Welcome to my blog, Nya!
Nya: Thanks for having me today! It’s my pleasure to present my newest addition to the Bad Boyfriends series: Pumping Iron. From the shadowy world of a high-end male escort service to the hot, sweaty, hard bodies in the gym, two men with very different skill sets are forced to co-operate in keeping a mutual client out of sight and out of mind.
Mike Douglas is the kind of man who looks like he chews nails and swallows—at least that’s the impression he gives his clients, stars and athletes looking to tone and get into top physical shape. Mike also handles the escorts his best friend Kane sends him. His job is to keep the pretty boys in tip-top shape to service their very special clientele.
One of those pretty boys is Sean Rourke, the A-lister who gets paired with Mike to handle a little problem by the name of Lovett Junior. On one level Douglas scares the bejeebers out of Sean, but on another… Well, he might be inclined to step away from business as usual if given just a little encouragement.
EXCERPT:
Sean, Mike and the client, Lovett Junior, settle into their quarters at the beach house…
Mike took the first room, diving in to dump his backpack at the foot of a four-poster that took up most of the available space. The room was light and airy, with a glass-front door opening to a balcony running the length of the house. I suspected the side deck I’d caught a glimpse of was part of a wrap-around structure.
He pointed to a connecting door. “You can go through there.” I hesitated, pondering the possibilities and nearly swooned when he added, “The door doesn’t lock.”
I looked at him but his face gave nothing away. Wishful thinking had me summoning all manner of inappropriate thoughts about adjoining bedrooms and doors that didn’t lock and hot sweaty nights.
It wasn’t until he started stripping that my pea brain engaged enough to send me hurtling through the unlocked and unlockable door into my own nicely appointed bedroom. It was a touch on the girlie side with floral wallpaper and Laura Ashley décor, but beggars can’t be choosers. I wasn’t here to critique the interior design details. My job was to keep Counselor Lovett, Jr. sufficiently entertained he wouldn’t consider heading back to Boston until his allotted playtime was over.
How that was going to tie in with whips and chains and other methods of torture and titillation was to be determined. Even more unclear was how Mike fit into all this. With Lovett’s profile indicating a strong preference for three-ways, albeit with underage boys, having Mike in the mix made for intriguing possibilities. I really didn’t see my client getting all hot and bothered by two guys well past the age of majority, no matter how inventive we might be.
And Mike Douglas was about as far away from escort material as anyone you’d care to call Dom.
“You ready?” Speak of the devil.
“Almost.”
I’d changed into swim trunks. Why I wasn’t sure. The ten-year-old me was chomping at the bit to run down to the beach and hit the surf, but the coming-twenty-seven-year-old single, gay man with a jacket full of poor choices took the long view. Being paid to be arm candy wasn’t exactly my comfort zone, but to make ends meet and hide from past indiscretions had taught me to peacock my way through life.
What doesn’t kill you makes you pretty enough to lick. For a fee. I got paid enough not to give a rat’s ass about labels. Rent boy, ’ho—I’d been called that and worse.
I grabbed a white cotton shirt and turned to find Mike within air-sucking distance, so close the inertia took me within a scant inch or so from his massive chest. Bare, lightly peppered with blond hair, the areola a dusky pinkish shade, nipples budded tight like I’d already licked them into high arousal.
Inhaling on, “Uh, sorry. Excuse me,” I tried pulling back before full frontal contact. I almost made it.
The granite boulder murmured, “Don’t be,” leaving me to wonder what in hell he meant.
That moment passed, like they do. When you want something that badly, the odds tended to fall on the side of denial. And that, most definitely, was not a river in Egypt.
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BLURB:
What does it take to bring a slow simmer to a rolling boil?
Sean Rourke is hiding in plain sight as a Bad Boyfriends A-list escort, hoping to dodge the bullet from a few career missteps.
Mike Douglas’ financial backing and very special negotiating skills have him partnering not-so-silently at Bad Boyfriends, as well as running a training center for athletes and gym rats.
Eying each other at a distance is all they’ve allowed themselves until a joint special project at a seaside retreat in the Hamptons, entertaining a wily Boston attorney, shows them exactly how well they fit together, in more ways than simply business as usual.
GENRE: gay romance, gay romantic comedy, contemporary M/M romance
Curling Iron (Bad Boyfriends #1)
BLURB:
Kane leads a double life. By day, he pumps iron, running a fitness center, where jocks and Cougar flock for the burn and the ‘tude. By night, it’s something else entirely that gets pumped, as Kane swaps sweats for Armani to cater to an exclusive clientele, willing to pay well to indulge their special interests and tastes. His double life isn’t a problem until his conniving ex tightens the financial screws.
Finding and retaining suitable companions for his after-dark clients isn’t easy. David Black’s pole dancing performance at a friend’s club hints that he might hit all the bullet points on Kane’s list of requirements, in a way that could mean something other than “just business.”
David is out of work and out of options, so when he’s offered the choice of starvation or performing both on and off the stage, it’s a no-brainer. Kane’s offer of a position with the escort service is as attractive as the man himself, and David agrees to a trial period involving certain conditions. He quickly finds that he’s out of his depth.
Confronted with unanticipated roadblocks, one thing is clear… neither man is taking no for an answer.
Excerpt:
I stifled the urge to sneeze. Mold. I was allergic to mold.
Apparently so was the tall man staring at one of the boss’s art deco posters—Captain America, but modern, not an antique. He sneezed and reached into a coat pocket, pulled out a handkerchief and swiped at his face. From the back he looked familiar. Dark hair, broad shoulders, overcoat from a custom big and tall men’s store. He looked angry or pissed or just not happy to be there—body posture was one of my specialties. I don’t need to see the face to know which way the wind blows.
My heart sank. If he was a detective, that “only the one” was probably me ending up at the precinct for lewd and lascivious behavior. I’d taken Charlie’s advice. I’d courted the pole last night, in a prime and prissy way. Tonight, I’d gone full frontal assault, with more grind than bump, and got a hard-on from my efforts that bulged the pleather pouch to the breaking point.
My sixty-three dollars was now looking like bail money.
Clearing my throat, I plastered polite on my face, and asked, “You wanted to see me?” He wasn’t a customer. No point in pretending otherwise.
He turned.
I swallowed. My tongue thickened. Spit pooled in my mouth, threatening to drizzle down my chin.
He nodded. I nodded. I went to sit in the folding chair in front of the desk.
“Don’t.”
I didn’t.
The soft cashmere turtleneck was a dead giveaway. This was my too smexy for his shoes guy from the audience, the one sitting next to the stage, the one I’d copped a feel with my eyes at the end of the routine… That one. There. Giving me a once, twice, thrice-over.
The pouch bulged.
A grin played at the corners of his mouth. I hoped he had handcuffs. I really hoped he liked doing bad cop.
He held out a hand, said, “I’m Kane.”
We shook. I shook, mostly inside, but it was a close call. I had the presence of mind to ask, “May I see some identification?”
He looked surprised, but fished in an interior pocket and pulled out a small, flat metal holder. He withdrew a business card and handed it over.
I stared, not exactly processing much…
BAD BOYFRIENDS
1-800-bad-boys
While I mouthed Bad Boyfriends, he said, “I have a proposal for you, Mr.—”
“Black. David Black.” It was tempting to extend my hand again for another shake, a formal one. One where I could maybe fondle the backs of those long, elegant fingers, do a few sweeps with my thumb, my tongue, my tongue tied in knots, brain in lockdown.
“You’re not a cop?”
I looked at him, really looked at eyebrows drawn together tight, stern, over eyes that were blue, but not. More like Smoky Mountains hazy blue, flat, intense. He was scary handsome, scary imposing, a total alpha, I eat interns for breakfast, sexual metro hunka way out of my league.
He chuckled. That made it worse.
PRIZE GIVEAWAY:
Each stop of the tour will host a giveaway for 2 eBook bundles (Curling Iron and Pumping Iron).
Make sure to leave a comment – including your email address! – on this blog post to enter the drawing for 1 of the 2 eBook bundles. Winners will be chosen randomly and prizes sent out.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Crossing boundaries, taking no prisoners. Write what’s in your soul.
It’s the bass beat, the heartbeat, the lyrics rude and true.
Nya Rawlyns is the pseudonym of a writer who cut her teeth on sports-themed romantic comedy and historical romances before finding her true calling in the wilderness areas she has visited but calls “home” in that place that counts the most: the heart. She writes M/M erotic romance because her good friends deserve to have their amazing stories told.
She has lived in the country and on a sailboat on the Chesapeake Bay, earned more than 1000 miles in competitive trail and endurance racing, taught Political Science to unwilling freshmen, and found an avocation in materials science.
When she isn’t tending to her garden or the horses, the cats, or two pervert parakeets, she can be found day dreaming and listening to the voices in her head.
Website: http://loveslastrefuge.com/
Website: Romancing Words
The Men of Crow Creek: http://the-men-of-crow-creek.weebly.com/
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