Today I have the lovely Liv Rancourt on my blog with THE SECRET OF OBEDIENCE.
The
Secret of
Obedience
Blurb
Can a jock find love with a hot little hipster?
Opposites attract, but secrets divide.
Ronnie Durand
is a country boy who transfers to the University of Washington after two years
at Central. He'll have to give up playing football, though finishing his
education at a major university in Seattle - and being out and proud without
having to look over his shoulder - makes the sacrifice worthwhile.
But finding
friends at a huge school is tough, especially when the hottest guy Ronnie meets
makes him doubt his own sanity.
Sang's been on
his own a long time. He's only a couple steps away from living on the street,
and he's got dreams so big they don't leave space for a steady boyfriend. Then
he meets Ronnie, who just might be strong enough to break through his
barriers....as long as Sang lets him in on one big secret.
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Excerpt
Sang wants to spin, to expand into the space. He shows
his desire in the way he raises his arms and sweeps the floor with his gaze.
He's wearing a simple white wife-beater over his jeans, but it’s topped with a
long navy double-breasted coat with gold trim, the kind of thing worn by Union
soldiers in the Civil War. It fits like it was made for him, and my palms burn
to touch it.
I move deeper onto the dance floor. I'm broader, wider,
and the crowd packs tightly around me. I get as close to Sang as he'll let me,
belly to belly. He's only about 5'4", and when he turns his back, he
presses his ass against my thigh.
I take it as an invitation. Keeping one hand on his
shoulder, I let the other wander. He reaches behind, grabbing handfuls of the
denim wrapping my legs. I stroke his throat, bend down to tell him how pretty
he is, chicken out and do nothing but breathe in his ear.
Bodies crush, sweaty and raw, shifting us to the center
of the floor. My dick's engaged in an argument with the fly of my jeans. I let
my hand drift lower, across Sang's chest. His small nub of a nipple hardens
under my fingertips, but no softness surrounds it. If he's really a girl, he
totally got shortchanged. I sweep my fingers wider. Nah, these pecs belong on a
man.
I move my hand lower, going slow, giving him time to stop
me. I stick my thumb into a belt loop. He grabs my wrist, tight.
"What?" I ask. The bare, light toast skin of
his neck is inches from my lips. I could taste him. I want to. Over the stink
of sweat and too many colognes I smell him, some warm spice scent like the
incense Mom used to burn.
He brings his mouth within kissing distance.
"Don't."
"What you got under the hood, pretty? You packing a
V6 or a V8?" I want to kiss him, to taste him, to admire this perfect
jewel of a person.
"V6 or V8." He grins, and it's the curve of his
lower lip when he smiles that I'll remember, like his mouth is held by a
chalice. "Does it really matter?" he asks.
It does, but not in the way he thinks. I leave off my
search, but don't move my hand from his belt. See, my stepdad threw me into
football when I was eight. I was good at it, good enough nobody messed with me.
The locker room's not known for being a gay-friendly place, but being able to
dead lift 280 pounds at age fifteen bought me some peace.
I'm still a guy, though, and I like lovers who are
smaller and prettier than me. Call me a cave man. Whatever. Sang is my
small-town boy's fantasy, and the press of his body has me so turned on I'd
think about doing him even if he’s actually a she.
My fingers are trembling with the need to touch, to know.
"Come on, Sugar Cookie. Does it matter?"
I lean in, drawn like his lips are the center of a flower
and I'm one very horny bee.
"Oh no." He jerks away, his gorgeous smile
extinguished. "No kissing. I don't kiss strangers."
Puzzled, I reach out. He's hemmed in by the crowd, so
it's nothing to loop my fingers under his shirt and draw him closer. "No
kissing, then." Some guys are like that. He rocks against me, straddling
my thigh, giving me a taste of the hardness in his groin. Hell yeah.
"Is your ID legal?" Because somehow it matters
that he's at least 21. I can't keep the grin off my face. His dick is going to
be gorgeous, and I'm going to suck it, and he's going to scream.
"Of course." He's not frowning anymore. He's
sly and shimmering and a little mean. "I do love a man in cowboy boots.
The rest of it..." He brushes his hands down the sleeves of my plain white
t-shirt. "Not so much. But I'll do you for your boots."
I get both hands around his waist and drag him further up
my leg. He hangs onto a handful of my shirt. I'm not sure his feet are even on
the floor. The song changes, or maybe it doesn't. They all sound the same. My
cock is pressed against him hard enough to make me grit my teeth. "Let's
go."
His heavy eyelids drift down until he has to tip his head
to maintain eye contact. "Bathroom?"
I guess it's that or an alley. "Sure."
He grabs my wrist roughly and leads me through the
disorganized crowd. We go right past the men’s room to the women’s. “Less
crowded,” he says over his shoulder.
The restroom smells like piss and semen and sweat. We
find a stall, and I get down on my knees before he can argue. The floor is
sticky, but I figure I can’t catch anything too scary through my knees, and
from there I can nuzzle his belly.
"Are you always like this? I like a nice toppy guy,
you know, but he's gotta be able to—"
I don't hear what he thinks a guy's gotta do seeing as
I've covered his mouth with my hand, smearing gritty sticky lipgloss with my
fingers. The bossy little fuck has just dragged me in here like I'm some kind
of prized bull, and now he’s gonna whine about me? There are crinkles of
laughter at the corners of his eyes.
"Sang?" I'm not sure what the question is. The
door to the stall is at my back, and I'm wrestling with the buttons on his very
tight jeans. "Hey, I'm new in town. You should treat me like a guest and
let me do what I want."
He drags my hand away. "Now you just wait a minute.
What do you think I'm going to let you do? Because if you do anything I don't
want, I'm going to scream."
"You'll
scream, all right."
My bike's parked right in front of the club. "Are we
going far?" I ask.
"Four or five blocks."
I hand him the helmet. "Get on."
He slides the helmet on, and I help him tighten the
buckles. He chitters a laugh, making the moment silly and a little awkward. I
straddle the bike, and when he climbs on behind me it turns me on so bad I
almost come again. Damn. I want to be stretched out in a bed
with Sang, both of us naked, with a box of condoms and a Costco-sized bottle of
lube.
With nudges and hand signals, he guides me to a big brick
apartment building about a quarter mile away. I park, and he springs off,
leaving me with a sharp shiver at the loss of his heat. By the time I get the
bike locked up, he's on the front door phone.
"I need your bed, chica."
"I'm in it." The voice is muffled, most likely
female, and laughing rather than annoyed.
"Then your couch."
The phone clicks and goes to dial tone, and the door
buzzes. I follow Sang through the lobby, where the dark burgundy carpet could
be original to the 1940s. We jog up a couple flights of stairs and down a hall
to an open apartment door.
"Go." He hustles me in, then throws the
deadbolt and taps on a closed door to our right. "Thanks,
baby."
An indistinct bleat answers him, likely from the location
of the occupied bed. The rest of the apartment is one room with a kitchenette
in the corner. It's dark except for the streetlights outside, but Sang knows
where to find candles and a match. We're quiet, wordless, working with borrowed
solitude. Compared with the thrash of the nightclub and the sleazy bathroom
stall, I'll take it.
I dump my jacket and helmet on the dining table. Sang
sets two candles on the tiny bookcase, hauls me over to the couch, and pushes
me down. I'm laughing, because for a little guy, he's bossy as hell. Then he
straddles me, and I want to kiss him without pissing him off. I drag him close
and nuzzle his neck, tasting, testing, planting not-kisses in a hot line down
his throat. He sighs, and I take it as permission to keep going.
His pants are stretch leggings, so it doesn't take much
to get them worked down over his hips to free his dick. It's so elegant,
tapered and smooth. I want to suck on it again, to bring him off and make him
sputter in Korean or Chinese or whatever language he babbled in last time. If
he wanted me to, I'd fuck him, but he'd have to ask. I'm not really much for
butt sex. If a guy's into it, I'll do what he wants, but my own preference is
for hands and mouths, everything slick with spit and lube. I like messy sex.
And kissing. I really like kissing.
I stroke him, rubbing my thumb over the head of his dick,
and he flops against me like I've disconnected his spinal cord. The room smells
of smoke and roses, and he's fumbling at my zipper, those delicate hands all trembling
and raw, so I reach in and help. My hand's big enough to wrap around both of
us, the heat of his thrust enough to drive both of us crazy. His lace shirt is
tangling in my fingers and around our shafts, so I undo the buttons and shove
it off his shoulders. My black silk is already kinda trashed, but he does the
same for me, exposing my chest.
Our thrusting goes from eager to urgent to needy, his
heavy-lidded gaze trapping me. His climax hits like a rocket, like fireworks
going off in a black July sky. I follow, but it's more of a tease, dragged out,
slow and seductive until I can't breathe and I arch off the couch. Sang crawls
up my chest, hanging on, laying open-mouthed kisses over my ear, down my
jaw.
If I'm lucky, this night will never end.
"We need to go soon."
His whisper hits me like a slap. "I'd bring you back
to my dorm," I say, "but I haven't given my roommate the
homophobia quiz yet."
He raises up and smirks at me. "I don't like him
already."
I run a hand over his shoulder, smoothing his ruffled
feathers. My calloused fingertips catch in the lace, and I wonder how something
so old fits like it was made for him.
"What are you studying in that big school,
anyway?" His question is tentative, cautious.
"Exercise science or maybe business. I haven't
chosen a major yet." I pause, giving him a chance to ask a follow-up
question. When he doesn't I step up. "What about you? What are you
studying at that big school?"
He grimaces and shakes his head. "Nothing. I'm not
at your school."
"Oh, it's my
school now?"
He pats my cheek. "Yes. Your school."
"I see you every day in World History."
"No one sees me.” His lower lip softens, and he
catches it with the tips of his teeth. “They see the clothes.” He reaches for
the lace blouse, shaking it out and tossing it over his shoulders. “They see a
girl or a scenester or a queer.” He stands, shakes his junk back into his
stretchy pants, does a little hootchie dance to organize things. “No one sees me. Not even my family.”
Old pain erodes his effervescence, showing through the
cracks like basalt under soil. I'm stretched over the couch, on display, my
shirt open and my dick hanging out of my jeans. He covers my eyes with his
hand, but I knock it away.
“I think you look real good. I’d like to see a lot more
of you.”
Which sounds really kind of lame and try-hard, but this
is what I came to Seattle for, too. Adventure. Maybe even romance,
the kind I can show off in public.
“I want to,” he says.
For a moment he shows me his profile, private,
thoughtful, and I give him some space to go on.
“And if I was going to see someone,” he continues with
more laughter in his tone, “he’d be a lot like you.”
“So let’s do it.”
I should probably feel bad when he doesn’t respond, but
the back-to-back orgasms catch up with me. I tip my head back and close my
eyes, fighting sleep. Sang’s rummaging around the apartment. Haven't a clue why
he’s lying about school and why he won’t take me up on my offer, but after two
evenings he's an itch I won't be able to scratch on my own, so I let it go.
Country boys are known for their determination.
Bio
I write
romance: m/f, m/m, and v/h, where the h is for human and the v is for vampire …
or sometimes demon … I lean more towards funny than angst. When I’m not writing
I take care of tiny premature babies or teenagers, depending on whether I’m at
home or at work. My husband is a soul of patience, my dog’s cuteness is
legendary, and we share the homestead with three ferrets. Who steal things.
Because they’re brats.
I
can be found on-line at all hours of the day and night at my website & blog
(www.liv-rancourt.blogspot.com), on Facebook (www.facebook.com/liv.rancourt), or on Twitter (www.twitter.com/LivRancourt). For sneak peeks and
previews and other assorted freebies, go HERE to sign up for my
mailing list.
Come
find me. We’ll have fun!
Thank you so much for having me, Elena. I very much appreciate it!
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