Barging In

by Josephine Myles

  Robin groaned. So much for the Jacuzzi.

  “Are they a couple, then?” Dan asked.

  “Charles and Marek? Yeah, I guess they must be now. I only found out today. Apparently Marek got it into his head that Charles and I had something going on and was insanely jealous. Charles had to get me to talk to him, tell him I was seeing you and didn’t have anything going on with the boss. They were in the middle of making up when I left for the pub.”

  “No, they were in the middle of that when I walked in on them,” Dan murmured.

  Robin started pulling on clothes after cleaning up with Dan’s wet wipes. He had to hand it to Dan—he’d really thought of everything. Except bed linen.

  “Where’s all your stuff? How did you manage all this? You were in Gran Canaria.”

  Dan grinned. “Amazing what you can do over the Internet and phone, isn’t it? Plus I had Tris as my man in London. Oh yeah, I sent him back early to help me out. He was driving me nuts moping over Alex anyway. They’ve patched things up now, so it’s all come up roses.”

  Suddenly, Tris didn’t seem so threatening. “So he sorted out your flat?”

  “He took my keys to the estate agents and sold all the furniture. Not much else to do until I got back. Finished the assignment a few days early, came back and packed what I needed into a couple of suitcases. They’re on the front deck. A few things with sentimental value are in a box in Mum’s attic, and the rest went to charity. I never had all that much stuff. I’ve always travelled light.”

  Robin stepped up behind Dan, wrapping his arms around him and letting him fall back. He murmured into Dan’s ear. “To think I once thought you were a vain, materialistic wanker who couldn’t be trusted.”

  Dan chuckled. “I used to reckon those were my best qualities. Took someone special to make me realise there was more to me than that.”

  “There’s always been more to you.”

  “Maybe. Mum always said there was. Hey”—Dan’s tone brightened—“she’s dying to meet you. We’re going to have to go and visit soon. I want to show you off to everyone. Be warned, they’ll all think you’re a posh git despite the hippie camouflage.”

  Robin smiled against Dan’s neck. “Can’t wait. Sounds like a riot. Now let’s go see my mum before she explodes with curiosity.”

  Robin stepped down from the deck of Dan’s boat. His boyfriend’s boat. He held out his hand to help Dan down. It wasn’t necessary, but it was worth it to see Dan’s nose crinkle up and his cheeks dimple.

  People were walking up and down the towpath. People were watching from the pub windows. He couldn’t care less. He was with the man he loved, the one who had barged into his life and turned it all upside down and now put it all back together in a way that made perfect sense.

  He pulled Dan to him and kissed the tip of his nose.

  “What was that for?”

  “Don’t ever change. You’re just perfect.”

  Dan grinned. “Can I have that in writing, please?”

  “You can have anything you want,” Robin assured him.

  “Oh, I’m definitely holding you to that promise.”

  They walked into the pub hand in hand, grinning like love-struck fools.

  About the Author

  Eccentric Englishwoman, absent-minded mother, proud bisexual, shameless tea addict, serial textile craft hobbyist, iconoclastic logophile and writer of homoerotic romance—Josephine Myles is all these things at once. She has held down more different jobs than any sane person ever should and is fundamentally rebellious, preferring the overgrown yet enticing path rather than the wide and obvious one.

  Jo once spent two years living on a slowly decaying narrowboat, and was determined that she would one day use the experience as fodder for a novel. It may have taken a few years, but she got there in the end. She usually does.

  Jo would love to know more about her readers and you can contact her via email: josephine_myles@yahoo.co.uk. For regular blog posts and saucy free reads, visit her website at www.josephinemyles.com

  The bigger they are, the harder they fall…in love.

  Muscling Through

  © 2011 JL Merrow

  Cambridge art professor Larry Morton takes one, alcohol-glazed look at the huge, tattooed man looming in a dark alley and assumes he’s done for. Moments later he finds himself disarmed—literally and figuratively. And, the next morning, he can’t rest until he offers an apology to the man who turned out to be more gentle than giant.

  Larry's intrigued to find there’s more to Al Fletcher than meets the eye; he possesses a natural artistic talent that shines through untutored technique. Unfortunately, no one else seems to see the sensitive soul beneath Al’s imposing, scarred, undeniably sexy exterior. Least of all Larry’s class-conscious family, who would like nothing better than to split up this mismatched pair.

  Is it physical? Oh, yes, it’s deliciously physical, and so much more—which makes Larry’s next task so daunting. Not just convincing his colleagues, friends and family that their relationship is more than skin deep. It’s convincing Al.

  Warning: Contains comic misunderstandings, misuse of art materials, and unexpected poignancy.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Muscling Through:

  Larry wasn’t there when I finished, and I thought maybe he’d changed his mind, but he came running up looking worried after I’d hung about for ten minutes or so. “Al, I am so sorry. Got grabbed by the Praelector just as I was leaving college.”

  I laughed, ’cause it sounded funny. He smiled back at me. He’d changed into a pale cream shirt that made his hair look blonder and a navy jacket. He looked really posh again. I looked down at my work clothes, which was a Scudamore’s T-shirt and jogging bottoms, ’cause they dry faster than jeans when you get them wet. “Do I need to get changed first?”

  “No! No, you look great.” He blushed a bit. “And we’re only going to the pub.”

  “I’m all sweaty,” I said, ’cause it’d been a warm day.

  He went even redder. “It’s all right—we can sit outside if you feel uncomfortable.”

  We went to this place down the river. Punters, it’s called. Used to be the Red Lion, but it’s gone all trendy. We sat outside and looked at the river, except I kept looking at Lawrence, and half the time, he was looking back at me. “Um,” he said, holding a glass of wine in his little hand. His nails were really clean. “Tell me about yourself?”

  I just shrugged and had a swig of my pint, because I never know what people want to hear when they say that stuff. And it’s not like anything about me is interesting or nothing.

  “Have you always lived in Cambridge?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you live alone?”

  I nodded again.

  So then he gave up on twenty questions and started telling me about himself. I liked hearing him talk. I thought he had a lovely voice. He talked with his hands, too, waving them about like he was doing sign language. He told me about teaching History of Art, about how the students didn’t get stuff, like making Jesus bigger than the saints in the pictures because he was more important.

  “I used to think that was funny too,” I said. “But my art teacher explained it to me. It’s like this modern art stuff, innit? You’re showing what stuff’s like inside, not on the outside like a photo.”

  “Yes! Yes, that’s it!” He smiled at me and leaned over the table, and I felt a bit funny, so I had another swig of my pint.

  “Did you know you have the most incredibly sinister smile?” Lawrence said after a bit. He put his elbows on the table and leaned over toward me again. “It’s that scar by your mouth—sort of twists. I think that’s what really scared the shit out of me last night—your smile.”

  I frowned, because why would anyone be scared of a smile? “You got a lovely smile,” I said, because I knew that was true. He went all pink. “Are you a poof?” I asked. I didn’t think he’d mind. And even if he did, there wasn’t nothing a little bloke like him coul
d do to me, so that was all right.

  “Er, yes. I hope that’s not a problem?” His ears went so red it was like they was sunburnt, and he leaned back a bit.

  “Nah. I’m a poof and all.”

  Lawrence laughed. “You know, you’re really rather refreshingly direct.” He didn’t say nothing for a minute, just put his elbows on the table again and played with the beer mats. “So, have you, er, got a partner?”

  “Nah. I had this bloke, Ryan, but we split up.”

  “Oh. What was he like?”

  I had to think about it. See, I could have drawn him a picture easy, but I didn’t have a pencil. “Little,” I said. “And pretty.” I smiled, remembering, ’cause I’d thought Ryan was really pretty, but Lawrence was much prettier.

  “Oh,” said Lawrence. His shoulders went a bit stiff. “That’s the sort of men you find attractive?”

  I didn’t say nothing, because there Lawrence was sitting in front of me and he was perfect, but I knew I couldn’t say that, because it’d get awkward. I knew he wouldn’t fancy me or nothing.

  He was building card houses with the beer mats. I couldn’t do nothing like that. My hands are too big and clumsy, ’cept when I’ve got a pencil or a brush in them. ’Course, Lawrence couldn’t bench press the table we were sitting at, neither. “Would you… Would you consider going out with someone like me?” he asked without looking at me.

  Someone like him? That was all right, because then we weren’t talking about him. “Yeah, but someone like you wouldn’t go for a bloke like me.”

  He looked up then. “Why not?”

  “Someone like you’d want someone he could talk to. Not someone thick as pigshit.”

  He looked at me like I’d told him he was a wanker or something. “We’ve been talking just fine.”

  I had to think about that. ’Cause it was true, we’d been talking for ages, and he didn’t look like he was bored. I smiled. Then I remembered what he’d said and wondered if I should stop smiling, but I thought, what the hell.

  “The last thing I want on a date is intellectual conversation,” Lawrence carried on. “I get quite enough of that at work—bloody Hardwicke with his well, of course, if you want to take the simplistic view of the Renaissance.” Lawrence put on a funny voice for that bit. I thought he probably didn’t like that Hardwicke bloke much. Then he downed his drink in one. I probably should have told him to slow down, ’cause of how he’d been last night, but I didn’t want to make him not like me so much, so I didn’t. “Come back to my place. We’ll get a takeaway—you like Chinese?” I nodded. I love Chinese. He laughed. “You’ll probably need to order the banquet for four, the size you are.” He got up, and so did I, and then he said, “And while we’re there, maybe you can tell me what happened to my kitchen knives? I haven’t been able to find them since last night!”

  So we went back to his place, and we had a Chinese takeaway, and we watched old Charlie Chaplin films. I like them ’cause you don’t have to be clever to get the jokes. I never thought someone smart like Lawrence would like them too.

  And it got a bit late, and I thought, well, Larry’s a poof—see, he said I could call him Larry, ’cause nobody else did—and he keeps smiling at me, so maybe I should make a move? So I put my arm round him and pulled him close, but he sort of shivered, so I let go again. I didn’t want him to start shaking like last night.

  “No, come back,” Larry said, and he snuggled into my side. I liked that. Then he reached up and kissed me, and I liked that more, so I put my arm round him again and pulled him onto my lap. He laughed. “If we tried this the other way round, you’d flatten me,” he said, and then he kissed me again. So I didn’t have to try and think of nothing to say. I liked the way his kisses tasted—all sweet-and-sour sauce and white wine—and the way his lips were so soft, but his chin was rough with stubble.

  “Where did you get this scar from?” he asked, rubbing his thumb along it. It tickled when he got to my lip.

  “Beer glass.”

  “Were you attempting to drink from it at the time?”

  “Nah. Some wanker in the pub din’t like my face.”

  Larry’s eyes went wide. “So he shoved a glass in it? Christ!”

  “’S all right. I broke his jaw.”

  “God, I bet you did.” He laughed. “You know, you’re really not the sort of person I’d want to meet down a dark alleyway.” I didn’t say nothing, ’cause where we’d met last night had been down a dark alley. Maybe he wished we’d never met? “Joke, Al, joke,” he said, stroking my face, and I felt better.

  We kissed again, and I shoved my hand up his shirt so I could feel his chest. Larry hasn’t got any chest hair, and his skin felt so smooth and soft I was worried I was going to scratch it with my rough hands. “Oh, that feels good,” he said, like he could read my mind.

  Sometimes I wonder, if people get really clever, can they read minds? But I don’t think Larry can read mine. Not really.

  I put my other hand on his arse and pulled him in tight, but it wasn’t so good with stuff in the way. “Get your clothes off,” I said, and it probably sounded a bit rough, but there wasn’t nothing I could do about that, I was so turned on.

  Tattoos fade with time. Emotions never lose their edge…

  A.J.’s Angel

  © 2011 L.A. Witt

  Luke Emerson is the last person Sebastian Wakefield expects to see strolling into his tattoo shop. But Luke’s not back after four years to take up where they left off. Not even to apologize for the cheating that broke them up.

  Luke wants a custom tattoo, a memorial for someone known only as “A.J.” Much as Seb would love to tell Luke to take this ink and shove it, he’s a professional. Plus, he’s reluctant to admit, he wouldn’t mind getting his hands on Luke again. Even if it’s just business.

  Once Luke’s in the tattoo chair, though, Seb finds himself struggling with all the anger and resentment he thought he’d left behind—and those aren’t the only feelings reignited. Their relationship may have been turbulent, but it was also passionate. Four years clearly hasn’t been long enough for the embers of that fire to go cold.

  A few subtle hints from Luke is all it takes to make Seb consider indulging in some of that physical passion. It shouldn’t be that tough to keep his emotions from getting tangled up in sweaty sheets.

  After all, it’s not like he’s in love with Luke anymore. Right?

  Warning: Contains two exes who shouldn’t want each other like this, steamy ex-sex they shouldn’t be having, and a whole lot of ink.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for A.J.’s Angel:

  The leather chair squeaked as he got comfortable, and I resisted the urge to shudder. So, here we were. We were really doing this. Making sure my back was to him, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. No matter how much I wanted to choke him just for breathing, I had to relax and be civil. I couldn’t tattoo while I was tense or angry.

  Or turned-on.

  Which was absolutely not a risk with Luke in the room.

  Jason came out of the back, pulling on his leather jacket. My pulse jumped. Tell me you’re not leaving already…

  “Hey, I have to run out of here,” he said. “Kimber’s making some more arrangements tonight, and I need to go make sure she doesn’t go over budget again.”

  I laughed. “No rest for the engaged, eh?” You bastard. I hope she’s picked the most expensive photographer in Seattle.

  “Pretty much.” Zipping his jacket, he glanced at Luke, then at me. “You have everything under control here?”

  “I’ll call you if I burn the place down.”

  He chuckled. “Whatever. Have a good night, man.”

  “You too.”

  He picked up his motorcycle helmet from behind his workstation and headed for the door. Once again, the bells above the door preceded a massive spike in my blood pressure. I was seriously considering removing those things. They always seemed to signal that I had nerve-racking company or was suddenly alone.r />
  Alone with Luke Emerson.

  Focus. Time to be Sebastian the Tattooist, not Sebastian the Bitter Ex-boyfriend.

  I sat beside him in my own chair. That was when I realized he’d worn a button down shirt. The sleeve would roll easily to his elbow, but to the shoulder? Not a chance. Even if it did, it would likely be too tight to keep that way for any length of time. If it wasn’t too tight, we ran the risk of having it fall and screw up my work.

  “You’ll want to, um.” I paused, swallowing hard. “Take your shirt off.”

  “Oh. Right.” He sat up, and I looked anywhere but right at him while he unbuttoned his shirt. Fabric rustled, leather squeaked, and he announced he’d finished partially disrobing by saying, “Where should I put this?”

  I can think of at least one place.

  I coughed to mask a laugh that nearly escaped. “I’ll take it.” He handed me his shirt, and only then did I steal a glance at him. Thankfully, he’d worn a T-shirt underneath. Those sleeves were easier to secure than a rolled-up long sleeve, and the rest of the shirt kept his chest and abs safely out of sight. Well, as out of sight as washboard abs could be when covered by a T-shirt that was that tight.

  You son of a bitch.

  Our eyes met briefly. We both quickly shifted our gazes away. I had no doubt the rush of heat in my face had turned my cheeks a nice shade of pink, and I couldn’t decide if his quiet chuckle was from nerves or if it was a smug acknowledgment that he’d caught me checking him out.

  I forced myself not to look at him except for the skin I was being paid to mutilate. Pushing aside all of my impure and unprofessional thoughts, I concentrated on prepping him for the tattoo. I ran a disposable razor over his upper arm, making sure even the tiniest hairs were out of the way. Then I cleaned his skin and put the stencil on it, transferring the temporary ink to give me a guideline.