A Dangerous Game, my rent boy romance/thriller is officially out today. Read on for more details. And isn't the cover art (by Reese Dante) gorgeous?
BLURB
Sex can be a dangerous business. So can love.
On the worst day of his life, Wren Gallagher wants oblivion when he steps into Tricks for a drink. When a mysterious stranger steps up to pay his tab, he offers Wren the key to fulfilling his dreams of prosperity and true love.
But appearances are not always what they seem.
His savior owns the escort agency À Louer, and he wants the young and handsome Wren as part of his stable of men-for-hire. Down on his luck, Wren figures, why not? He needs the money. When he joins, though, he doesn’t count on meeting Rufus, another escort with whom he falls hopelessly in love.
But their love story will have to overcome the obstacles of not only trading love for money, but À Louer’s dark—and deadly—secrets.
1st Edition published as Rent by ManLove Romance Press, 2012.
EXCERPT
Devin’s apartment looked as though a set designer for a modern-day Boys in the Band had decorated it. It couldn’t have been gayer if it had rainbow-hued hardwood planks installed on the floor, a touch Wren would keep to himself because he was afraid Devin might actually implement it.
Wren set down the duffel bag he had brought and surveyed the small but orderly space. As promised, Devin had left a key with the building manager, and Wren was grateful for the arrangement, glad Devin wasn’t home to greet him.
It was nice to have some time alone before Devin’s innuendos, roaming fingers, Listerine-scented tongue, and eight-inch dick began trying to probe him. It was nice to simply sit for a minute and rest. He plopped down on the couch, noting the neatly stacked copies of the Advocate and Architectural Digest on the glass-topped coffee table, the framed Herb Ritts and Robert Mapplethorpe posters on the wall, the latter of which were triple X-rated and caused Wren’s heart to beat faster. He took in the leopard faux-fur print rug on the floor, the black leather sofa on which he now reclined, and the sterile-looking stainless, granite, and melamine kitchen beyond a breakfast bar decorated with dolls all tricked out in leather drag.
“There’s no place like home,” Wren said. He allowed himself to lean back into the soft leather cushions for a bit, closing his eyes. The last few days had been so stressful. He let his hand loll along the surface of the leather, and his forefinger caught on something cotton and elastic. He looked over, giving a tug, and extracted a jockstrap, sticky with dried come, just about concealed between the cushions.
“Toto,” Wren said, “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.” He stood to go wash his hands, already wondering if he wouldn’t be better off on a park bench along the lakefront or, if it was raining, Lower Wacker Drive. He dropped the offending athletic supporter in a hamper in the bathroom and thoroughly scrubbed his hands.
What had he gotten himself into?
Wren set down the duffel bag he had brought and surveyed the small but orderly space. As promised, Devin had left a key with the building manager, and Wren was grateful for the arrangement, glad Devin wasn’t home to greet him.
It was nice to have some time alone before Devin’s innuendos, roaming fingers, Listerine-scented tongue, and eight-inch dick began trying to probe him. It was nice to simply sit for a minute and rest. He plopped down on the couch, noting the neatly stacked copies of the Advocate and Architectural Digest on the glass-topped coffee table, the framed Herb Ritts and Robert Mapplethorpe posters on the wall, the latter of which were triple X-rated and caused Wren’s heart to beat faster. He took in the leopard faux-fur print rug on the floor, the black leather sofa on which he now reclined, and the sterile-looking stainless, granite, and melamine kitchen beyond a breakfast bar decorated with dolls all tricked out in leather drag.
“There’s no place like home,” Wren said. He allowed himself to lean back into the soft leather cushions for a bit, closing his eyes. The last few days had been so stressful. He let his hand loll along the surface of the leather, and his forefinger caught on something cotton and elastic. He looked over, giving a tug, and extracted a jockstrap, sticky with dried come, just about concealed between the cushions.
“Toto,” Wren said, “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.” He stood to go wash his hands, already wondering if he wouldn’t be better off on a park bench along the lakefront or, if it was raining, Lower Wacker Drive. He dropped the offending athletic supporter in a hamper in the bathroom and thoroughly scrubbed his hands.
What had he gotten himself into?
BUY
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.