Release Blitz

Release Blitz: Cabin Fever by Roe Horvat


A warm welcome to my guest, the fabulous Roe Horvat with his new novel Cabin Fever🧡




Book Title: Cabin Fever

Author: Roe Horvat

Publisher: Self-Published

Cover Artist: Roe Horvat

Release Date: June 18 2020

Genre/s: Contemporary M/M erotic romance

Trope/s: forced proximity, bodyguard, Daddy/boy, hurt/comfort

Themes: bodyguard and his client, remote cabin in the woods, light kink,

submission, punishment, bratty boy, protective & controlling Daddy

Warning: self-harm off page

Heat Rating: 5 flames

Length: 41 000 words

It is a standalone story.


Buy Links – Available on Kindle Unlimited

Universal Link | Amazon US | Amazon UK




Michael Bourgeon is a talented artist, young and gorgeous, a stinking rich heir from a well-connected family. He’s the infamous libertine behind the most extravagant parties in Manhattan, and his exploits often lead to juicy tabloid stories. Enjoying his wealth and freedom to the fullest, Michael has the world at his feet.
Until someone tries to kill him. Repeatedly. After a security breach among his own staff, he has run out of options where to hide while the FBI hunts the killer.
A high-profile private security expert Vincent Nowak is supposed to provide the miracle solution. And while Michael struggles with nightmares and anxiety due to the looming threat, Vincent becomes not only the ultimately reliable protector, but a wonderful distraction, too…
A small cabin in the woods, a cocky brat with a soft heart, his gruff, controlling bodyguard, and weeks of tension in a confined space.

A standalone novella based on the original short story Yes, Daddy. HAE, no cliffhangers.




“The rules, Michael.”

“I was literally ten steps away from the cabin, Vincent.” I wanted to defend myself more, but my voice sounded shaky and weak. I snapped my mouth shut.

His hand on my neck tightened, and he pushed me through the door. I stumbled but regained my balance. Vincent shut the door behind us and turned to me.

“Did you do it to rile me up, Mikey?” His expression stayed suspiciously neutral.

“No,” I answered honestly. “I was just bored. You were in your room doing whatever, and I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“My work here is for nothing if you don’t follow the rules.”

I knew it wasn’t his intention, but the command in his voice did things to me. I licked my lips. Don’t think about the fear. You’re safe. Look at him. His shoulders are rising with angry breaths, his eyes flashing with fury. He’s gorgeous…

“Fucking hell, Mikey. I mean it!”

“I’m sorry.” I was getting hard. He was magnificent when he was pissed at me.

“Stop looking at me like that. This is serious.”

“I know.” But I couldn’t help it. My nipples were tingling, and I had to swallow. “Will you punish me?”

“No, you fucking incubus. I’m not rewarding you for endangering yourself on a whim, dammit. You will follow the rules, Michael. How is it possible that if I tell you to keep your hands off your dick, you obey me, but if I ask you to be reasonable so I can keep you alive, you don’t care?”

He was frustrated with me. Shit. It seemed like I wasn’t getting any tonight. My nerves quivered again, my anxiety looming close. Double shit.

“My people report to me every day about everything and anything that happens in the area,” Vincent said. “It takes quite a lot of effort, but it means I can let you out to breathe sometimes. If you do this again, I’ll fucking lock you in the panic room for the rest of the week, I swear.”

“I’m really sorry, Vincent. I won’t do it again.”

He shook his head and took a deep breath, bracing his hands on his hips.

“You are the client from hell, you know that?” His words were hard, but his voice sounded gentle.

Yeah, I wouldn’t want to babysit myself either. “I can double your pay.”

He chuckled at that. “No money can compensate for what you’re doing to me, Mikey.”

I drew in a breath. I was lousy at expressing emotion. Seriously, complete shit at that part. I mean, in sex, I could tell anything and everything, but actual feelings? This man worked tirelessly to keep my stupid head intact, and I only made it more difficult for him from the start because I was a sex-crazed, twisted nervous wreck. I had no words to explain to him how grateful and how sorry I was.

So I stripped naked in the middle of the room and knelt on the floor while Vincent stared, mouth parted, eyes burning. I bent my head in complete submission, arms hanging limply by my sides, and spoke quietly.

“I’m so sorry, Daddy. I promise I won’t break the rules again. Please, forgive me.”

I closed my eyes and waited.


About the Author

Queer fiction author Roe Horvat was born in the post-communist wasteland of former Czechoslovakia. Equipped with a dark sense of sarcasm, Roe traveled Europe and finally settled in Sweden. He came out as transgender in 2017 and has been fabulous since. He loves Jane Austen, Douglas Adams, bad action movies, stand-up comedy, and pale ale. When not hiding in the studio doing graphics, he can be found trolling cafés in Gothenburg, writing, and people-watching.

Social Media Links

Blog/Website | Facebook | Twitter | Newsletter Sign-up |

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My Way 17

My Way

19 Mac






Mac was snatched from fitful slumber by the faintest impression of skin. He had lain listening to Joe’s too-leaden breaths for a long time before dozing off. Only for his eyelids to snap open what felt like seconds later…too many times to count. A sensation uncannily akin to being shoved off the edge of a cliff and swan-diving into an abyss of dread. 

The knowledge that ‘nodding off’ was a common occurrence when the central nervous system was clobbered by a shot of smack? Handae counted for fuck-all to the adrenaline rush unleashed by the chilling tableau it presented. 

If any doubt had lingered about the all-too obvious answer to who the fuck is Joe Fitzerald; the sight that suggested an horrific change of tense would’ve obliterated it. Mac had barely retained the presence of mind to check Joe’s vitals, as opposed to upending his bag on the bed to scrabble for the naloxone stashed in its ease-of-access side pocket. F’fucksakes.

Joe had been bundled off to Harley Street on his last day in London for an insurance medicalsigned off as ‘satisfactory’ by his doctor—somehow. In layman’s terms? Better than they’d dared hope…but.

Mac’s constitution of an ox assessment hadn’t been entirely founded on Joe’s indefatigable erectile functionality. The urine test results had been as abysmal as the toxicity levels of Joe’s blood, but it hosted nothing more sinister than the usual suspects. It carried no further causes for concern, and Joe’s CD4 count was well within the normal range. He was not HIV positive. Mac hadnae totally lost his mind. A reassuring thought. Not.

 “Joe..?” Mac mumbled from the semi-conscious state he’d been suspended in for fucknows how long. A limbo-land full of unthinkable fears. Unspeakable probabilities. Unwinnable wars. 

“Hm?” That simple sound was the most responsive Joe had been since…he’d muttered ‘s’okay. I’m sleepy, s’all…’ and promptly passed out. It hadnae felt the slightest like healing sleep. Just a drug drenched, too-deep oblivion that could slip into a coma or…worse. Paranoia might’ve played its part in Mac’s fears, but that sure as hell didnae make them less valid. Statistics, science, and sheer common sense constituted an unholy trinity of terrible truths. 

Joe-the-poster-boy for the perils of rock-star excess…let this be a lesson to you, kids. The press would pay a fucking fortune for the shot of the scene which greeted Mac when he walked through the attic door. A sum he’d known would sky-rocket into the stratosphere if the picture had shown Joe’s corpse.

Mac found himself clutching a thigh as long as it was lean, but far from cadaverous; as if to anchor Joe to a goddamned world that didn’t deserve—oh f’chrissakes. Mac snatched his hand away as if it had been scorched, only to tangle into tufty hair while crushing his mouth to startled, but instantly responsive lips. Lips he proceeded to ravage with a hunger as desperate as it was dangerous. To them both…and as inevitable as Joe’s next fix.

An arm was wound around Mac’s waist, but Joe didn’t push for more. Just splayed his palm across Mac’s skin; a fact that sent his hips snapping against Joe. A so-near, but oh, so frustrating slam of pants to steely flesh. The whimper of sound he swallowed was intoxicating as the responsive flex of Joe’s spine and the fingertips he slipped into Mac’s waistband. They’d no sooner done so, than stilled and Mac knew why, but he sure as hell didnae intend to object. The few fleeting hours he’d held off had felt like forever. The passing of time had somehow seemed to condense and yet simultaneously protract since he’d walked into Joe’s world…as if it too was seduced by the ebbs and flows of that mallifluent mind.

When Mac threw his weight forwards, those tentative fingers shot down the back of his briefs and clamped to his arse melding him to a body as molten as the liquid heat of Joe’s kisses. Mac was done waiting, done with prevaricating how best to do his job, done with every damned doubt that would flay him to the bone, tomorrow…could wait. He wanted Joe. Pure and simple. Joe, the too-everything for his own welfare client Mac was being paid to protect. He could do bloody both. He had to. 

Planting his palms on the bed, Mac pushed himself up and clasped an arm to tug Joe onto his front, cutting off a cry of protest. His plans had unravelled faster than his scepticism that Joe would prove worth the furoreor fuss he inspiredlet alone infamy. Mac’s single focus of intent had become shaking Joe to the core and snatching up all he could along the way. If that wasnae far off plunder and pillage, Mac didnae give a crap. He had a purge to plot yet. 

In the meantime, Mac had an occupation to establish…

The fur would undoubtedly fly when Joe found himself a damn sight safer than he’d ever hoped. Ah well, he had a job to do, after all… One Mac couldnae help but relish as he set about proving the indispensable perks of ‘security’.


“Need you…” A halting plea that speared Mac’s heart with a shaft of guilt. Fuck, he hadnae meant to torture Joe into supplication. And yet, his mood swings were so mercurial, the moment Mac felt as if he’d got some sort of grip, the miscreant pulled the entire floor from beneath his feet.

“Me, or this…?” Mac demanded, yanking his pants clear of his cock to park it like a bloody bike between Joe’s cheeks. All-but blowing his own mind in the process.

“Yess…” A ghost of a word, barely above a breath, but its effect on Mac was the blast of a blowtorch.


“P’raps…in the bedside table?” 

Mac scrambled off the bed, dispensed with his half-mast briefs and switched the lamp on. The drawer seemed most probable, so he tugged it open to find a jam-packed treasure trove of…fucknows what. All that mattered was the lube…buried beneath it. A fact that did suggest Joe had told the truth earlier.


“Aye?” he responded, trying to cram the ton of stuff back in.

“I-you’re…beautiful…” Joe’s tone was as bewildering as the word he’d uttered.

“You’re bonk—” The rest died in Mac’s throat when he clocked Joe’s expression. Wonder? That couldnae be right, it was those flamin’ eyes; too wide to be human and too bewitching for…both their welfares.

“Mac, please…” Joe rolled them up to Mac’s face, clobbering him with black holes of ineffable need. Dragging Mac to his doom…aided and abetted by a torrent of inner claptrap. Apparently. 

“Tell me what you want…” Mac rasped, his voice stripped to a husk of its former self. Rather like his sanity.

“You. Whatever I can have…”



Book Blast · Guest

Book Blast: Confessions of a Gay Curmudgeon by Andy V. Ambrose

Good morning, I have a special guest today…

A very warm welcome to Andy V. Ambrose and the irresistibly titled Confessions of a Gay Curmudgeon.



Book Title: Confessions of a Gay Curmudgeon

Author: Andy V. Ambrose

Publisher: Nine Star Press

Cover Artist: Natasha Snow

Release Date: September 2, 2019

Genres: Contemporary, Literary/Genre Fiction

Theme: Older gay man searching for love

Heat Rating: 4 flames

Length: 62 100 words/292 pages

It is a standalone story.

Warning: references to non-consensual situations, no HEA or HFN

Add on Goodreads


Buy Links

Nine Star Press

Amazon US | Amazon UK




Confessions of a Gay Curmudgeon recounts the adventures of Viktor, a fifty-year-old gay man in New York City trying to get back into the land of the living after the breakup of a twelve-year relationship. The novel examines the lives of a group of middle-aged gay men, exploring new facets of their sexuality while dealing with all the changes middle age brings.






My erections aren’t what they used to be.

Well, Dr. S told me to write about the first thing that comes into my mind, so it’s what I’m doing. “Don’t think. Just write,” he said. “Stop censoring yourself, Viktor. This will help you in your therapy too, Viktor.”

Okay, okay. If that’s what the shrink ordered, let’s see if this works. We’re supposed to listen to our shrinks, right? That’s their job, right? They know how to get us out of whatever fucking funk we’re in, right?

So here we go. I’m writing about the first thing that comes to my mind and it’s my erections. Here it is, a lovely Saturday afternoon, sun shining, snow melting, spring a’coming, a perfect time to enjoy life. And what am I doing? Sulking in my apartment obsessing about my cock.

Hell of a problem to have on a day like today, isn’t it? Shit, be honest, Viktor. You’re supposed to be honest with this writing thing, aren’t you? That was Dr. S’s other directive, wasn’t it? Honesty. He was full of directives last session, wasn’t he? Oh well, maybe I need some directives.

So where was I? Oh yes. Gorgeous day, shitty mood, focusing on my cock when I should be enjoying life.

Oh, come on. It’s not just about my cock. I know that. After all, I did my share of screwing around when I was younger. Not that I was the biggest stud around in my heyday, but during those few glorious weeks my sex life got going, I learned how to have a good time. Yes, I did! But then I met Gio and fell in love. And he fell in love with me. And we had twelve years of bliss—more or less—until he left me last year.

“And I’ve been floundering ever since. Floundering? Ha! Flopping around is more like it. So I’ve been seeing Dr. S—ahem, Dr. Singsirinavin—I’ve been seeing him to help me out of this predicament. Seems like a nice enough guy, serious, quiet, with a scrawny body and a bit of an accent, though I’ll be damned if I know from where exactly. These shrinks never tell you anything about themselves, do they? I’ve been seeing Dr. S for a year already, and you would think by now I’d have an idea, but I don’t. To tell the truth, I don’t have much of an idea about anything, including whether he’s helping me.
But I’m trying. Goddamn it, I’m trying, you’ve got to give me that. Didn’t put all my eggs in one basket, either. Went to my primary-care guy too, to complain about my cock. Dr. Agnostulopolini. Different accent, different mystery country. Had to change doctors when my cheapo company switched insurances and I had to find someone new.

“And I’ve been floundering ever since. Floundering? Ha! Flopping around is more like it. So I’ve been seeing Dr. S—ahem, Dr. Singsirinavin—I’ve been seeing him to help me out of this predicament. Seems like a nice enough guy, serious, quiet, with a scrawny body and a bit of an accent, though I’ll be damned if I know from where exactly. These shrinks never tell you anything about themselves, do they? I’ve been seeing Dr. S for a year already, and you would think by now I’d have an idea, but I don’t. To tell the truth, I don’t have much of an idea about anything, including whether he’s helping me.

“And I’ve been floundering ever since. Floundering? Ha! Flopping around is more like it. So I’ve been seeing Dr. S—ahem, Dr. Singsirinavin—I’ve been seeing him to help me out of this predicament. Seems like a nice enough guy, serious, quiet, with a scrawny body and a bit of an accent, though I’ll be damned if I know from where exactly. These shrinks never tell you anything about themselves, do they? I’ve been seeing Dr. S for a year already, and you would think by now I’d have an idea, but I don’t. To tell the truth, I don’t have much of an idea about anything, including whether he’s helping me.
“But I’m trying. Goddamn it, I’m trying, you’ve got to give me that. Didn’t put all my eggs in one basket, either. Went to my primary-care guy too, to complain about my cock. Dr. Agnostulopolini. Different accent, different mystery country. Had to change doctors when my cheapo company switched insurances and I had to find someone new. He doesn’t know anything about me and doesn’t seem to care, either. Every time I ask a question, the side of his face twitches like he’s having a stroke. “Doctor,” I said last time, “my libido seems to have disappeared.”
“You know, it does fall off with age,” he says. Translation: you’re getting old.
“But not this suddenly, Doctor. Could it be the new blood pressure medicine you prescribed?” Translation: Fuck you. Don’t give me that you’re-getting-old shit. I’m fifty. That’s not old.”



About the Author

Andy V Ambrose grew up in the Boston area and moved to New York City after college. He worked in book publishing for many years, wearing many hats: Editorial, Copyediting, Proofreading, and Production. This is his first novel featuring Viktor, a fifty-year-old gay man trying to get back into the world of the living after the end of a twelve-year relationship. To relax, Andy loves to ride his bike, read, watch foreign and independent movies, and travel. He’s only made it to three continents so far but hopes to visit the rest soon. He lives in New York City.


Social Media Links

Website | Instagram



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Follow the tour and check out the other blog posts here



My Way 16

My Way 


18 Joe




Springing from his seat, Joe swooped to yank Mac’s chair toward him before leaping aboard his bad-ass’ lap. Pretty nifty work it was too; so swift it saved Mac the bother of cussing about it. Crikey. Joe’s crotch—naked beneath his robe—was crushed to a stonking boner straining against snug-as-a-bug tailoring. Too irresistible to noteth not…or murmur the list of longings it unleashed.

“F’fucksakes,” Mac may have groaned but didn’t seem too miffed that his way had just been jerked Joe’s. Nor did he protest when Joe cupped that cut-glass jaw to capture the mouth he might never have enough of. No matter whether it was twerking in a devilish grin, growling orders, set in a don’t-push-your-luck line, or...ooh, gawd. Joe was still having a hard time believing that had happened. He’d spent forever aching for kisses like these…the sort that inspired rhapsodic reams of poesy, making mere mortals wonder where it all went wrong. Or scoff. Even as they—we—devour them…and dream impossible dreams. 

More… Joe couldn’t sit still, despite fearing he would be shoved off if he settled himself more…comfily in his seat. When the wee wriggle didn’t reap its just deserts ejection, Joe shuffled a smidge closer, tilting his hips to make matters more cosy. The moan that rumbled in Mac’s throat was sin itself, a sound so raw it’s rasp could strike matches. It’s effect was a metaphor too obvious to make. 

“Please…” A plea as pointless as it was irrepressible while tugging on Mac’s plush lower lip with his teeth. 

“No…” Mac groaned, but those glorious greens began rolling back in his head, so Joe carried on regardless. Hoping he might just be permitted to grind his way to giddy victory before Mac mustered the wherewithal to demur. That felt a mite less damning than ‘dumping Joe on his ass in a most unceremonial fashion’ so, he went with it. While the going was oh, so goood…which o’course, proved a far-too tempting turn o’phrase for fate to resist. Trouncing.

“F’fucksakes…Ssstop,” Mac hissed, grasping Joe’s hips to shove him back, sharpish. Not that far, thankfully. 

“Pfhh. Suit y’self,” Joe levered himself to his feet and retrieved his right leg to turn and stomp off in a huff. He wasn’t so much miffed as…hurt. That was too pitiful to make apparent, so…miffy it was. “I’m going to my room. Alone.” 

After skittering upstairs to the attic, Joe shoved the door shut behind him. Why was Mac being so stubborn? It didn’t make sense. The blow job made even less sense. It was driving Joe bonkers. He paused a mo to knead at his thighs; the cramp was so excruciating, it felt as if bashing the muscle with a hammer would help, rather than hurt. His guts were gnarled in knots, the need so gnawing, it did cross Joe’s mind to cook up a mite more than usual. That would be cutting his nose off to spite his face—in too many ways to count—but it was tricky to care when Mac was too…everything to put up with Joe’s crap for long.

He was a man at the top of his game. Joe had been a hairsbreadth from rock bottom for a tedious amount of time—for everyone who mattered—Mac included. The scant few hours he’d tolerated were plenty to conclude that Joe wasnae worth the monotony money. Or, the inevitable blight on his unblemished bad-ass rep.

Facts that made the lure of the ultimate painkiller all the more compelling. So, Joe was most dischuffed to find himself cooking up just-enough to suffice…not least when that felt a lot like Mac had won. Again. 

Shrugging off his robe, Joe scrutinized his arms in hopes of happening upon a vein that wasn’t shot to shit. A likelihood less probable than Mac being seduced by their charms. At all. Ever. Who the bejeezus could be? P’raps less discerning folk who pardoned the track marks, scars and eye-sores their rose-coloured specs pronounced ‘tortured genius’? Joe didn’t believe that for one second, but it had been mooted so many times it was worth throwing in as a fallacy for Mac to scoff at. 

The only likely looking candidate for a fresh botching sat atop Joe’s right wrist, which meant a left handed pass-the-sick-bucket poke about. Ah well. Sinking down into the chair, Joe tied a tourniquet and rammed the needle in, digging about a bit ’til he finally hit pay dirt. Possibly a sick-in-the-throat sensation before the crunchy-nutters made a reappearance. After pressing down the plunger, Joe sank back in his seat and let the syringe fall unheeded to the floor; surrendering to the heady rush of relief shimmering through his veins.


“Jor JOR!” Am I on a boat…’tis a tad choppy on board. “JOR! F’chrissakes! Howmuchdidy’take muttermumblefuck’n’cuss…” Mac?


“Jor…look at me…” Cool hands…blissfully cool, cupped Joe’s face. “Jor…please…”

Jorjorjunkiejoefuckingsmackheadscum… Oh, knock yourselves out, y’know you want to… 


“Fine? I’ll give you fucking fine…” 

The world juddered and jerked. Arms…strong, sure arms…that luscious smell. Hmm… Joe inhaled the clean, husky warmth saturating his senses, nuzzling into the curve of Mac’s neck. Then…it was gone and Joe’s body was cradled by cool instead. Sooo soothing. He was a bitalot hot. Joe blinked, trying to focus on…a sloping ceiling? Above his bed? 


“Here…” A whisky-warm murmur as the mattress dipped beside Joe’s hip.

“Hmm…I’m glad…please don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Mac’s voice was a husky rasp. Like a zipper. As soothing as the cool, which was weird. Or Joe was, one or t’other. Oh no…Mac is wayyy weirder. He’s still here, for a start.

“Just nodded off. It wasn’t…”

“It wasnae what?” Mac prompted, when Joe seemed to forget the rest of his sentence.


“I thought—” Mac broke off, muttering something like ‘whatthefuckdoint’me’ beneath his breath. That couldn’t be right…what the fuck am I t’do with you? 

“S’okay. I’m sleepy, s’all,” Joe yawned. Soo tired…too wound-up to sleep for…he had no idea. None at all…


It was still dark when Joe prised his lids apart. Not pitch-black: moonlight bleached the attic to bone and shades of silver grey, lending it a ghostly beauty. There seemed to be someone in Joe’s bed; huffing soft, sleepy snuffs of breath behind him. Spooky. Adam? In my bed? Spookier still…but hadn’t he gone back to London? Crikey. Mac? Still here. Beside Joe. Behind Joe. Fast asleep. Lifting his hand, he skimmed it over his own thigh, a smidge further back, ’til his fingers brushed the soft scratch of hair. Legs. Bare. Mac must have finally peeled those fancy strides off. The Mcbadass, oh, so nearly naked. In Joe’s bed. If he just tilted back a bit… 

“Jor…” It was a sigh of sound rather than a word when Joe’s shoulder brushed silken skin. 

“Yeah?” Was Mac still asleep?

“S’dark…still night.” he mutter-mumbled.

“I need a smoke, go back to sleep,” Joe whispered

Smack!? You passed out a few hours ago!” Mac spluttered, jolting to awareness.

Smoke not smack, y’daftie. Mac?” Joe shuffled forward a smidge to turn over and face him.


“Thank you…for putting me to bed n’all…”

“S’okay. I thought—” Breaking off abruptly, Mac clamped bruising fingers to Joe’s thigh. Sending a bolt of lust blazing through his body; as breathtaking as it was brutal. “…you’d—Fuck.” 

Mac snatched his hand away but before Joe could grieve its loss, the back of his head was clasped and their mouths crashed together. Mac’s lips—hot, hungry—demanding what Joe was only too glad to give. Oh, the joy of splaying his palm across the sleep-warm skin of Mac’s back…at last. Eclipsed when panther hips snapped against him in a slam of cotton-clad-steel. A smidge too high, but strewwth; thick, hard, hot…huge.

Joe firmed the press of his fingers; cleaving them closer still. Skin to skin, chest to chest, sheer bliss. P’raps if he slid his hand a little lower…Joe’s fingertips brushed Mac’s waistband; he froze, waiting… The bad-ass either didn’t notice, or mind, but he didnae demur when Joe edged beneath the elastic…nor when he inched an itty bit further. Quite the contrary, to Joe’s utter astonishment, Mac pressed his weight forwards. Crikey… Joe could be accused of much—and oft was—but never of being slow on the uptake. Lickety-spit, Joe was clasping the sublime swell of a cheek and rocking back to tug Mac atop him. 

Every burnished inch of his bad-ass was pressing Joe into the bed; a wall of hard heat as heady as it was heavy. Joe’s palm was clamped across the sumptuous curve it had coveted all day…his lips being devoured by the most mind-boggling mouth that had ever graced them with kisses. Heaven. P’raps he was still away in the land of nod…or adrift on opium dreams? No. He couldn’t be, because the bad-ass abruptly snatched himself away. Cold air slammed against Joe’s skin—heavier than Mac’s weight had been—crushing his chest.

“Ma—” His name cut off sharpish when Joe’s bicep was grasped in a death grip and yanked, flipping him over onto his front. His face was still buried in the pillow when his legs were shoved apart for knees to settle between them. Joe had yet to get his breath back when his hips were tugged up with a swift jerk…and he all-but passed out. Unless, he had. No other explanation made sense, nor was it likely to any time soooon. Or ever again…by the time Mac was done with his dastardly dappling.

Stonethecrows’n’strewthalmighty. “AAHH!” The air blasted from Joe’s lungs, expelled by the flicker of moist heat at his very core. Mac’s tongue. Darting into Joe’s darkest dreamscape. Never had he dared imagine that the meanest mo-fo on earth (or thereabouts) would dally that where the sun don’t shine. Joe wasn’t that daft.

His entire self seemed to melt into the bed as ecstasy licked along his veins, radiating through every fibre of his being. If he’d had the wherewithal to think about it, Joe’s head might’ve exploded, such was the scorch of shock to his system…but he could scarce summon the brain cells to turn his head in a bid to breathe. Or, gasp a lot and unleash random syllables that made more sense than thissss.

“Ma-fuck-ah-god-gnr-ahh..” It p’raps sounded if he was being strangled but Joe was past caring about owt but the slinky skills of that tongue: flickering like a firefly, spearing Joe’s soul with impossible bliss. “Mac! Please…” he begged as the blighter indulged in a wee swirl hell-bent on obliterating foolhardy grey matter still lingering about. Joe didn’t have the foggiest what he was pleading for. Please…more? Don’t stop? Please-don’t-leave-me? Promise-you’ll-stay-forever-or-thereabouts…

Please…?” Mac enquired, before blowing a stream of cool air across well-sluiced skin. Ooooh.

“Need you.

“Me…or thisss..?” Mac’s sultry rasp was spine-tingling in itself, but the hips that snapped against Joe in a slam of hard heat were incendiary. 

“Yesss…” Joe may have sighed. Hmm… Mac’s cock. Parked in happy valley. Bare-bad-assed-naked. P’raps his pants had finally melted undie duress. 






My Way 15

My Way

17 Mac




“Why won’t you let me, if you want me to?” Joe looked beyond bewildered. As well he might. Mac was all-but gnashing his teeth. Sitting on the bed beside a sated, naked Joe, suffering the worst case of cripple cock he’d ever endured. 

Christ. Want him to? There was only one thing Mac craved more…but a blow job would have sufficed in the meantime. He couldnae afford to hand over the reins ’til he was damn sure they’d be relinquished—or surrendered on command—if Joe preferred, as Mac had a hunch he might.

“Joe. My way. On my terms. Ring a bell?” This was excruciating. Mac had worked undercover before, but never as himself, f’fucksakes.

“Quit chuntering,” he couldn’t help but chuckle—or refrain from ruffling Joe’s fluffy shock of hair—after being treated to some much miffed huffing and puffing. “You agreed to the terms, so suck it up.”  A most unfortunate expression if ever there was one. Mac was driving himself nuts (which, in turn, were protesting painfully).

“Humph. If only. Later-wards?” Joe actually fluttered his eyelashes while pinning on an angelic grin. The monster might’ve sighed “Oh, okay…” when Mac growled his name, but those irrepressible eyes belied his acquiescence. “What time is it?”

“Time to eat. I’m starving.” Mac stated, in tones that brooked no argument.

“You can’t say I didn’t offer,” Joe muttered.

“Joe. Food. You havenae eaten sod all, except cereal.”

“Tasty it was, too. I’m really not hungry. For food.” Added with a toothy grin.

“What are you willing to ingest?” Mac emphasized. 


“Y’cannae survive on smack and crunchy nut cornflakes,” Mac stated, scraping a despairing hand through his hair.

“Y’can. I’m living proof of that.”

“You must have the constitution of an ox. It’s a miracle you can still get it up at all.”

“So it seems, as the Doc is far too fond of informing me. When he’s not issuing proclamations of doom about its future prospects…and those of my fingers. Someone’s put him up to the hands thing, I’m sure of it. Be my voice box next, I bet. Blighters.”

“If I order something in, will you share it?” Mac asked, rather than respond to a prognosis he couldnae refute.

“No, cos I want crunchy-nutters.”

“Fine. I cannae be arsed to argue the toss about cornflakes. C’mon, put something on, so we can get you fed.”

“My robe’ll do…it’s comfy.” More huffing and puffing accompanied Joe’s progress from bed to bathrobe, followed by a ‘much miffed’ stomp downstairs.

Doc McCafferty’s diagnosis? All show and no substance. If Joe was indeed pissed off, Mac sure as hell wouldnae be standing around assessing that fact.

“What are you having? There should be some tasty stuff in the freezer.”

“I’m not fussed, t’be honest. Are there enough crunchy-nutters for two?” Acceding to said moniker seemed a wee concession in the scheme of things.

“There should be, Adam said he’d brought six, so I’d better bloody remember to eat ’em. I can’t have forgot to scoff that many.”

If there was an answer to that…it wasnae about to suggest itself this side of six bottles of scotch. “They’ll suffice, for now…there’s some bananas in my bag. D’you want one slicing up for yours, while I’m doing mine?”

“I’d rather eat it separately.” Joe decided after musing the matter as if it was a tie breaker on University Challenge. 

“Okay,” Mac mustered a nonchalant shrug. As opposed to thrusting a triumphant fist in the air—because Joe had agreed to consume a piece of fruit—f’chrissakes. He was going soft in the head. After bending to break a couple of bananas off the bunch in his holdall, Mac placed them on the countertop and extracted the switchblade from his pocket. 

“Crikey…Mack-the-Knife, all present and correct. Have you got a pair of pliers too?”

“No, just tranquilizer darts and manacles.” Mac shrugged.

“Fibber. I really doubt you came bearing gifts. If there’s Ketamine in that bag, I’ll eat my hat stand.” Joe snickered, pouring a crunchy-nut mountain into two bowls he’d retrieved from the cupboard. 

“I can’t really argue with that. Thanks,” Mac added, slicing a banana to scatter on his own and handing one to Joe when he’d done the milk pouring honours.

“Hmm…that smell…” After pretty much shoving his face in the bowl, Joe inhaled with a lingering purr of appreciation. How the hell does he make every damn thing seem so…charming? Even when he’s being bloody impossible? Even when? He ratchets it up another notch or ninety to counter that fact. Mac was starting to feel uncannily akin to Kindergarten Cop. On acid.  

NB: Persuading Joe to eat a piece of fruit = Triumph > Torture in the time it takes to peel a banana. Eat? The monster fellated it. 

“Joe,” Mac growled.

“Wha—?” The miscreant managed to communicate, while freezing mid-bite, lips wrapped obscenely around its…shaft.

“You know very well ‘what’,” Mac grunted.

“Nope, no idea what you’re talking about,” Joe blinked, the picture of innocence. After slowly withdrawing the banana to speak.

“I’d ram that up your arse if I didnae think you’d enjoy it too much,” Mac glowered.

“Perv…” Joe cackled.

I am not the one performing fellatio on a banana.” 

“It’s not my fault. My mouth was watering, all geared up and raring to go. I am simply appeasing its misery,” Joe sniffed.

“You. Are…impossible.” Mac cussed, stomping over to the table with their cereal. His temper was unravelling, toting his patience along for the ride. He felt fit to explode. What dickhead dreamed up this oh, so cunning plan? Without even recourse to a trip to the loo to have a wank in peace? 

“Charmin’. I’m being as good as gold too. Mac, when I’ve scoffed my crunchy-nutters…” If the puppy dog eyes hadnae been a dead giveaway, Joe’s toe-scuffing tone proclaimed his plea from the rooftops. 

“Yeah,” Mac sighed. “I didn’t expect you to hold out so long.”

“Told ya…I was a mite distracted.”

“I’d be on the Atkins Diet if I ‘distracted’ you as often as necessary.”

 “If I can pick my own protein delivery method, I’d be more than happy to go on it. You’d need to, if I had my way. Mac…? What are you doing?”

“Banging my head on the table, what the fuck does it look like?” Mac muttered, having shoved his seat back to do exactly that. 

“You’ve gone ‘nanas, I reckon. It would be a lot less painful to just—”

“Joe. Go and shoot up and shut it, for chrissakes or I’m going to stab you,” Mac cut him off.

“Oh, testy. I’d take yourself off for a wank if I were you, before your plot, ’tis lost…”

“I am fine.” Man retorted, mustering a glare so menacing it tended to make more painful means of persuasion redundant. 

 “Suit y’self. Just trying to be helpful. Please may I be excused, Sir?”

“Aye…just please don’t go overboard,” Mac sighed, resigned to the inevitable.

“I won’t.” Joe’s teasing tone smoothed to a soothing murmur; “I promise. You might get the elbow…and I don’t want that to happen. Mac?” 

“Aye?” He glanced up, only to find himself ensnared in bottomless brown.

When Joe shot to his feet, the screech of chair across tile preceded a yank on Mac’s to jerk it Joe’s way. The miscreant had straddled Mac’s lap before he had time to protest. If he’d intended to. 

“Soo hard…” Joe sighed. A creamy sound of satisfaction that made matters worse. “Mac…I want you to take me…from behind…every bit as fast, ferociously, as you long to. I want it all…all of you…”

“F’fucksakes,” Mac groaned when his earlobe was snagged with tender-sharp teeth. Dragging in a deep breath, he tried to swallow the breeze block lodged in his throat…and blot out the images Joe had just branded on his brain. 

“Exactly…” he breathed, before clasping Mac’s face to tilt it up for a full scale assault of drugging lips…and darting tongue hell-bent reinforcing them in HD. 

Only a couple more hours. He could hold out for that long. My Way. On my terms…Mac reminded himself, just as Joe unleashed a mind-boggling roll of hips. 




My Way 14

My Way




16 Joe


“Earth to Joe…” Mac’s whisky-warm voice filtered through the fuzz, summoning Joe from his happy haze. He blinked, trying to refocus on a green as lethal as a shot of la fée verte.

“Better now?” Mac asked with a husky chuckle.

“Mmmuch…kiss me,” Joe pleaded, needing to know if Mac would or, if…if he was done proving his point now? Or…or…Joe could keep going for quite some time, avoiding the real reason—No. Two reasons; equally compelling. 

  1. Joe was the neediest knobhead on Earth. Mac was right, except ‘greedy’ suggested a tendency to sneak a snackeroo too many. Joe’s appetite was so insatiable it had never known when to quit clamouring for more. Fucknows what. It sure as sausages wasn’t food. Or even sex, which left him hungrier than ever, more oft than not. As if he’d scoffed a crumb, when he could cram a whole loaf in his cakehole, with room for a dessert (trolley), while he was on the subject, an’ all. Despair had driven Joe t’drink. Then, to ‘recreational’ drugs. His one-way fast-track ticket to the epiphany that was: it could be sedated. He’d given up sated as a lost cause. 

See…? Joe could give stuff up, if he wanted.

  1. He was not a jot convinced he hadn’t just had the best hallucination of his life (rather than blow job). Joe wanted…well, he wanted to taste the truth for himself. On Mac’s lips. 

His own scent assailed Joe’s nostrils even before Mac melded their mouths. The kiss itself was, in no way whatsoever, a bonus. It was a breath-snatching slam of…tenderness. As shattering as it was incomprehensible. He’d be carted off in a straitjacket in a minute. It was impossible to care…while being taken apart by lips intent on reducing Joe to roadkill. 

He was done for, now. Doomed to a forever of knowing

The not knowing had nearly finished Joe off in an effort to quell...some unknowable need he could neither name nor satisfy. Or source some magic pill that would suffice, instead. It would be an irony too cruel if finding it proved the final nail in Joe’s coffin. 

“Mac?” Joe couldn’t stop himself asking when the dream drifted to an end. If he didn’t, it would keep gnawing away till he had a head full of sawdust. 

“Aye, Joe?” His oh, so grave tone didn’t do a damn thing to suppress Mac’s dastardly grin. 

“Is…was—” Where the bejeezus were Joe’s words? Drained dry prob’ly, like the rest of him.

“Is-was-what…?” Mac smirked. He was enjoying this far too much. Sadist.

“I-why…did you…do that?” Success; a sentence. Of sorts. Eventually. 

“Which part?” Demon.

“Any…all of it.” 

“Because…we wanted me to? Is there a better reason?” Mac shrugged.

“No…but I…didn’t think you wanted…me.” Joe puttered to a halt. He could scarce string three words together, they kept getting stuck in his throat on the way out. It was like coughing up shards of glass. 

“And yet…you saw for yourself that I did.” Mac pointed out, oh so reasonably. “Quite clearly…and commented on that fact, so you can’t claim otherwise.”

Joe’s entire self was itching to spring up and run around having a flap, to syphon off some tension. He wasn’t sure he could have stopped himself, if he wasn’t still tied to his own bloomin bed.

“Having a bit…a lot of a boner is different from doing…and very different from…giving. If you’d told me to blow you, I wouldn’t be so befuddled. You know I would have, and gladly, so why…give when you could have taken?”

“Perhaps I simply wanted to.” A big fat fib alongside another shrug. 

“I don’t think you do anything ‘simply’,” Joe informed him. “You’re too…considered. Deliberate.” 

“Perceptive…but not entirely true in this instance,” Mac sighed. “Fuck, I need a smoke.”

“Chance would be a fine thing,” Joe hmphed.

“I’m going to fetch them first, Mister. Otherwise you’ll lock yourself in the loo in the meantime,” Mac muttered. 

“You don’t need to…there should be a stash of smokes in here, somewhere. P’raps on that shelf, by the door?”

“So there are. Okay…” When Mac planted his palms on the bed to push himself up, a clutch of cold air coshed Joe’s chest. After leaning over to fiddle with the knot securing his right wrist to the bedstead, Mac let the arm flop free, bandana still intact. 

“Mac…?” Joe wondered, when the bad-ass started work on the scarlet one.


“Can I…keep this?” Joe asked, aiming for ‘airy’. Missing by a mile. 

“Cannae see why not, it’ll come in…handy for tethering you to the nearest table when I need to empty my bladder. I’d rather not have an audience, thank you.”

“Bummer. I wish I hadn’t asked now,” Joe grumbled, but still found himself grinning. Despite the fact he’d just scuppered two tasty alternative trips to the loo. Joe’s en-suite or Mac’s. 

Ah well, there was a chance he might be granted a far more salubrious sighting than the latter…and the bad-ass had promised not to stop Joe shooting up…so it wasnae too bad a deal, on the whole.

“Here, let me sort it or you’ll look like a bloody Morris Dancer. I suppose you want them both?” Mac grunted while rebinding the black bandana, wristband stylee.

“No, I like the red one against your skin. It’s rather rakish…” 

“Rakish…” Mac chuckled, unpicking Joe’s knot and unravelling the slash of scarlet before wrapping it around his own wrist and tying it off with his teeth. Ooh. “What?” The bad-ass had the bare-faced temerity to ask, raising a (rakish) eyebrow. He knew damn well what. Bodge bodge. 

“You’re driving me doolally,” Joe groaned.

“Not guilty, I’ve only been here a few hours. That balloon floated away many a moon ago, I reckon.” 

“That wouldn’t stand up in court, y’scoundrel. You’ve already tied me to my own bed and blown my brains out.” Joe huffed.

“A good day’s work, in all, I’d wager.” Mac announced with a satisfied glint o’teeth.

“Are you clocking off now?” Just checkin’.

“I clocked off about an hour ago.” Mac corrected while sashaying off to fetch the smokes.

“You’ve just contradicted yourself. Again. Is your work day done?” Joe was still none the wiser.

“I’ve answered that, so what are you asking? Spit it out,” Mac grinned, retrieving a fresh pack of cigarettes. Once he’d extracted one, he shoved it between devilish lips, then tossed the box Joe’s way while foraging in his pocket for a lighter. Joe waited till he’d lit them both before taking the bull by the horns. Or the bad-ass by the balls, so t’speak.

“Mac, can I blow you?” There. That was spat out succinctly. Joe would have preferred: If it is? Would his lordship care to slip into something more comfy and let me assist him in unwinding a little? But beggars can’t be choosers…tralala…

“Nope.” The scoundrel smirked.


“I wasnae thinking that far ahead. I merely answered your question.” Mac stated, blowing a stream of smoke ceiling ward. Grrrrrrr…

“Why don’t you want me to?” 

“I do.” Mac rustled up a c’est la vie shrug. He had a wider variety than Inuits have words for snow. 

“You’re doing it again. Contradicting yourself. Why won’t you let me, if you want me to?” Joe might p’raps have pouted. 

“Joe. My way. On my terms. Ring a bell?”

“Oh fuff. Okay. Damn blast’n’bugger…” he muttered.

“Quit chuntering.” Mac snickered, reaching out to ruffle Joe’s hair while leaning forward to flick ash into the overflowing ashtray.

“You’re doing my head in.”

“Stop sulking, you agreed to the terms, so suck it up.” Mac snorted.

“Humph. If only. Laterwards?”

Joorrr…” Mac warned. Damn, he even pulled off as-sexy-as-fuck while telling Jor off like a five year old.

 How was Joe supposed to stay miffed and have himself a huff when his cock kept perking up, cutting his strops off well before their prime? He would explode soon if this kept up. One way or another. Blackguardy bad-ass.




My Way 13

I think I need to leave this link at the top of a new post, rather than adding it to an old one, to claim my blog on Bloglovin



Sorry I’ve been a wee while, my ‘editing’ has become a full-blown rewrite, again.😳Without further ado: I’ve put both parts together, the update starts *** here



My Way

15 Mac




“Shhhh…” Mac pressed a fingertip to pillowsoft lips. There was no need for pleas…he didnae intend to belittle Joe, who’d suffered enough insult to last a lifetime. The last thing he needed was for Mac to stick the knife in too. Mac, who fully intended to stave off the slingshots of ‘friend’ and foe alike. Joe would discover that for himself soon enough, when Mac proved worthy of the trust he’d demanded along with Joe’s most faithless friend of all. For safe-keepingJoe’swhose customary buffer between him and the world was perilously close to snatching him from it. 

Mac might have drawn it out for Joe’s delectation…but there was a reason he was far less keen to admit. One that made him a helluva lot less comfortable than Joe at present. Wet patch or no. Mac was wary—a lie even as he fashioned it—afraid. Of being cast as just another lackey willing to service Joe whenever he wished. Or, even as a ‘favoured member of his entourage’, which was somehow more repulsive. Fucknows why. The lackey thing felt more…honest? Less…demeaning when the alternative suggested a systematic hierarchy Mac wanted no part of. F’chrissakes. He sure as hell had nay recollection of becoming such a prissy tosser. 

None of this was even Joe’s fault; he was a rock star, it came with the territory. Sex was pretty much a self-service banquet of bodies. Mac couldnae risk being reduced to that in those far-too beguiling eyes; neither in the professional or personal sense. The former was imperative to ensure Joe’s safety…the latter would destroy Mac.

He sure as shit didn’t mess about after hushing Joe’s plea. After whisking his finger away, Mac bent to take possession of the lips that had been driving him to distraction since the moment he walked through the door. The kiss in the bath had been a smashing of mouths; too sudden to relish and over too soon to be savoured. This time, Mac revelled in every second, each soft sound he coaxed from Joe, every catch of breath. Christ, how Mac wanted him, with a craving akin to a huge hungry ache. Longed to devour the promise of those lips and imprint himself so indelibly on Joe that…what? He could safeguard Joe as his own? That was pathetic.


The po-faced thing had been bad enough, and should by rights, prohibit prehistoric tendencies…surely? Mac couldn’t be both; that was a contradiction too far.  

See? Another oxymoron…’ my arse. Monster.

As if morphing into Caveman Prim wasnae demented enough, matters promptly took a turn for the worse…a whole lot worse.

It started so well… The sheer length of Joe’s neck had been doing Mac’s nut in, all day. Not least when it remained one of the few unblemished parts of Joe’s body visible after he’d dressed. The arms now bared to Mac’s scrutiny were…troubling. Multihued bruises scattered across ivory skin, pitted with circular lesions and strewn with needle marks. Botched veins, silvery slashes, more recent scoring, raised and red; ragged crimson gashes and clean cuts both. A stark contrast to the porcelain perfection of Joe’s throat, too alluring to resist from any angle…but bared to Mac’s gaze between butchered arms? It was an enticement too far.

When he smudged his mouth from Joe’s lips to fasten at his neck, its comparative cleanliness was too intoxicating to resist all but feasting on it. That’s what Mac told himself. In truth it was a compulsion, he wasnae sure he could have held back, even if he’d considered such folly. Mac did not. Far from it…he felt absurdly smug that this would be impossible to flee next time Joe scarpered to lock himself in the loo. One glance at the mirrored door of the bathroom cabinet would confirm that well enough for the rest of the week… 

He’d been a bloody teenager the last time Mac left such a blatant claim on someone’s skin. It would take the rest of the month to outnumber the self-administered marks already staining it, so Joe mightn’t even notice, but that didnae make a damn bit of difference. It would remain as clear as the fact that Prehistoric Prissypants was the least of Mac’s worries…  


 There was just so much Joe; he was an utter extravagance from head to toe…and all in between, without and within. It was more than time Mac commenced mapping the territory he’d arrived to safeguard. It wouldnae do to be remiss—tardy at best—unprofessional and amateurish at worst. Mac had an untarnished reputation for efficiency and attention to detail to uphold, after all. 

“Mac…please…” Joe begged, impaling him with pleading eyes; drowning deep, bottomless inkwells of liquid black. If that was a juxtaposition in terms, Mac didn’t give a shit. He hadnae uttered it aloud for Joe to pick out of his teeth when he’d done feasting on it.

Please…?” The husky rasp of his own voice sounded strange to Mac’s ears. Thick with lust, as if it had been trawled from his guts. “This please…?” He enquired, trickling his tongue across the proud sweep of Joe’s collarbone…dipping into the delicate juncture with its twin. So very vulnerable: push two fingers into the jugular notch, press down.

No one would get near enough to aim a roundhouse kick Joe’s way—let alone a move so intimate—on Mac’s watch. The mere thought made him feel murderous.

“Yessaah!” The hiss of the ‘yes’ followed the smearing of Mac’s mouth down Joe’s sternum…the gasp it segued into? The flick of his tongue across a puckered nipple. Trapping it between his teeth, Mac tugged none-too gently before turning his attention to the left and pouncing on that to taunt it likewise. 

“Maaac…” Joe groaned, twisting the restraints now trapped in his fists. “It’s torture…pleasssse.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific…” Mac murmured, releasing it.

 “I-ahH!” A clarification that was snatched away by the stream of cool air Mac blew across spit-slick skin.

“I wish I’d known it was so easy to shut you up…” 

“You might wish you’d never said that, either…” Joe groaned.

“Oooh, I doubt it.” Mac grinned, as he began to back up, trailing a snaky trip down the centre of Joe’s torso, helpless to stop the racket that rattled in his own throat when his chest grazed Joe’s cock. Mac couldnae hold off for a second longer, the sweet, sultry scent filling his head was too drugging to resist. An irony too far, if ever there was one. Mac finally planted his palms either side of those oh, so long shanks, and glanced up to find himself—as ever—plummeting into eternal eyes. 

“Machh…” His name cut off on a strangled gulp when Mac swept a luxuriant swipe of flattened tongue along the length of Joe’s cock. “AAAH!” Accompanied the jolting of lean hips off the bed as a rifle shot gasp ripped from his lips.

Fuck…Mac’s taste-buds exploded with pleasure when he bent to trace the sensitive seam beneath the ruffled velvet of Joe’s balls. Drawing both into his mouth, Mac lavished them with his tongue, revelling in the soft mewls and broken moans that tumbled forth. 

“Gah…Maa-ahhc…fuck, ah…I-opleasssse…” Joe juddered, wrists jerking against their binding, back bowing in frustration. It was a sentiment Mac couldn’t agree with more, he had to admitif only to himselfas he let them slip free with a soft pop of air. It was the sound of his own name that shattered his reverie, thrilling down his spine. 

“Maac! No more…I can’t…take—”

His hand felt as if it had been aching to enclose hard heat forever and a day—rather than the latter—when Mac permitted himself that prize, cutting short Joe’s plea. The electrifying rush that shot up his arm made him curse his own stubborn pride.

“You’re evil…” Joe whimpered, clearly unaccustomed to waiting on the whims of anyone else. 

“Poor Joe…” 

“And cruuuel,” he pouted. It should not have looked endearing. Let alone…adorable. F’chrissakes.

“And your point is…?” Mac started sweeping his wrist oh, so slowly back and forth.

“SadiST!” Joe’s soft slur ratcheted up to a shriek when Mac dipped his head to lap a pearly bead off the tip of his cock.


“Cock tease.” Joe hissed through clenched teeth.

“Pardon?” Mac asked, about a split-second before engulfing it, hilt deep in one fell swoop. At lassst...

“FUUUCK!” Joe hollered, head snapping back as his hips spasmed. For a brief moment his entire body went rigid before sinking against the sheets. Something about this utter capitulation made Mac long to prove…worthy of it. He’d lost his bloody mind.  

It was hard to care while relishing the sighs and soft cries that fluttered from Joe’s lips. Impossible to regret that, while exploring every quivering inch. Intent on luxuriating in every second of the liberty he’d craved—rarely permitted himself—since being blind-sided by the shrink-wrapped sight that greeted him on the doorstep. 

“Maac! Ah-stt-toop!”

Stop? Is he off his nut? Mac was done denying himself anything—for the momenthe could recoup his losses…later.

“I’ll come…if…y’don’t-ssstop-” …and your point is? Mac whisked his hand away. 

“Fuuuck!” Joe screeched when his cock crashed against the back of Mac’s throat. His neck arched in a long sweep of ivory as he snatched at the bandanas and his body shuddered. It was all Mac could do to swallow the sheer quantity of come that flooded his mouth. Strewthhow the hell had he held out? When it was done wringing Joe dry, his head lolled as the long, lean lines of his body went limp. Mac took his own sweet time relinquishing Joe’s cock, swiping it clean along the way before laying it down and levering himself forwards ’til he was level with Joe’s face. 

“Earth to Joe…” Mac couldn’t help but grin when lilac-tinged lids fluttered open to reveal a blissed-out glaze almost as erotic as the (unsurpassable) sight of Joe’s expression, mid-orgasm. 


“Better now?”

“Mmmuch…Mac…kiss me,” Joe blinked in a bid to focus as a sublime smile curved his lips. Instinct suggested that the reason for this request was as significant as the kiss itself, which in turn, made Mac suspect his missing marbles were a lost cause. And yet…

“Hmm…” The purr that vibrated in Joe’s throat when Mac melded their mouths did seem to confirm something he’d couldnae allow himself to believe. It was wishful thinking too far to imagine that Joe wanted to taste himself on Mac’s lips. Lunacy, when that imbued his motive with impossible meaning.  

The blow job itself had seemed an excellent idea at the time of planning—doubly expedient—both to gain a firm grip on the reins and yes, because Mac had wanted to. He now felt rather as if he’d just shot himself in the fucking foot. He might have been able to emerge from this with a career (and some sanity) intact before…but now?

Mac was—to coin a phrase—buggered.





My Way 12


My Way

14 Joe

“No. I want you…to stay. So, okay.” 

Pft, that was a bit of a no-brainer. Joe could always tweak the rules a tad, later. A spot of tweaking was fine sport indeed when he was bored…and he’d been bored t’buggery of late. That last part was a bit of a fib but, suffice to say, matters had gone a…mite amiss. Bummer. If Joe had known his mishaps would reap such bad-ass rewards, he could’ve cooked up a more impressive plummet. 

Mac must have deemed that a satisfactory response as he started trickling a taser trail of fingertips down the centre of Joe’s chest. Down, down, to his belly button in a torturous tickle that skirted its dip, lower still…to skim along Joe’s happynooooo. Mac whipped his hand away, just as it neared the tip of Joe’s clamouring cock.

It was not the only thing that felt like flippin’ weeping. The grin that accompanied this dastardly deed was as dark as it was downright delicious. Ev-il incarnate, that’s what he was. Nemesis, my arse. He was the devil dipped in Caramac and dangled in front of Joe’s nose like a bad-ass buffet. How he ached to be crushed beneath that steely strength…oh, so close but light years away, tormenting Joe with his very… existence.

Joe fully expected Mac to stop for a smoke break roundabout then, or pop out to purchase some sheets in a sudden change of heart or…unleash whatever else that blackguardy brain rustled up. 

What the bad-ass did instead, was even more staggering. Even if Joe had expected it, nothing could’ve prepared him for the seismic shock to his system caused by the cocking of Mac’s leg to seat him astride Joe’s hips…which is what did happen. Unless Joe had lost the plot, which seemed much more possible than being accosted by Mac’s crotch. That said, if Joe had wished it into being? His bad-ass would be bare-ass naked. No doubt about it. A fact as definitive as a deed signed in blood.

Joe’s entire self had been thrumming like a snare drum in dreadful anticipation—of…being abandoned—as if he’d snorted adrenaline rather than smack. So, when Mac helped himself to a wee sit down, the rush of relief was almost as breath-snatching as the bolt of blimey that blitzed Joe’s body.

“Ooh, so impatient…” The scoundrel smirked. Did that mean; all good things come to he who waits…?  Joe might just burst into flames first. Despite the most sadistic soggy patch he’d ever been forced to suffer. Pfffh. “Mac, I—”

“Shhh…” Not content with shushing him, Mac actually placed a forefinger on Joe’s lips. 

Joe did consider biting it, but figured it would be best not to gift Mac more ammunition to use against him. Never, had Joe been so glad he hadn’t done something in his life. A novel notion in itself, but that was beside the point…because when Mac did whip his finger away, he replaced it with his mouth. It was a triple whammy slam of skin on skin, chest to chest, crushed beneath hard heat. Panther hips tilted just so by the kiss laying waste to his lips. Every bit as toe-tingling as their first, in the bath but better, because Mac instigated it. This, while skimming his palms along the sensitive underside of Joe’s arms, heading toward his wrists; straining at the reassuring strength of their bonds.

When Mac did snatch his mouth away, leaving Joe’s lips bereft, it was merely to smudge it across his jaw to fasten at his neck. A small mewl slipped free when the bloom of a bruise began prickling to the surface; a fierce suction that relented only to start its drugging tug afresh.

“Mac. Please…” Joe didn’t even know what he was pleading for, just…more. Much more…when too much would never be enough.







My Way 11

Hi, please excuse possible mishaps, I’m all out of time…





My Way

13 Mac



“I think it’s about time we set a few boundaries…as I clearly cannae trust you. There’s only one way I’m going to be able to keep you out of trouble. My way. On my terms.” 

A split-second decision, culled from instinct, Mac had fuck-all else to curtail the cannonball that was Joe Fitzgerald. Sagacity, logic, ration and reason? Rendered useless in the face of…that face, and the bloody brain residing behind it. 

In that mind-boggling moment when his lips had crashed against Joe’s, it became obvious that all Mac’s options had been whittled to one. A fact that cut a swathe through an arsenal of meticulously honed tactics and tossed clinical efficiency to the wind, in favour of just…winging it. It was clear that securing control in this most singular of situations lay in utilizing the weapons Joe claimed to want—not enough of course, never that—Mac’s rival was too ruthless, all-consuming.

His lesser foes were the enemy within; the supplementary suppliers who’d secured Mac’s services. They’d have to be taken out too, in order to protect Joe from them. Scuppering career capsizing plots would be a piece of cake compared to that. F’fucksakes. Mac would have to retire after this. He’d never be able to look at himself in the mirror again after whoring himself out to win this war. For it was a war of wills they were engaged in; one he fully intended to win. Victory would ensue, whatever it cost him.

As it sank into this quicksand of insanity, a last gasp of rational thought argued that Mac was being paid to safeguard his client/career but he sure as hell wasnae selling himself. He wanted Joe, and Mac was having him. Despite his contract, not as a battle tactic to secure its fulfillment. If doing so—doing Joe—ensured his future along the way? Well, that would be…expedient. Killing two birds with one stone.

Quite how Mac made the step from said stone to standing over a naked Joe, bound to his bed, would have to be unravelled at a later date. It was impossible to wonder at the whys and wherefores while gazing at the extravagant gifts laid before him. Long lean limbs, carved from alabaster, gleaming in the shadowy alcove. Dusk was flirting with the day in the lazy light filtering through the casement window. Its languid caress made Joe’s skin look luminous, glowing ghostly pale on clotted cream sheets. What the fuck? 

Parts of Mac forever suppressed—crushed by council estate conformity and his escape route from it—were unfurling faster than a fleeing Joe in hot pursuit of a fix. How the hell had he wreaked such havoc on Mac’s scrupulous self-possession? Mac might have ‘contained the situation’, in theory, but he couldnae command his own mind, let alone methods. 

Nevertheless, Mac had assumed control of the uncontrollable, which was…more than anyone else could claim? F’chrissakes. He’d be arguing that my dad’s bigger than yours next. With himself. Bullshit. 

‘Bare Facts’: Colonel John A. Gavin (Military Review, Volume 33).

A Commander… ‘must know how to employ his company tactically and utilize all weapons effectively’.  

Mac’s Krav Maga blackbelt might come in useful for strapping Joe to a stable surface but his trusty blade, feet, and fists were bloody useless. Tactical expertise it was, then. In this most particular of battles the weapons best suited to purpose were, it seemed: Mac’s eyes, hips and arse. 

It would be most unprofessional, nay criminal, not to utilize them to their utmost. Fuck, I want to take him here, now; ruin him for every fucking ‘friend’ on the other end of a phone. Mac couldnae recall ever wanting someone, rather than something, with such single-minded ferocity. Mebbe because he had not. Mac conducted his sex-life with much the efficiency of his job. Not a very edifying fact, but essential when self-preservation was paramount. He wasnae cruel in this, he selected his partners as carefully as his suits; they were cut from the same cloth. Men who craved precisely what Mac was tailored to provide. 

Until now. He knew damn well that he was in grave danger of losing everything he valued. His reputation, first and foremost, which was everything in Mac’s world. His very life counted on it, to an extent. A loss less brutal than living with the fact he’d lost his bitterest battle of all, with himself…and yet, Joe had been correct. The part of Mac that thrilled to testi— besting his endurance levels was licking its lips in anticipation of this whole fucking fiasco. They were as bad as each other. Hell bent on self-destruction while calling it a triumph over Christ knows what. Adversity? Authority? Censure? Or the self they were so dead set on annihilating? ‘Mac’ had been carved from the icy knot of fear forever crouched in Kyle McCafferty’s guts.

How he ached for all those eternal eyes promised; luring him in with a hunger as indiscriminate as it was insatiable. Satisfying that might prove the greatest challenge of Mac’s career…and the most gratifying on Earth. 

Keeping Joe shackled to the bed until Monday wasnae a bad idea, just a bit inconvenient. Unless Mac intended to practise the missionary position for the next two days, which he sure as hell-no did not. A Joe on the precipice of pleasure was likely the point at which that egregious appetite was Mac’s most potent weapon. He’d turn holding Joe there into an art-form, if that would achieve their ends. Whatever it took, Mac intended to bring it to the table. 

It wouldnae do to waste a hard-earned belt…


When Mac sank down onto the chair, he couldnae help but grin when he saw the expression on Joe’s face; which somehow pulled off both baffled and bereft. Those eyes would have swallowed Mac whole if he’d been standing beside the bed. 

In truth, he just wanted to remove his boots without hopping about trying to tug them off, but Joe appeared to interpret it as a dastardly torture technique. Starring himself, tethered for fucknows how long, waiting for Mac to deign to…? Who knew? Fathoming that might take some time… 

Far longer than a weekend…but that was beside the point. Christ, Mac would combust, he’d lost his mind holding out for this long. Five hours, or thereabouts? It felt like forever.  After placing his boots beside the chair, Mac leaned back to drink in the luminous beauty of the man he intended to claim as his own…later. 

Partly to prove he meant business, but mostly because his skin was screaming, Mac shrugged his shirt off as he stood up. Fuck. Joe’s entire expression transformed; from aghast to anticipatory in a heartbeat. Obsidian eyes gleaming as glassy as the surface of a moonlit lake. Pincushion lips parted to allow the tip of Joe’s tongue to flicker—unconsciously, it seemed—across the lower one.

Nevertheless…if you do want me… ” Mac paused, just as someone had in the bath: ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come. In?’  Before continuing, “To stay. Two conditions and I’ve made both more than clear. My Way. On my terms.” 

Joe’s answer was every bit as unexpected as his earlier response. Despite being identical. Blind-sided at every turn, and the miscreant was now bound to his own bloody bed.


Okay? That’s it? No ‘Meanie’ slurs?” Mac enquired, lifting a lofty brow.

“No. I want you…to stay. So, okay.” 

Until I’ve got what I want…then you won’t know what’s hit you.

Mac heard the unspoken part as clearly as if Joe had uttered it aloud. The only uncertainty was whether Joe knew it had been heard and understood. Mac suspected not. A person as proficient at manipulation as Joe—coupled with the fact he’d grown accustomed to lackeys doing their utmost to please and appease him—was rarely called upon to question their own powers of persuasion.  

Nevertheless, Mac had heard it. Joe remaining none the wiser would be fortuitous. Mac was forewarned and thus forearmed, which put him at an advantage. F’chrissakes…he wasnae Wallace planning the battle of Stirling Bridge. Mac had one incorrigible creature to conquer, not Longshanks and an entire army. Longshanks? Shortarse. Joe had that bastard beat by about three inches.

“Okay…” Mac confirmed, dragging in a deep breath. He was so tightly wound, something might snap.

If he managed to stick to his plan—battle tactics: if persisting in vainglorious allegories—it would be a bloody miracle. Reaching out, Mac finally allowed his fingers to alight upon the skin he’d scarce been able to refrain from touching for…ever, would do fine.

A soft noise sounded in Joe’s throat, so enchanting Mac almost abandoned his goddamn plan before it began and fell upon him like a wolf in a feeding frenzy. He did not. 

Instead, Mac gritted his teeth and began trailing featherlight fingertips down the centre of Joe’s chest, ignoring the flames licking up his own arm as they skimmed cool porcelain. Joe shivered but bit down on his bottom lip; eyes flaring unfeasibly wide as he sucked in a sharp breath. When Mac’s torturous trail reached the dip of Joe’s belly button, he swirled a slow circle around it before ghosting along the trickle of hair leading to a prize too tempting to resist…and whipped his hand away. 

A soft whimper slipped free but Joe didn’t protest, clearly determined to endure whatever was meted out…or wasn’t. In this, he was mistaken. A sucker-punch, at last. 

Mac had no intention of stopping. He’d barely begun…





My Way 10


I’m so I’ve been so tardy…it’s been a busy weekend. I hope that yours treated you well.❤️




My Way




12  Joe



When Mac stood up, Joe’s eyeballs all-but plopped in the bath for a bob-about. Blimey, no wonder he’d looked so uncomfy. Immaculately cut worsted cloth straining across a stonking boner…inches from Joe’s face. If it were not for the bad-ass bubbles, the impact of this would’ve been as blatant as it was…buoyant. 

Crikey, I have a room with a view, all of a sudden…deluxe, at that.”

Well really…who on Earth could ignore that without comment? Joe knew not, but they sure as strewth weren’t sitting in his bath being blinded by a far from Wee Willie Winkie. Eye-watering, it was. As huge as it was hard. It sure looked a helluva lot glad to be gay to Joe. Whether Mac was…up for proclaiming that loud and proud, or not. A pertinent part of him sure was.  

Blimey, with a bitalot o’luck Joe might just find himself choking on his own size-queen quip. He did not utter that aloud, but earning bad-ass points for good behaviour sure didn’t look a very lot likely if the one Mac coshed him with was indicative. As hot as hell it was, too. Joe might have mentioned this. Or words to that effect, honesty being the tralala… 

“Joe…” Mac warned, fixing him with a green so glinty it should be banned near bath water. Chucking the toaster into it would p’raps have felt similar. Taserman strikes again. It was pure sex. As impure as ’twas potent. Just like Mac…lust on legs. Lithe, long legs…tautly muscled thighs straining against tailoring as sleek and sharp as its wearer. Joe’s entire field of vision was filled with taut ’n’ tight ’n’ turgid.

This was wish fulfillment beyond Joe’s wildest doh. P’raps not…but still as sublime as the fact Mac was busting his britches. Joe was naked. It was hard not to hope for a correlation between the two.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come. In? You’ve already come out, by the looks of it.” Loud and very clear…that Mac dressed to the left.

“Joe, I am not here to share your bath.”

“Just my bed,” Joe sighed, a mite perplexed, it must be admitted. He had no idea how Mac could say that with a straight face, all things considered. It was very impressive. So was his expression. P-p-p-poker face par excellence

It was a miracle Joe didn’t start mum-mum-mum-mah-ing, at the very least, but that possibly wouldn’t aid his endeavours to secure himself a bad-ass in his bath. Or, in anywhere else at all, so he figured that finding out why would be his best bet. If Mac wanted—but didn’t want to—there must be a reason. If not to refute (possibly impossible) then to work on dissuading him of.

“Cos it’s not professional or, cos I’m junkie scum..?” 

“I have never shagged a client,” Mac stated. Firmly. “Don’t you dare let the bastards convince you of that.” His glittery glare was almost as flammable as the fact he grasped a fistful of Joe’s hair and yanked. Hard. Ooh…mean ‘n’ masterful t’boot. Is he hell-bent on boiling the bath water? 

Joe couldn’t help but suspect Mac knew damn well what he was doing. His mouth might unleash ‘no’ on a loop but the bad-ass blighter had an uncanny knack for locating buttons he outright refused to press…while bodging away with glinty glee.

“You’re sacked then,” Joe shrugged. Sorted. “It’s too late…” His attempt to muster up a smile was…tragic. Not in the thespianic sense, he’d be booed offstage. It was just crap. 

After tugging that rug from beneath Joe’s feet by pointing out he wasn’t coughing up for Mac’s services, the scoundrel slammed his lids shut, stealing away the sight of those glorious greens. Ah well, every cloud an’ all that… As quick-as-a-flash Mac couldn’t see, Joe shot out a hand, clasped the back of his head and tugged. Hard. There was a lot of that about.

Joe may have launched a stealth attack but Mac was the most lethal mo-fo-foe on Earth, or thereabouts. As strong as he was sharp; he could have stopped Joe from crashing their lips together. He did not.

 But strewth…stone the crows ‘n’ crikey… Joe might’ve done the mouth mashing, but that didn’t prepare him for the staggering bolt of white-hot want that blitzed his body. Bedazzling his brain. It felt akin to standing onstage as the trapdoor abruptly gave way beneath his feet; such was the jolt to Joe’s lackadaisical system. 

Oh, those lips…soft, sultry, lush. For one breath-snatching, soul-searing snatch of time…it stopped. There was nothing but those lips, the scent filling Joe’s head, the hand still clutching his hair, holding him there now as Mac laid waste to his mouth. It might’ve lasted a fraction of a second or forever. It was...everything, encapsulated in a kiss. Far too perfect to be permissible.

Thus, it was with a guttural groan that Mac’s grip relented and he started trying to straighten up. ‘Trying’? Joe was somehow sure that Mac subscribed to the ‘do or do not, there is no try‘ school of Mcbadass mastery. So, Joe increased the pressure of the palm clamped to Mac’s nape, stilling him. For an abated breath, Mac froze…then…the fingers still tangled in Joe hair started to unfurl. Until they were supporting his head—rather than steering it—as Mac unleashed a devastating assault of tongue, lips, teeth. Taking even as he gave…more, so much more. Every inch of Joe ached to be crushed beneath hard-packed muscle, his skin screaming for Mac’s touch but he was stuck in the bath. He could scarce move, let alone struggle to his feet without shattering the moment or breaking the kiss.

“Fuck…” Mac gasped, jerking his head back with a snap so abrupt Joe was left swallowing air. “Stand up…” 

Joe scrambled to do as he’d been bid, surging from the water with a schlepping splash. He’d scarce found his footing before his arm was grasped and lifted aloft for Mac to duck beneath it and hoist Joe over one shoulder as if he were weightless.

“Keep your elbows in…” the scoundrel instructed, turning to stride from the room. “Fuck knows how we’ll manage those steps, but at least you’re conscious this time,” he muttered, setting off at a pace so impressive it suggested he’d ‘manage’ every bit as fine as Joe’s view on proceedings. A rhythmic bunching of buns that propelled Mac up the rickety staircase. Upon alighting at the top, he headed straight for the bed and tossed his holdall to the floor before bending to shrug Joe onto the sheets he’d deemed acceptable. When Mac righted himself, he stood, sweeping a blazing gaze down Joe’s body in a scorch akin to being blow-torched, inch-by-incendiary-inch as his skin sizzled in its wake.

“What am I going to do with you…?” Mac wondered aloud, folding his arms and narrowing those eyes to flinty slits of green. 

It sounded like a rhetorical question, so Joe kept schtum. As long as Mac did something, he couldn’t care less, which was a wee bit desperate but Joe damn well was. With a rabid intensity as insistent as his more customary cravings, at that. P’raps his overwrought system had got them in a muddle? Joe’s cock sure didn’t look confused. The sight looming over him was, for once, more seductive than Joe’s stash. Its promise…every bit as potent.  

Mac himself hadn’t promised Joe bugger-all, o’course, but that was beside the point. The bad-ass might’ve been hewn from Highland graniteor sculpted from Grampian marbleby a master craftsman intent on driving Joe t’distraction. Or demented, but that ship had looong since sailed. 

Plush lips twerked in a smile so dark it made Joe’s toes scrunch into the covers. He watched, rapt, as Mac raised his left hand and started tugging on the knot of that incongruous slash of scarlet binding his right wrist. How Joe hoped it wouldn’t wind up wrapped ’round his head, instead. He didn’t want to miss a moment of whatever might ensue, even to blink. When Mac was done unpicking, he flicked his gaze to Joe’s face while unwinding the scrap of cloth, a devilish smirk dancing in those glinty greens. So transfixed was he, Joe’s wrist had been snatched up while he was still wondering if he was about to be blinded. By the glint or a red bandana. First. Phew. 

“I think it’s time we set a few boundaries…as I clearly cannae trust you. There’s only one way I’ll be able to keep you out of trouble. My way. On my terms.” Mac declared, every word dripping dark intent. Once satisfied that his new knot would hold, the scoundrel yanked the arm he’d bound above Joe’s head with a swift tug on the trailing end of the bandana. By the time that had been secured to the brass bedstead, Joe was so hard his cock was quivering, his balls drawn so tight he could barely breathe when he remembered to bother.

“You have the hungriest eyes I’ve ever seen in my goddamn life…” The bad-ass informed him when Joe chanced a hopeful glance at Mac’s other hand. “Greedy.”

As long as Joe was fed the seconds it seemed fortune might just favour him with, he wasn’t fussed how gluttonous it made him. Mac’s left arm was similarly adorned but the red-rag-to-a-bull bandana had been too eye-catching to register the not-so matching black one at first. It had no sooner slithered free with a swift swiiip, than Joe’s right arm was secured to the bedstead. “Now you’re safe. I’m quite inclined to keep you there ’til we leave on Monday,” he sighed. Lavishly.

Joe couldn’t hold his tongue any longer, his head was about to explode. His skin felt like a six-foot shriek. 


Please? You’ve sacked me. Along with the right to request fuck-all…” 

“You said I couldn’t sack you,” Joe huffed.

“Well, there you go…proof that I endeavour to be accommodating.” Smirked with a nonchalant shrug. Oooh. After unleashing that gem, Mac turned to glide over to the chair and parked his baddest-ass on it with a demonic grin. Nooo…is he stopping for smoke break? 

Joe expelled a looong breath when Mac bent to tug on his boots, yanking them off to place them precisely side by side at his feet. His fringe had fallen forwards in the interim so, when Mac straightened up, it was to glower at Joe through fronds of hair, grazing the length of his body like ghostly fingertips as he lay, helpless. Oh dear. Mac hadn’t even touched him elsewhere, but Joe’s blood was all-but fizzing in his veins as his skin crackled static.

In one smooth melody of motion, Mac rose to his feet, shrugging his shirt off. It fell to the floor, unheeded. Joe’s jaw may have followed suit, if he hadn’t been flat on his back; Mac’s torso was as taut ‘n’ tight as the muscle cording his sinewy arms. In the hazy half-light he might’ve been dipped in molten bronze for Joe’s delectation…but Mac wasn’t meant for him. Joe had never done a damn thing to deserve this. Quite the contrary.

“Nevertheless…If you do want me. To stay. Two conditions and I’ve made both more than clear. My Way. On My Terms,” Mac rasped, prowling toward the bed.