Coming September 7. 2015 from Thirteen Below Press
As a homicide detective for the greater Houston area, Detective Barrack Invar’s job was stressful enough without his Lieutenant breathing down his neck to do more, not to mention his girlfriend, Isabella. His partner, Calhoun, was a joke. It didn’t help that over the years Barrack earned a reputation as being a bit of an asshole at work. Things for Barrack didn’t look any brighter in the wake of a murder case with absolutely no leads at all. Until he came home to a wonderful surprise. His best friend since the age of three had finally come home.
Willow only survived. His best friend since childhood, Barrack, was all that mattered to him. Willow craved any small scraps of affection Barrack was willing to give. Every look, every praise, every touch, tore Willow’s soul because he was constantly reminded of what he couldn’t have. Barrack. When Willow unexpectedly returned home his insides burned with the need for the man he loved. The need to give control…
Barrack found his feelings towards Willow slowly twisted and changed. He loved his best friend. A man. For Barrack it was a very simple thing. Willow on the other hand could not accept what Barrack was freely willing to give. Willow did the only thing he knew. He ran.
Returning home, Willow’s fears were confirmed when Barrack refused to come with him. Barrack’s promises to follow seemed long in coming. Willow was left devastated feeling abandoned and alone.
Can Barrack convince Willow of his love? Will Willow allow Barrack to love him?
Here’s a section from Barrack and Willow’s fourth book, How Can This Be. They’re my most exhibitionist couple ever.
“Make love to me, please?”
Willow’s arms tighten around his neck and his soft question left a wet spot inside his jeans. “This, My Willow, I can do.” Sliding his hands up Barrack let them wonder just underneath his Willow’s shirt lightly playing along exposed skin.
“On the terrace? Please?” Willow’s slight breath against his neck is just about his undoing.
“Anything, My Willow, wants.”
“Fuck.” Dropping the water bottle Willow practically drags Barrack to the stairs. “Now? Please?”
Coming to an abrupt halt Barrack refuses to budge. The other man’s blue steel gray eyes look to him in confusion for only a moment. He watches as Willow lets go of his hand. Taking one step towards him Willow lowers himself to his knees, his hands dancing along one of Barrack’s legs. Willow’s cheek nuzzles his crotch. Those impossible eyes look up at him from under long black lashes. “Please?” Groaning loudly his fingers run themselves through his Willow’s soft hair, gripping. Those lips kiss his throbbing length through his jeans. “Please? Bare, please? On the terrace, please?”
So this little did-bit is from a spinoff of Barrack and Willow’s books, Tell Me So.
This is from chapter one. Somewhere! XD
NOTE: If you followed my once active excerpt blog you’ve already read this.
Shutting the door locking it he finally allows himself a moment to relax. His quick sharp gasps of air irritate his side. Groaning he uses his shoulders to shove off the door to the stack of clothes next to the sink. Quickly stripping he folds his wet clothes as best he can placing them in the sink. Not knowing what to do with his wet shoes light panic sets in. “Shit.” He mumbles. Darting his eyes he does everything possible to not look at himself in the mirror.
Seeing no other option he puts them a top his clothes in the sink along with his socks. His boxers are soaked as well. Sighing he strips them too placing them underneath the pile at the very bottom.
Now completely naked his shivering intensifies. Reaching for the dark gray shirt one particularly violent tremor shakes the shirt free from his hand. “Shit.” Bending down grasping the shirt he rights himself with a sharp exhale. Gingerly slipping the shirt on the scent of lavender drifts casually to his nose invading his sense of smell arrogantly, “Shit.” Ignoring the intoxicating smell of his favorite flower he reaches for black pajama pants. “Shit.” Cursing again to the fact that he just now realizes that he will be boxerless he does his best to calm his panic. Even if boxers were here would he actually put them on? That is a bit weird considering they just met and all. “Shit.” Another realization hit him. Ryleigh mustn’t be wearing any either. “Shit. Shit.” Pulling on the pants a flash of light green finally catches his attention in the mirror. His light green eyes blink back at him. Red rimmed and slightly puffy he either looks overly exhausted, which is true, or a high, which isn’t true. “Shit.” Squeezing them shut he does his best to breath.
All through school he’d been teased for his light eyes. The other kids told him he looks demonic with eyes that light. He didn’t really let it bother him because he knew he wasn’t a demon and besides kids can be cruel. His face is that of his mother, soft planes with easy slopes. His hair that of his father, rim rid straight brown with hints of blonde hang long over his, well Ryleigh’s, collar. His build is easily his mother’s. Slight and none to bulky. He’d tried for well over a year lifting weights to get bigger like the other guys back in high school but it just wasn’t happening.
Blinking open his eyes he finally notices his hair still damp sticking to his face. “Shit.” Running his fingers through his literally un-style-able hair he sighs in frustration.
Jerking another chill runs through him. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.” Leaning heavily on the counter he tries in vain to catch his breath. He can’t do this. No way in fucking hell can he do this. His mother would kill him. “Shit.”
Practically collapsing on the floor he leans he head against the vanity. “Shit.” Squeezing his eyes shut he slowly rocks himself fighting the tears whishing to escape. His eyes burn along with his side from his near hyperventilating panic ridden state, “Shit.” His stomach rolls with nerves and sheer panic.
I can’t fucking do this.
Flinching hard as a soft knock immediately followed by Ryleigh’s gentle voice asking if he’s alright knocks him on his ass. “Shit.” He whispers to himself. “I’m-I’m fine. J-j-ju-st toweling my hair dry.”
“Good. I’ve got you some warm milk when you’re done mate.”
Whatever Ryleigh says is completely lost to him as the blood rushing in his ears takes over. His stomach clenches in anger. Moaning he scrambles to open the lid to the toilet barely making it to dry heave. He knew nothing would come up. He hasn’t eaten anything in over twenty-four hours to throw up. But still the urge to upchuck inside a toilet even if it is a dry upchuck cannot be fought. His heart races as if he’s been running for miles. Sweat beads on his upper lip.
Another wave of nausea overtakes him. His stomach and chest constrict with the effort. This time burning stomach acid creeps its way up to land in the bowl. His throat burns just in the back like fire. Gripping his neck he tries in vain to rub the fire away to avail. His side mimics the fire heat in his throat.
A soft knock startles him again. “You sure you’re alright?”
Slightly trembling he does his best to right himself only to fall back down again. This time knocking into the wall, “Yeah, I’m just uh… using the bathroom.”
“What was that banging?”
“My shoe fell…?” His statement sounds like a question even to himself.
Ryleigh didn’t answer for a long time. “If you say so. Hungry? I was about to have dinner after my shower when them two twats showed up.”
Ryleigh’s generosity doesn’t sit well with him. Everyone wants something in return for anything offered. He’s already said he have sex with the man. He doesn’t have anything else to give… nothing at all. Absolutely nothing…
“N-no thank you.” Trembling he tries once again to get up, this time succeeding albeit a little shakily. Whatever Ryleigh has will probably be too much for his stomach to handle anyway.
“You sure mate? It’s lintel soup.”
“Shit.” He whispers to himself. He’d love a bowl of soup and a bed… for sleeping purposes only and some pain medication. Fighting himself he finally answers, “No-no thanks.” He just knows that he’ll throw up on Ryleigh and then he won’t get paid. He can’t afford to not get paid. He really can’t…
Swaying a little he blinks at himself in the mirror again. “If you say so.”
Swallowing back down his own bile he flushes the toilet before turning on lukewarm water splashing his face. His smooth face under his fingers sends a spike of panic down his back. He needs to get paid…