Stealing My Heart Read online

  “I like those matches,” Drew said, his voice hoarse. They were black with white tips, quite sexy…but the thing Trace couldn’t wait to try was the brush. He dipped it into the pooling oil that was at the surface of the burning candle. He started with Drew’s feet.

  “Oh, God, that’s good,” Drew moaned as Trace brushed along his feet, up his ankles towards his legs. He lay the brush down, following the path of the oil with his hands. Drew loved it. Trace gave him a great massage, repeating his pattern of brushing warm oil onto him and massaging his skin. Drew’s cock started to harden. It looked in urgent need of care, but Trace waited, difficult as it was for Drew to really crave the cock to mouth resuscitation. He started thrashing around on the bed when Trace ran his fingertips up Drew’s sides. Drew was trying to shove his cock in Trace’s mouth.

  “For me?” Trace whispered and Drew nodded eagerly as Trace tongued the leaking head. His hand moved to Drew’s ass and his legs opened willingly. Trace dipped the brush into the oil again and Drew whined.

  “No, don’t stop.”

  Trace brought him to a fast and furious climax, using the brush on Drew’s ass hole as he licked and sucked his cock. Drew came so hard, Trace thought he would never stop. He lay the brush down and licked the cream he had not been able to swallow fast enough from Drew’s ball sac. He loved those balls of Drew’s. He could let his tongue play who’s your daddy with them all day long. His honey humped his face as Trace dipped the brush in the warm oil once more, this time streaking a determined path across his belly.

  “Fuck, Trace,” he murmured, suddenly reaching for his face. “You sure you want to transport water with me? It’s not very exciting.”

  “You’re the rogue, remember, not me? I don’t need that kind of excitement.” Trace rubbed the oil into his lover’s belly in a clockwork motion all the way up his diaphragm. He was waking up Drew’s central nervous system and every cell in his body was on red alert.

  “Me neither, not anymore, not now that I have this…shit…fuck me!” Drew shrieked as Trace worked the oil into his skin. Pink lotus, Trace was told was a major aphrodisiac.

  “Open your legs, bitch,” he said in Drew’s ear and Drew’s legs widened in happy response. Trace dipped the brush into the oil and placed it right on Drew’s ass hole again and the man went crazy. Trace’s mouth and tongue followed all the crazy brushstrokes and Drew’s breathing became laboured.

  “I need to come, I want to come,” he moaned, looking up as two of Trace’s fingers worked into Drew’s warm, open ass. Working the brush along his butt cheeks as his ravenous mouth sucked on Drew’s ass hole and cock was too much for Drew who thrashed around on the bunk. Trace’s fingers went straight into his ass…the hottest, tightest, naughtiest place in the world…Trace’s own private paradise. He reached Drew’s prostate, stroking rhythmically. The convulsions from it sucked Trace’s hand to his lover’s ass and he bent his head and sucked on Drew’s thighs and cock with abandon. Drew grabbed Trace’s hand, holding it to his ass—as if Trace would ever take it away! He loved how Drew did that. Drew came in a blaze of Asian-induced heat and now he wanted to fuck.

  “God help me…I have no idea what’s wrong with me.”

  Trace knew. The pink lotus was working its magic on him. Now that he thought of it, the instructions had said, you only need a small amount…ooops. Drew was panting with desire. Oh, yeah. Trace instantly got on all fours. Drew got behind him, like a rutting dog in heat and Trace’s head dropped to the bed. Drew knew Trace loved to get fucked this way, to feel Drew bearing down on him, owning him, dominating him. Drew’s fingers went for the oil and he stroked it once, twice, across Trace’s ass hole.

  “Stop teasing me and fuck me,” Trace snapped.

  “I can’t believe I’m still hard,” Drew said. “What did you do to me, babe?” He cut right into him and they both cried out. Trace loved the way Drew fucked him, his fingers reaching for Trace’s nipples, stroking his cock, reaching everywhere he could. Trace closed his legs because he wanted Drew inside him harder and deeper. Drew grasped his hips, slamming into him. It felt incredible. Trace never wanted Drew to come because he did not want him to stop fucking him. He thrust his bottom back into Drew, meeting him each time he took that cock from Trace then planted it right back into him. He rotated his ass the way he had been taught by a male hula dancer many years ago and Drew started to gasp.

  Trace knew Drew was going to come again and Drew took his cock out, pausing for a moment before giving it to him again in one delicious stroke.

  “Don’t stop fucking me, Drew. Don’t come. I need your cock in me.” But Drew was too far gone. He went right back into his man and he came, his cock spewing and pulsing like Trace’s own special pink lotus deep inside him. He remained inside Trace, his balls slapping at his ass.

  “I am never, ever going to stop fucking you,” he said against Trace’s ear. “Don’t you know I own your ass?”

  Trace grinned. That was quite all right with him.

  About the Authors

  I write not only for my own pleasure, but for the pleasure of my readers. I can’t remember a time in my life when I haven’t written and told stories. When I’m not writing, I’m dreaming about writing. Eroticism between consenting adults, in all its many forms is the icing on the cake of life but one does not live by sex alone. The story of how two people find love in spite of the odds is what really turns me on.

  Email: [email protected]

  A. J. Llewellyn is the author of over fifty published gay erotic romance novels. He lives in California, but dreams of living in Hawaii. Frequent trips to all the islands, bags of Kona coffee in his fridge and a healthy collection of Hawaiian records keep this writer refueled. A. J. loves male/male erotica, has a passion for all animals (especially the dog, the cat and the turtle). A. J. believes that love is a song best sung out loud.

  Email: [email protected]

  D.J. and A.J. love to hear from readers. You can find their contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.

  HOTWIRED HEART

  Jaime Samms

  Dedication

  To all the fans who support our work. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

  Chapter One

  “Time me!”

  Gig sighed. “Now? Marky, we all know you’re fast.” He shifted his weight to one foot with a quick glance around the deserted car park. “Just hurry up and hotwire the damn thing.”

  “Get your watch out, Gig.” Marky plied his magic on the car, and by the time Gig looked up from setting his watch, the passenger door swung open. Marky grinned at him from his usurped place behind the wheel. “Get in, slowpoke!”

  Gig made a face, slipped into the car, and closed the door. “This is nice!” His long, slim fingers caressed the dash, slid under the visor and along the arm rest.

  Marky shivered, watching the gentle touch. “Ready?” He gunned the engine, streaking out into traffic before Gig could tell him not to drive like a maniac, or make any more loving gestures over the interior.

  Mercedes safely inserted into the flow of traffic, Marky glanced over at Gig. “Record time, yeah?”

  “Isn’t it always?” Gig’s words fogged the window.

  “Oh, c’mon, sexy.” Marky slapped Gig’s thigh, his hand lingering until Gig brushed it away. He moved it back to the wheel, focused on the traffic as Gig fiddled at the glove compartment, which proved to be locked, and flipped the visor down.

  “What’s this?” He pulled a slim, silvery wrist wrap out of the visor pocket. “Says Joe…Picone and…something…holographic. Not enough light.” He slapped the band on Marky’s wrist and it snapped into place.

  “What is it?”

  “Club pass, maybe.” Gig shrugged, sighed. “Marky.”

  Marky’s hands began to ache from his grip on the wheel. “What?”

  “This is all we know how to do.”

  “We have a plan.”

  “Had.” When they’d
been together, he didn’t bother to add. His body language, tight against the passenger door, said it all.

  Marky pulled into an alley, parked in a cross-hatching of shadows under a fire escape and killed the engine. Gig had his fingers curled around the door handle, ready to bolt.

  “Wait.”

  “What?”

  Marky leant over and peered out of Gig’s window.

  “What?” Gig said again.

  “We’re early.” Marky glanced back out the back window. “There should be people on the corner.”

  “Hustlers.” Gig snorted. “Someone you were planning on meeting?”

  Marky frowned. Once. It had happened once. “Point is,” he snarled, “there’s no one there.” He turned to Gig, pointed to the door. “Get out. Go down the alley, I’ll take the street. Anyone says anything to you, run.” Marky grinned but it was strained this time, and the strain showed on Gig’s face, too. “We’ll meet at the usual place.”

  “You said it would be okay!”

  “And it will be. Just do what I say, and it will be fine.”

  “This job was supposed—”

  “Gig!” Gig jumped, and the hand that had been gripping the door handle in a tight fist jerked. “The longer we sit here… Please. Get out and walk away.”

  Gig nodded, slipped out into the shadows, and headed for the street. Marky cursed, but shouting after him would be too dangerous. Gig was almost around the corner, out of sight when the pop sounded. Marky froze half way out of the door. He’d heard that before. It didn’t sound right this time, either, didn’t sound big enough or loud enough, but it was enough. He turned his head in time to see Gig hit the ground.

  He ducked. The gear shift jammed into his gut, mercifully distracting him from the bile. He had seconds, maybe, to get the hell out. Straining up, he fumbled with the glove box. Surely someone who drove a car like this kept something useful in there like a gun or something. For a second, it didn’t budge. The lock rattled. Stealthy, booted feet approached from the direction Gig had gone down. Not cops. He’d worried about cops, not thugs. He should have anticipated this.

  Curling his fingers under the right edge of the glove box door gave him enough purchase to yank. The lock gave with a snap, showering parking tickets down on him.

  “Fuck.” He backed out the door.

  Staying low in the shadows, he made it to the building and shimmied down behind a reeking grease bin. In a moment, the car started, the door slammed, and the tires squealed away down the street. The distant sound of sirens explained why the shooter took off without looking for him. Took off in his prize; his and Gig’s.

  “Gig.” Marky whispered. Leaning back against the spalling brick, he had to fight to keep down his lunch. “I’m so sorry.” He peered out from his hiding place. Sirens approached, but he had to know. Darting along the base of the building, it was obvious before he reached the body. It was too still, too empty, the way it lay there, crumpled and unforgiving. Red lights flashed off the slabs of windows across the street, and he was out of time.

  “Trust me.” He muttered as he stalked away, leaving his friend behind in a pool of blood. “It’ll be okay. I told him it would be okay. Fuck!”

  A dark car swerved around a corner, moving towards him, and he stopped. Something glimmered out the passenger window. For a split second, he stared. That was Drag’s most recent acquisition. Drag ‘took care of’ things in the Greenback ranks. Marky dove for the subway entrance, almost rolling down the stairs. The car squealed by overhead in a spray of bullets and broken store windows. Nothing to do now but get on the subway, head away from the disaster, from everything.

  * * * *

  At the far end of the line from his life, he emerged. The streets were cleaner here, the lights less orange. Or maybe that was his perception. Trees hung over the walk, though fall had likely turned them from green to something more flaming and picturesque. It was hard to tell under the flashing neon closed signs. An iron fence delineated a park, with flower beds and close cropped grass stretching like carpet between. Even in the city’s excuse for the park, it looked nice. Welcoming.

  But Gig was still dead, and Marky had lost the Mercedes. He’d lost everything. He’d promised to get them out. To leave this shit behind. This hadn’t been the plan. Everything they’d saved was back at the Hole, and he couldn’t go back. Reality slowly made its way past his shock. He couldn’t go back. Gig was dead because Marky had talked him into leaving the Greenbacks. He’d be dead too, if he hadn’t run.

  Past the park the streets came alive with night crowds. Not the skulking, hunch-shouldered punks he’d recognise in his own end of town, but peacock proud men in all their clubbing finery. After a few blocks, the distinct shortage of women who actually were women sorted itself out in his head. He could pass for one of these people with a bit of scrub and polish. He was one of these people under the gang colours and armour.

  There had to be a coffee shop or fast food place somewhere he could clean himself up. A small corner shop, probably a deli by day, but more of a drop-in-for-coffee hangout between club stops this time of night, cast a gold square of light onto the sidewalk. Inside, a narrow door, accessed between booths on the right and high tables and stools on the left, lead to a tiny white room with a urinal, a sink and a half-length mirror in an ornate frame painted with metallic, electric blue paint.

  A bit of foam soap and warm water, a gel packet from the vending machine on the wall, transformed his gangland scruff to grunge chic. His dark hair was just the right length to spike nicely; a good look for his long slim face and big brown eyes. The holes in the knees of his jeans were going to have to be a fashion statement, but he could ditch the ragged sweater under his leather jacket in favour of the tight red tee beneath that showed off lean muscles and a flat stomach. There was nothing he could do to make himself taller, but sometimes small and inconspicuous was a plus. The last thing to go was the green bandana around his wrist. He shoved it far under the crumpled paper towel in the trash can and swallowed the jagged lump in his throat. So much for family.

  Satisfied with the look, he emerged reasonably in control of his emotions, until heads turned to study him. A dark scowl brooded just behind his unease. He managed to hold it back, stuffing his hands into his hip pockets instead and shuffling to the counter. Defensiveness wouldn’t fly with this crowd, already barriered against the outside world by their rainbow flags and fairy-lighted bar balconies. He opted for brooding as he pulled out the stool and sat.

  The last of his coins barely covered the cup of steaming coffee the past-middle-aged clerk interrupted an animated conversation to push across the counter at him. Marky dropped the remaining quarters into the tip jar and curled his fingers around the warm paper. After a moment, the clerk clunked a plate down in front of him with a bran muffin and a packet of butter on it. Marky looked up into a neutral expression on a slightly weathered face.

  “It’s stale,” the man informed him, then turned back to his conversation.

  That wasn’t an exaggeration. But it was food, and more packets of butter were forthcoming when Marky had scraped out the last bit from the first one. He’d got most of it down before the crash came and his hands started to shake. He gave the plate a little shove away and wrapped cold fingers around the warm paper cup. The clerk’s buddy had left by then, and the man came over to stand opposite Marky.

  “You’re not selling anything, are you?” the guy asked; practiced question, practiced motions. He cleared the plate away and refilled Marky’s cup.

  Marky shook his head.

  “Good. There might be places for that, but it ain’t in this neighbourhood. You understand?”

  Marky nodded.

  The man held out a hand. “Peter.”

  Marky looked at the worn palm and ragged cuticles, looked up into Peter’s face and gave a little nod. His hands remained where they were around his mug. “Joe.”

  Peter’s head tilted. “If you want. Joe.” He dropped his hand to
the cloth on the counter and dragged it in slow figure eights over the green-flecked yellow melamine. “You won’t be the first to wander into this neighbourhood looking for a safe place to be. There’s safe places.” He nodded to a rack on the wall near the door that held pamphlets and business cards, and a rainbow poster with an address on it.

  “That’s Dean’s place. He’ll sort you out.”

  Marky nodded and stood. “Thanks for the coffee and the muffin.”

  Peter nodded. “You want breakfast, I’ve got floors need sweeping and trash needs hauling around here.”

  Marky stopped at the door and turned. “You don’t even know me.”

  “Know that look in your eyes, kid. The look of nothing left. Seen it in the mirror enough times.”

  Marky nodded. “Thanks.” He doubted the guy had any idea. Bells over the door tinkled softly as it closed behind him.

  * * * *

  A few blocks later, with the wind picking up, driving fallen leaves ahead of him down the sidewalk, he began to regret ditching the old sweater. Men hurried past in both directions, carrying laughter and complaints along with them. They travelled in groups, club sweat drying and chilling on too much exposed flesh, persuading them along to the next door, the next adventure. As Marky dropped his empty cup in the trash, the silver wrist band caught the neon of club lights, and he snapped it open. Inside, the address of a club promised shelter of a sort. If he had the map in his head the right way round, it should be just around the corner, towards the more posh end of the neighbourhood. He slapped it back in place and headed in that direction.

  Even from the outside, the place was slick, smooth, popular, if the line-up of shivering, shuffling patrons was any indication. The bouncers at the door frowned at him, but he flashed his band and they unclipped the rope to let him pass. Dubious looks followed him inside.