Blurb: Billionaire
Chandler Harrison’s third marriage is now history, and he’s left with his
ex-wife’s parting barb, “You have no appreciation of beauty.” Determined to
prove her wrong, Chandler hires artist Neil Sweeney to add a mural to his
office wall. He doesn’t even care what the picture is, as long as it’s
beautiful.
Neil
Sweeney is an ex-tagger, a free spirit, and a bit of a hippie. He’s never met
anybody as uptight as Chandler, but when it comes to warming up Chandler’s
cold, stark office, Neil has plans involving more than art.
Chandler
begins to find himself strangely moved by the mural developing on his office
wall. He’s especially moved by the artist himself. Chandler has denied his
homosexual urges for most of his life, but it isn’t long before Neil begins
introducing Chandler to all kinds of new things. As Neil’s masterpiece comes to
life, so does Chandler’s appreciation for art, color, and the best kind of
beauty of all -- love.
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Excerpt: I had no explanation for the way it made me feel,
watching Neil work. Watching those shapes emerge on the wall. If it was a
picture, it was nothing I could identify. Long, strangely curving lines, and
yet they called to me. Much as the artist himself called to me. He’d roused
something deep in my psyche—a remembrance of things past, gone but never
forgotten.
The day after that peculiar conversation—why had I let
myself talk that much?—I worked all morning as usual, trying to ignore Neil,
but by mid-afternoon, I’d grown restless and curious as to what those odd,
compelling charcoal shapes were supposed to be. I left my desk to get a better
view, crossing the room to stand at the end of the boardroom table.
Being closer didn’t help. Not only were the shapes
still unidentifiable, but the effect was more pronounced.
I watched him sketch the lines on the wall, his hands
creating something out of nothing, caressing the coloured blankness into form.
His movements were captivating. Almost amorous. I began to notice other things,
too. The way his threadbare T-shirt stretched across his shoulders as he
reached higher. The way his pants accentuated his backside when he bent
forward. The way the tip of his tongue sometimes moistened his lower lip as he
focused on his art. Watching him was intoxicating.
“Is something wrong?” he asked, suddenly turning to
face me.
Heat rose quickly in my cheeks. I became aware of the
way my heart seemed to be beating too soft and too fast. Of the surprising
warmth in my groin.
“N-no,” I stumbled. “Nothing’s wrong.”
And yet, as he looked at me, I had a feeling he knew
what was happening to me. He somehow knew that my palms were beginning to
sweat, and that my mouth was going dry. “It’s sensual, isn’t it?”
My pulse raced faster, and I had to clear my throat to
ask, “Sensual?” My voice caught on the word. Images flashed through my
mind—bare skin and bodies entwined. The feeling of flesh against flesh. The way
he held his charcoal pencil.
He took a step towards me.
Then another.
“Yeah. Art is a lot like sex. It’s intimate and
personal. It’s about being laid bare. About pushing boundaries. It’s about
making our senses come alive.” Another step, and I backed up and ran into the
boardroom table. “Sensual,” he went on, smiling at me in a way that made me
feel like he was a cat and I was a mouse. “In fact, painting always turns me on
a bit, you know? Leaves me feeling…” One more step, and he was right in front
of me, so close I could see the paint specks on his glasses. I could see that
his eyes were green, and even I couldn’t deny what they were telling me.
“Feeling how?” My voice was hoarse and husky, and his
smile became almost predatory.
“Horny as hell, to be honest.” He took the last step,
leaving us chest to chest. “Like you.”
“No—” I tried to say.
But then he kissed me.
For a moment, I couldn’t move. I could only stand
there with the table digging into the backs of my thighs as his lips caressed
mine. I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want to kiss a man. I wasn’t gay.
But even as I thought it, I felt his hands on my hips,
urging me closer. He smelled like paint and something else—something I couldn’t
identify that was both masculine and herbal—and without ever deciding to, I
reached up to cup his cheeks in my hands and I found myself kissing him back.
His lips were warm as they parted under mine. It was
an invitation, and I hesitated, feeling that if I took this step, I’d never be
able to turn back. I could still push him away. I could still say it was a
mistake. But then he put his hand behind my neck to pull me closer, and I
tumbled into the abyss.
He was sweet, and minty, and I heard myself moan. I
wondered briefly how this could be happening, but the thought was fleeting,
lost in the euphoria of his taste. I put my arms around his waist and pulled
him close, revelling in the solid warmth of his body against me. His hands in
my hair. His breath against my lips. I wanted more—I demanded more—and he gave
it, tilting his head back to let me take complete possession of his mouth—to
claim it as my own. But if this was a contest, the victor wouldn’t be decided
so easily. As quickly as he’d ceded control to me, he took it back.
I felt a moment of panic as the tables turned. His
arms tightened around my neck and he pulled himself up to my height, kissing me
hard, crushing my lips. I realised with some alarm that he had an erection and
my body immediately began to respond in kind.
It was one of the most arousing things I’d ever
experienced, hardening against him, knowing the bulge opposite mine was his
cock. The thought made me desperate and I reached down to grab his ass so I
could pull him harder against me. He moaned as I rubbed my erection harder on
his through our pants. Such a simple, innocent pleasure, but it made me
frantic. It was a flashback to my youth. I felt young again, a horny
nineteen-year-old stealing a few minutes of passion. I humped my hips wildly
against him, and he was right there with me, his fingers digging into my back
as we rode each other, gasping as we fought to keep kissing through our
writhing.
He let go of me and began fumbling with my pants. He
tore them open, then looked down and laughed. “Jesus, Chandler. Boxers? You’re
full of surprises, aren’t you?”
I couldn’t answer. I could only moan as he slid his
hand inside them to grip my cock. His fingers were so warm and soft, and I put
my head on his shoulder and shuddered at the pleasure of him stroking my
length.
I’m not
gay. I’m not gay. But it was useless. I thrust my hips forward, sliding
my aching cock through his tight fist. Three wives and a handful of girlfriends
in between, but I wasn’t sure I’d ever felt as desperate as I did at that
moment. I’d never wanted anybody the way I wanted him. The problem was, I had
no idea what to do. There were no breasts to reach for, no nipples to thumb. I
couldn’t even begin to think about what sex would entail.
“Undo my pants,” he said as he stroked me. “Christ,
Chandler, undo my pants!”
I did, although my hands shook. I pulled his fly open
and cupped his bulge in my hand. It was hot and solid against my palm and he
moaned and pulled me into a kiss.
I was afraid to do anything but touch him through his
briefs. I’d had another man’s naked cock in my hand before. I remembered with
blinding clarity how tantalising it had felt, but that had been a lifetime ago.
I wasn’t ready for it again—not yet, at any rate—so I settled for cupping his
hard bulge. My heart raced at the way he thrust toward me as I began to caress
him, exploring the hardness of his cock and the soft warmth of his balls. I
wanted to memorise every nuance of the silky fabric stretching across his
erection, holding him just out of reach.
He groaned in frustration and pushed me back as he
dropped to his knees, pulling my boxers out of the way.
I managed to say, “Oh God,” before he swallowed my
length, moaning as he did. I had to fight hard not to come right then. It would
have been easy to let go, but whatever this was, whatever madness had seized
me, I wasn’t ready for it to end. I wanted this bliss to last forever, my hands
tangled in his hair and my sex sliding through his lips, but his mouth was too
sweet, too hot, too insistent. I grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled him
away. It was rude of me, I knew, but I needed more time.
“Wait,” I gasped. “Not yet.”
Rowan Speedwell avoids dealing with reality as much as possible, but sometimes it finds her no matter how far or fast she runs. She likes angst and drama in books, where they belong, and prefers sunshine, rainbows, and lollipops. She has not listened to pop music since 1984, when she saw the movie The Terminator and was frightened back into her shell.
Rowan lives east of the sun and west of the moon, with her Cat, Kimball O’Hara ('Supreme Overlord of the Wasted Lands'). She doesn’t believe in telephones or television, although people assure her frequently that they do exist.
Marie Sexton lives in Colorado. She’s
a fan of just about anything that involves muscular young men piling on top of
each other. In particular, she loves the Denver Broncos and enjoys going to the
games with her husband. Her imaginary friends often tag along. Marie has one
daughter, two cats, and one dog, all of whom seem bent on destroying what
remains of her sanity. She loves them anyway.
