by Amy Lane
“Cute,” he muttered. She’d sent him a kid’s birthday card, with a brightly colored lion and a cat counterpart and a goofy little rhyme. It was the expensive kind, the kind that cost three dollars at the grocery store. He’d never gotten one of these, really. Jade and Kaden had made him cards—and he’d been thrilled beyond words to get them, because his own mother was usually too high to remember his birthday.
But this—this little kid’s birthday card with the gift certificate to Baskin-Robbins—this was….
Painful and thoughtful at once.
Ellery’s mother was a scary fucking woman.
He stared at the card, absurdly touched. When Ellery came out to sit in the lounge chair next to him, he wasn’t sure enough of his own composure to look up. He patted Ellery’s hand on his shoulder when he squeezed, though.
“January 12,” Ellery said quietly. “Capricorn.”
“August 22,” Jackson said back. “Drunken high school Thanksgiving orgy.”
“A Leo,” Ellery told him. He’d heard that before—didn’t everybody want to know what their sign was? “We shouldn’t get along at all.”
Jackson let out a halfhearted bark of laughter. “We don’t.”
“We seem to be doing okay.”
Jackson thought about it. He’d been out of the hospital for almost a month, and Ellery hadn’t irritated the fuck out of him yet—that was promising. Ellery seemed to tolerate him… care about him.
Ellery seemed to care about him.
“Your mother gave me ice cream for my birthday,” he said, the absurd emotional response not leaving him. “That was… I mean, I didn’t think Lucy Satan could be sweet.”
Ellery snorted. “Mother? She’s manipulative as fuck. If she gave you ice cream, she wanted you to know you’re her child. Fucking subtle, right?”
Jackson almost dropped the birthday card. “Why? Why would she do that? I tried to tell her, Ellery. I tried to tell her in the hospital room. I asked for money to leave you alone—remember that?”
“Yeah, Jackson—I remember telling you it wouldn’t work.” He sighed and leaned forward on his elbows, slapping at a mosquito. Seven o’clock—the sun was waning in the sky, and the shadows were long. “Maybe she wants the same thing I do. She wants you to be permanent in my life.”
“Ice cream is going to do that?” He hated this feeling. Ellery’s entire life was different than his. His family was different. And Jackson, who had been taking care of himself since… since he was a baby, was suddenly being very personally, very meticulously cared for.
All he’d done to deserve it—as far as he could see—was take advantage of Ellery Cramer’s fascination for him and be a human target.
“Ice cream makes everything better,” Ellery said with dignity. He sighed and stood before crouching in front of Jackson and gently shutting his computer. “C’mon, Jackson—what’s it gonna hurt if a couple more people celebrate your birthday?”
Ellery’s eyes were really exceptional. Big, almond-shaped, deep nut-brown—much like his hair. There were times when Jackson was just caught by them, fascinated like a cat with a laser pointer. “Ice cream?” And right there, his inner five-year-old, asking plaintively for his friend to go get ice cream with him. Like he was a real boy. He couldn’t decide whether to be humiliated or proud of himself.
“Sure,” Ellery whispered, reaching up to cup Jackson’s cheek. He rose slowly, captured Jackson’s mouth with his own, and very carefully moved the laptop to the table.
Jackson opened his mouth and allowed Ellery to sink into the kiss, sink into him. Their kisses always seemed to fit perfectly, and what started slowly, kindly, Ellery’s attempt to comfort him for something that should not have been a wound, quickly became passionate, needy, and urgent.
Jackson shoved his hands down the back of Ellery’s slacks, kneading his backside, wanting in his bony, stringy body, wanting that odd power he had over Jackson to keep working, to keep dragging Jackson into his little world of “normal.” Ellery took care of Jackson in “normal.” Mothers gave ice cream for your birthday in “normal.”
Jackson could provide for his lover, give him what he needed in “normal.”
“Bed,” Ellery groaned into his mouth. “Bed, now.”
“Bossy fucker,” Jackson mumbled, but Ellery kissed the objections right out of him. When Jackson came to, Ellery was dragging him to the bedroom.
When they got there, Ellery took everything off—button-up shirt, slacks, T-shirt, underwear—and draped it gracefully over the chair in the corner. Jackson dropped his T-shirt and cargo shorts in the corner by the hamper and joined Ellery on the bed, suddenly needing more than normal. He needed Ellery.
“All those clothes,” Jackson muttered hoarsely between kisses. “All those clothes, and I just want you naked!” He moved down Ellery’s body—awkwardly, yes, because he hurt—and sucked on a tan nipple. Ellery gasped and wrapped his legs around Jackson’s hips, bucking against him.
“You,” Ellery gasped. “Inside me! Now!”
“Did I mention the bossy?” Jackson thought Ellery’s cock looked like an ice cream cone—he wanted to lick it.
He did, from base to tip, teasing, mouthing, enjoying—no discomfort, no doubt existed, here in their bed. Jackson was an equal here. Jackson could dominate here, and Ellery, most of the time, just yielded, all his planes and angles and his sharp, shrewd mind becoming soft and pliant, open to Jackson’s plunder.
“Please, Jackson,” Ellery begged, arching into his mouth. Jackson could stroke the blond, almost invisible hair on his calves and thighs forever, but he was too busy playing with Ellery’s testicles. And, oh yes, spit-slick, slippery, clenching for Jackson’s attention, his entrance. He wanted Jackson there, wanted him badly, and Jackson was hungry to be part of him.
“I love it when you beg,” Jackson admitted. “Beg me some more!”
Ellery fumbled over his head, finding the lubricant they kept under the pillow. “I’m begging you to put this in my asshole and nail me to the bed, dammit!”
Jackson laughed. “Counselor, I have no objection to that.” He fumbled with the bottle just as Ellery wailed, “Aw, c’mon, Jackson, fuck me!”
Jackson breached him with two lubed fingers just to watch Ellery flail his hands and to feel him, broad and long, hitting the back of Jackson’s throat. Oops! He spurted a little there. Jackson was going to have to stop playing with his toy.
He sucked one more time and pushed up, rolling off the bed. “Hands and knees,” he said gruffly. There were only so many positions he could manage with his injury, and Ellery, eschewing the romantic notion that they had to be gazing into each other’s eyes the whole time, preferred his hands and knees.
Except this time he didn’t. This time he put his ass at the edge of the bed and grabbed his thighs.
Jackson stared at him, dismayed, and Ellery stared back. “C’mon,” he dared. “Take me.”
“Fine.”
He wanted to be rough—but he couldn’t. He never had been. And Ellery, staring at him, begging him for his heart, for his body, for his commitment and his soul, knew it.
Jackson thrust inside slowly, waiting for Ellery to stretch for him. Ellery tilted his head back, enjoying their coupling unashamedly.
Jackson loved—liked—admired that about him.
He loved sex. He never minded wanting more. He was proud of the things their bodies did, excited that climax for the two of them was never soft, never easy. It was a rolling, thrashing struggle that ended with a torrent of brilliant release.
“Now!” he commanded, and Jackson felt freed. He thrust his hips hard and fast, and again, the sound of their flesh slapping loud in the September twilight.
Ellery’s sounds changed, became frantic, and he begged, pleaded, “Please… please… yes… harder! Harder! God, thank you! Fuck me more! Right… right… right there!”
His climax ripped through him, without even a hand on his cock, and the wash of bliss on his face was almost
as arousing as his grip on Jackson’s erection.
Jackson closed his eyes because he had to and poured his heart, his soul, his come into his lover, his one lover, who would give enough of a damn to celebrate his birthday.
Ellery groaned and wrapped his legs around Jackson’s hips, while Jackson collapsed on his good arm and then rolled to the side, trying to catch his breath.
“That was—” Pant. “—unexpected.”
“Yeah, you’re telling me!” Ellery’s chuckle sounded like pure joy.
“Is this why you wanted to celebrate my birthday?” Jackson asked, feeling playful now instead of defensive.
“Sure. But what I really wanted was ice cream after dinner.”
Sure that’s what he wanted. Jackson laughed anyway and kissed him, glorying when Ellery opened up for him and let him in. Jackson couldn’t stop kissing him, his gift, his unexpected lover, someone who wanted him and didn’t hesitate to let him know that his life on the planet was a good thing.
“We can go for ice cream afterward,” he promised, kissing Ellery’s neck. Ellery tilted his head back hedonistically and accepted Jackson’s nibbles.
“After what?” he panted. But he was already starting to harden again, and Jackson could take him one more time or five more times or again and again and again until their hearts burst.
“After I have what I really want for my birthday,” Jackson whispered, and Ellery laughed, because it was playful and pillow talk and fun.
But as they threw themselves slowly and wholeheartedly into round two, Jackson knew the truth.
Right now, making love in the evening, thinking about ice cream they’d have the next day after dinner—this was the best birthday he’d ever had.
Orange
Amy’s Dark Contemporary Romance
Fish Out of Water: Book One
PI Jackson Rivers grew up on the mean streets of Del Paso Heights—and he doesn’t trust cops, even though he was one. When the man he thinks of as his brother is accused of killing a police officer in an obviously doctored crime, Jackson will move heaven and earth to keep Kaden and his family safe.
Defense attorney Ellery Cramer grew up with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth, but that hasn’t stopped him from crushing on street-smart, swaggering Jackson Rivers for the past six years. But when Jackson asks for his help defending Kaden Cameron, Ellery is out of his depth—and not just with guarded, prickly Jackson. Kaden wasn’t just framed, he was framed by crooked cops, and the conspiracy goes higher than Ellery dares reach—and deep into Jackson’s troubled past.
Both men are soon enmeshed in the mystery of who killed the cop in the minimart, and engaged in a race against time to clear Kaden’s name. But when the mystery is solved and the bullets stop flying, they’ll have to deal with their personal complications… and an attraction that’s spiraled out of control.
Johnnies: Book One
Chase Summers: Golden boy. Beautiful girlfriend, good friends, and a promising future.
Nobody knows the real Chase.
Chase Summers has a razor blade to his wrist and the smell of his lover’s goodbye clinging to his skin. He has a door in his heart so frightening he’d rather die than open it, and the lies he’s used to block it shut are thinning with every forbidden touch. Chase has spent his entire life unraveling, and his decision to set his sexuality free in secret has only torn his mind apart faster.
Chase has one chance for true love and salvation. He may have met Tommy Halloran in the world of gay-for-pay—where the number of lovers doesn’t matter as long as the come-shot’s good—but if he wants the healing that Tommy’s love has to offer, he’ll need the courage to leave the shadows for the sunlight. That may be too much to ask from a man who’s spent his entire life hiding his true self. Chase knows all too well that the only things thriving in a heart’s darkness are the bitter personal demons that love to watch us bleed.
Johnnies: Book Two
Ten years ago David Worral had plans to go to college and the potential for a beautiful future in front of him. One tragic accident later, he fled to California and reinvented himself as Dex, top porn model of Johnnies.
Dex’s life is a tangled mess now, but the guys he works with only see the man who makes them believe even porn stars can lead normal lives. When Kane, one of Dex’s coworkers, gets kicked out of his house, the least Dex can do is give him a place to stay. Kane may be a hyperactive muscle-bound psycho, but he’s also a really nice guy. What could be the harm?
Except nothing is simple—not sex, not love, and not the goofy kid with the big dick and bigger heart who moves his life into Dex’s guest room. When they start negotiating fractured pasts and broken friends, Dex wonders if Kane’s honest nature can untangle the sadness that stalled his once-promising future. With Kane by his side, Dex just might be able to reclaim the boy he once was—and if he can do that, he can give Kane the home and the family he deserves.
Johnnies: Book Three
Evan Costa learned from a very early age that there was no such thing as unconditional love and that it was better to settle for what you could get instead of expecting the world to give you what you need. As Ethan, porn model for Johnnies, he gets exactly what he wants—comradeship and physical contact on trade—and he is perfectly satisfied with that. He’s sure of it.
Jonah Stevens has spent most of his adult life helping to care for his sister and trying to keep his beleaguered family from fraying at the edges. He’s had very little time to work on his confidence or his body for that matter. When Jonah meets Ethan, he doesn’t see the hurt child or the shamelessly slutty porn star. He sees a funny, sexy, confident man who—against the odds—seems to like Jonah in spite of his very ordinary, but difficult, life.
Sensing a kindred spirit and a common interest, Ethan thinks a platonic friendship with Jonah won’t violate his fair trade rules of sex and touch, but Jonah has different ideas. Ethan’s pretty sure his choice of jobs has stripped away all hope of a real relationship, but Jonah wants the whole package—the sexy man, the vulnerable boy, the charming companion who works so hard to make other people happy. Jonah wants to prove that underneath the damage Ethan has lived with all his life, he’s still gold with promise and the ability to love.
Johnnies: Book Four
John Carey is just out of rehab and dying inside when he gets word that Tory, the guy who loved him and broke him, has removed himself from the world in the most bitter way possible—and left John to clean up his mess.
Forced back to his hometown in Florida, John’s craving a hit with every memory when he meets Tory’s neighbor. Spacey and judgmental, Galen Henderson has been rotting in his crappy apartment since a motorcycle accident robbed him of his mobility, his looks, and his boyfriend all in one mistake. Galen’s been hiding at the bottom of an oxy bottle, but when John shows up, he feels obligated to help wade through the wreckage of Tory’s life.
The last thing John needs is another relationship with an addict, and the last thing Galen wants is a conscience. Both of them are shocked when they find that their battered souls can learn from and heal one another. It doesn’t hurt that they’re both getting a crash course on how growing up and getting past your worst mistakes sure beats the alternative—and that true love is something to fight to keep if your lover is fighting to love you back.
Readers love Fish Out of Water by Amy Lane
“…Fish Out of Water is a bit of a different turn for author Amy Lane, but one that I really enjoyed.”
—Joyfully Jay
“Fish Out of Water delivers an intense plot as well as a sizzling relationship between Ellery and Jackson.”
—Gay Book Reviews
“…I will promise you this, you WILL be left with one hell of a book hangover.”
—Rainbow Gold Book Reviews
“Fish Out of Water… really captured my attention and kept it. This book is gritty and urban. It’s suspenseful and I found myself gasping more than a few times.”
—Diverse Reader
AMY LANE is a mother of two grown kids, two half-grown kids, two small dogs, and half-a-clowder of cats. A compulsive knitter who writes because she can’t silence the voices in her head, she adores fur-babies, knitting socks, and hawt menz, and she dislikes moths, cat boxes, and knuckleheaded macspazzmatrons. She is rarely found cooking, cleaning, or doing domestic chores, but she has been known to knit up an emergency hat/blanket/pair of socks for any occasion whatsoever or sometimes for no reason at all. Her award-winning writing has three flavors: twisty-purple alternative universe, angsty-orange contemporary, and sunshine-yellow happy. By necessity, she has learned to type like the wind. She’s been married for twenty-five-plus years to her beloved Mate and still believes in Twu Wuv, with a capital Twu and a capital Wuv, and she doesn’t see any reason at all for that to change.
Website: www.greenshill.com
Blog: www.writerslane.blogspot.com
Email: [email protected]
Facebook: www.facebook.com/amy.lane.167
Twitter: @amymaclane
By Amy Lane
Behind the Curtain
Beneath the Stain
Bewitched by Bella’s Brother
Bolt-hole
Bonfires
Christmas with Danny Fit
Clear Water
Do-over
Food for Thought
Gambling Men
Going Up
Grand Adventures (Dreamspinner Anthology)
Hammer & Air
