outraged, he knew—but there was just something about the man at the water’s edge that seemed to make Marcus keen to forgive. Something apologetic about his posture, as if he knew he shouldn’t be here but couldn’t stay away. Marcus was suddenly seized with an absolute
need
to see the man’s face. Should he approach him?

What would he say, though? This man had seen him
naked
last night.

And he’s still come back here again
. Marcus could almost hear the thought. It sounded so loud in his head that for a moment, he thought Barrie (if it was him) must hear it too.

Nobody had seen Marcus completely naked since he was a small child. He’d always thought—but maybe he’d been wrong? Maybe, in all the infinite variety of human sexuality, there was somebody who wouldn’t find him physically repulsive? Even when sober?

He was being ridiculous—and even if he wasn’t, he’d still manage to bollocks it all up the minute he opened his mouth. He just didn’t do people. Leif was right—he was better off staying alone.

That way, he wouldn’t get hurt. Marcus turned, and headed silently up the stairs once more.

Will sighed. His feet had gone numb in the icy seawater, and he desperately needed to pee. And although he was all alone here, sod’s law if he did start having a slash that’d be the precise moment the ghost turned up, probably to wreak terrible vengeance on him for daring to pollute the water. He really didn’t like to think just what sort of vengeance might spring to mind to a spirit who saw him with his tackle out.

As he made his way back over the sand, for a moment he stilled, thinking he’d seen something out of the corner of his eye. But the movement didn’t repeat itself and the calls of his bladder were getting urgent, so Will climbed back over the rickety fence and headed back to camp, making a pit stop en route once he was well away from the private land.

When he got back to the tent, there was a light glowing inside. Will stopped a minute, trying to work out if Baz was alone in there. At last deciding that if Baz did have a girl with him, she was bloody small and unusually quiet, he lifted the flap.

“Finally! Where the hell have you been all this time? I was about to start without you!” Baz lay there on top of his sleeping bag, starkers. His prick, Will couldn’t help but notice, was half-hard and stiffening by the minute.

Will swallowed. “What happened to Courts?”

“Buggered if I care. Haven’t seen her since this morning. Haven’t wanted to, come to that. Worst blowjob I ever had.” Baz smiled lazily, his head cradled in his hands. “No one gives head like you do, Fish. Unless you’ve forgotten how to do it?” His voice was low and sultry.

His mouth suddenly dry, Will shook his head slowly. He didn’t trust himself to try to speak. God, Baz was gorgeous. He could be the bloody poster boy for “small but perfectly formed”. And that smile of his… Will jerked off sometimes just thinking of that smile.

Realising he was just kneeling there at the entrance to the tent like an idiot, Will scrambled in and pulled off his shirt.

“That’s better,” Baz whispered. “Now the rest of it.”

Will’s hands shook as he fumbled with the button of his board shorts. He wrenched them off along with his underwear and clambered over his friend’s body.

“You can kiss me,” Baz said generously. He didn’t always go for that.

Will wasn’t going to wait for him to change his mind. He moaned as he covered Baz’s body with his own, their hard pricks brushing together. Baz tasted of beer and burnt food, and his lips were rough beneath Will’s, bruising. Their tongues twined briefly, and then Will felt hands on his head, pushing him down. He went eagerly, kissing his way down Baz’s slender, perfect chest. He tried to pause at Baz’s belly button, to tease a little with his tongue, but Baz wasn’t having any of it. Those hands in his hair increased their pressure, so Will went with it, all the way down to Baz’s straining cock.

God, he tasted good. Like earth and sea air. Will wondered for a moment whether Courts had savoured it like he did, then angrily tried to banish her from his mind. She was history. Will licked a slow trail up the length of Baz’s cock, then circled the head with his tongue.

“Fuck!” Baz gasped.

When the boat’s a’rockin’, don’t come knockin’!

Barging In

© 2011 Josephine Myles

Out-and-proud travel writer Dan Taylor can’t steer a boat to save his life, but that doesn’t stop him from accepting an assignment to write up a narrowboat holiday. Instead of a change of pace from city life, though, the canal seems dull as ditchwater. Until he crashes into the boat of a half-naked, tattooed, pierced man whose rugged, penniless appearance is at odds with a posh accent.

Still smarting from past betrayal, Robin Hamilton’s “closet” is his narrowboat, his refuge from outrageous, provocative men like Dan. Yet he can’t seem to stop himself from rescuing the hopelessly out-of-place city boy from one scrape after another. Until he finds himself giving in to reluctant attraction, even considering a brief, harmless fling.

After all, in less than a week, Dan’s going back to his London diet of casual hook-ups and friends with benefits.

Determined not to fall in love, both men dive into one week of indulgence…only to find themselves drawn deep into an undertow of escalating intimacy and emotional intensity. Troubled waters neither of them expected…or wanted.

Warning: Contains one lovable tart, one posh boy gone feral, rough sex, alfresco sex, vile strawberry-flavoured condoms, intimate body piercings, red thermal long-johns, erotic woodchopping, an errant cat, a few colourful characters you wouldn't touch with a bargepole, and plenty of messing about on the river.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Barging In:

Robin caught Dan’s eye, and it was like he’d been captured by the current, pulled in against his will. It wasn’t fair. Someone like Dan shouldn’t have eyes that beautiful. He was mesmerised by the flecks of green and amber and that band of ginger freckles sprinkled across the bridge of his nose.