Something Hard, from Masters of Cane

 

Here’s a short continuation of what I started last week. Soon I’ll post the debut date and link to the newest Gaslight Mystery.

mofc banner w title, author=pizap.com14525557231972

Chapter 2: Something Hard

Simon had awakened surprised and was still astonished.

His heart was rattling like a toy drum, his throat was dry, his hands were shaking as he tried to unlock the door to his flat.

Of course he expected Michael to try to lure him back into the privy, or to touch him somewhere as they stood briefly in the gaslit hallway. He even wanted the slick intrusion into his ear, the husky promise of the man’s voice. No, not merely wanted those sensations. Craved them.

What flabbergasted him—now, and every moment since waking up this morning—was his own eager collaboration. He had always ducked and fled from the randy roustabout, one for whom the word “subtlety” had seemed to be some form of undecipherable ancient tongue.

Why now, after a full year, had he thrown aside the sham of disliking Michael’s frank interest?

He’d rushed through his daily toilet and bath, hoping to find the brawny, good looking Irishman outside the privy door. And as badly as he’d wanted to stroke his heavy penis until the pressure eased, he’d merely washed it gingerly until he was sure it would be acceptable to his flat-mate’s questing mouth—if, indeed, Michael began to look for the obvious.

fireplace:roomSimon’s fingers finally found the keyhole, and he opened the door to number 3-C, the large Victorian-era flat he shared with Michael McCree. His eyes took in every detail of the room immediately, noting the small change wrought by his flat-mate.

The room was spacious, with a high domed ceiling where his own shadow played, caught by the flickering gaslight. His eyes swept the marble fireplace whose mantel boasted his antique clock … his father’s handsome liquor cabinet next to it with stained-glass panels … a huge impressionist-style painting of the hills of Cambridge … the old wingback chair and the slick leather divan three meters away, both hand-me-downs from his father … the thick oriental rug whose reds and golds shimmered like mysterious gems.

This was the environment where he felt both safe and in peril. The place where he could come to find privacy and forbidden pleasure too.

The canes. The ivory-handled fighting sticks. He’d mounted them near the fireplace a few years ago, and yesterday he’d taken them down as a veiled message to his flat-mate. Carefully laying them next to each other, he’d propped them against his roomer’s door. Michael had to take them away to get inside. Where had he put them?

Simon saw them in his next glance, lying absolutely perpendicular on the heavy mahogany dining table. Uncrossed, open, the way he wanted Michael to see them also—an invitation to be his stick-fighting partner. Even though the street-wise Michael relied mainly on his blunt fists, Simon thought no self-respecting Irishman should be without a rudimentary knowledge of cudgels in some form. And Michael was showing him he understood and agreed.

Lately his blustery room-mate had begun to show promise … a shade of delicacy, moments rife with actual nuance. It had taken Simon almost a year to teach the fellow, and the man’s sexual energies were now being channeled in a way that deeply excited him.

cane in handStanding at the table, he ran his fingers down the length of the canes. Their high polish and adamantine smoothness called to him, reminded him of the fighting master who’d awarded him these beauties. He felt almost an electric spark, letting the meat of one palm settle on the hard surface before lifting his hand again, loathe to disturb their static potential yet longing to release that promise once more, with a new partner.

As he crossed the large sitting room to his bedchamber, Simon reflected that he had not truly taught Michael. His business partner and companion—face it, Simon, your lover—had learned because he’d found every way conceivable to say “I want you.” And maybe Michael’s unspoken words told him something even deeper. His partner’s off-and-on subtlety was just a small part of a secret daily message Simon knew he was whispering sometimes soft, sometimes with a rasping insistence.

Once he entered his large bedchamber, Simon was again taken aback. The soiled linens were no longer crumpled on his bed but balled up on the floor next to an old lumpy chair. Fresh folded sheets were sitting on the too-plump seat, no doubt waiting for the damp mattress to air-dry in the slight breeze wafting from the window.

lit bedroom copy

Normally he would firmly close the door. He’d strip the robe and don clean underwear, then find some suitable summer-weight suit to wear the rest of the day. But today he walked directly to his large four-poster bed and sat heavily at its foot, his mind snagged by the fighting sticks, the clean sheets, the memory of a wet movement in his ear and his own eager tongue on Michael’s full lower lip. Flicking, then fleeing. But absolutely honest and direct, like Michael’s own.

His phallus began to swell, and for once he did not try to will “it” away. The erection. The hardness. My stiff cock.

Michael had taught him how to give his body to another person. He’d also showed him how to blurt out his needs in words of one syllable.

He’d gone from being a hermit with a bad attitude to a willing lover, all in the space of just one year. If he were to be honest with himself, Simon knew the “willing lover” part was somewhat scarce most of the time. Simon shook his head, still reeling from the change in himself—not in a year, but in just a few days. Hell and damn, in the space of a few hours.

Something important, some alchemists’s magic, had turned him from straw to flesh. He needed time to take stock of this new Simon Hart…

A familiar lilt, the deep humor-laced tones of a sensuous man, penetrated his thoughts.

“Simon, lad. Let’s make this damned bed, or let it make us.”

towel:blondHe looked up and saw his flat-mate in a towel that was way too thin to disguise the man beneath. Looking from there into Michael’s brindled eyes, tawny as a cat, he found himself suddenly smiling.

“Make us what, McCree?”

The interloper leaned over him, the tented cloth only inches from his chin.

“Make us crazy again.”

Almost by rote, Simon slid away from the heat of Michael and managed to stand not quite touching him. But not exactly running away. And again out of habit, he pushed his lower lip into its usual cynical droop.

“I heard no knock on the door.”

“Sure an’ ’twere a knock, lad. Something hard knocking against this bloody towel.”

And then Michael kissed him. A slow, wet kiss that started on his surly lower lip and moved inside, while his bear-paw hands gentled his cheeks and chin then moved to cup his buttocks.

Simon felt his phallus become a bed post.

~oOo~

mofC figures only=pizap.com14526098981981Missed the excerpt from Chapter 1? It’s here:

https://caitlinfire.wordpress.com/2016/01/08/masters-of-cane-coming-soon/

Have you started Erin O’Quinn’s acclaimed Gaslight Mysteries? Find them on my Amazon and ARe/Omni Lit pages.

#gay #romcom #mysteries
Amazon USA http://goo.gl/N3cZ16
OmniLit https://goo.gl/xcDY3L

❤️HEART TO HEART ❤️

👥SPARRING WITH SHADOWS 👥

☠️TO THE BONE ☠️

🔫THIN AS SMOKE 🔫

Art of the cane fighters is by Alex A. Akira, writer/artist/illustrator. If you need covers, banners, box set art, etc., you’ll find his service here:  alexaakira.org

 

What’s up … and who dunnit?

smoky cover-pizap.com14223749906101 copy 3Out of the haze of cigarette smoke and a sea of clustered dancers steps a very thin man. A gaunt man, with shuttered eyes betraying both sickness and a world of emotional hurt. Dashiell Hammett has come to Dun Linden on a covert assignment, and he meets his old friend Michael after seven years.

He’s astonished. Michael seems delighted. But Simon, refusing to admit how much he’s drawn to his handsome partner, is stricken by the sudden appearance of the man drawing Michael’s attention.

In a way this latest Gaslight Mystery comes full circle: from the day a year past when Michael first met his partner, to the anniversary of that well remembered occasion. But with a deadly mystery to solve and a new investigator in the mix, the men can never go back to the same relationship.

Before the debut of THIN AS SMOKE in a few days, I offer one more excerpt. This novel recounts a search:  For clues to a mystery which began as mundane but has turned deadly. For the trail of a missing private dick whose mind is on his dick and on saving his own neck. For the motives of a very thin man who can play any part to perfection—so what part is he playing now in the lives of Michael and Simon?

Here, the PIs are making sure “Sam” (Dashiell) Hammett has at least a place to sleep. Private even if not too swank …

~oOo~

Simon quickly arranged dormitory space for Sam. A small room with a tiny bed, close to lavatory facilities, overlooked an area of hedges and trees. The scant space seemed almost peaceful to Michael, who himself needed little in order to find body comfort and a refuge for his soul.

Sam flashed a smile, brief but genuine, Michael thought.

“Perfect, Simon.”

Simon downplayed his obvious pleasure at the compliment. “I cannot guarantee utmost privacy from someone who may have an ear glued to the wall in the next room.”

“As long as that person keeps his dick in his drawers, I’m okay with it.”

Again, Michael and Simon both laughed. He saw Simon was amused at the man’s flippant attitude about his own sexuality and the possibility of being accosted by another male. He himself, even while chuckling, was puzzled by Sam’s change from close-fitting dance partner to huffy hetero. He can play any part to perfection. So which role is he playing now?

~oOo~

4 GL lined up 2-pizap.com14219502617254 copy

Find the first three Gaslight Mysteries on my Amazon author page:

http://amzn.to/1w8PVgI

And on my Amber Quill Press author page:

http://www.amberquill.com/store/m/223-Erin-O-Quinn.aspx

Thin as Smoke is currntly available at an introductory 35% discount here: http://www.amberquill.com/store/p/2118-Thin-As-Smoke.aspx

Coming soon to Amazon dot com and dot uk and other dots near you!

Home Page

MM: The Gaslight Mysteries is a blog devoted to Erin O’Quinn’s ongoing series of MM novels published by Amber Quill Press: Heart to Hart, Sparring with Shadows, and To the Bone.

Please note that a fourth mystery, Thin as Smoke, is now in the hands of my publisher. Here’s a brief teaser and a home-made piece of art:

thinpizap.com14137505019311

In this latest Gaslight Mystery a third character emerges from the cigarette smoke and jazz-age music of a 1920s gay tavern—a place and a man much more than they seem. The novelist Dashiell Hammett, historically a Pinkerton’s op, has come to elicit Michael’s assistance. Ironically, the man who would later famously write The Maltese Falcon and other hard-boiled crime fiction drives Michael and Simon so far apart they may never return to their old ways…Because Michael and his old friend share a secret, one which threatens to end both his career and his complex relationship with Simon.

To readers of these books: You’ll find an overview . . . a photo journey . . . through Heart to Hart on my Amber Allure blog. As you read the story, it’s fun to envision the old motorbike, the “pooor man’s pocket watch” church of Kell Pádraig, the 1923 Austin 7 motorcar, and more. Your link is Amber Heat & Amber Allure Authors: Heart to Hart: 1920s fantasy romcom

To readers of this blog: If you leave a comment, please leave us also a link to your blog or novel. I’ll make sure the link is live.

hearttohart - backcover 300 copyHeart to Hart has already won some critical acclaim. Please refer to the chapter REVIEWS.

There are also a few blogs devoted to it on my other manlove site The Man In Romance,

http://romancemanlove.wordpress.com

CA Marion Sipe designed the covers. On the left is the back cover for the  first two print versions.

Your purchase links are:

Amber Quill:

bit.ly/10crKOz

Amazon.com:

http://amzn.to/12gBwlL

Amazon.uk:

http://amzn.to/ZQ40kn

For now, kick back as I begin to unwind the story of Michael McCree and his reluctant partner Simon Hart. Excerpts from the beginning chapters will appear as pages on the blog. Be sure to read the free short “Wings of Angels” published here, which serves as a prologue to all four books.

wings from behind
Here is a short story, a prologue if you will, to the “Gaslight Mysteries” novels. If you are at all curious about the necessarily brief character sketches, or by the hint of action to come, you may want to consider owning the books. The first three are available at Amber Allure. The fourth, Thin as Smoke, will be released soon.

Wings of Angels

The approaching man stumbled a little, oblivious to Michael’s presence in the room, sunk as he was in an ancient leather couch, his face buried behind the Dun Linden, Ireland New Dawn. As usual, this late at night, the man was carrying a bottle of Bushmills fine whiskey and walking with the deliberate gait of a drunk toward this end of the smoking room, where the dormitory entrance stood.

Michael McCree had been stalking this sensual dish, this marvelous bit o’hard, for the last few days. He’d found out Simon Hart was a private investigator, yet obviously one who needed to get sober before he investigated anything at all except a lumpy bed behind those double doors at his gentleman’s club.

Michael’s eyes rested longingly on Simon’s ass-end, revealed in all its muscled splendor by the tight athletic trousers. Only when the door was firmly shut and his quarry probably passed out on the cot inside would Michael finally leave and seek a late supper at the pub.

He tossed the newspaper aside and sat forward, elbows on knees, thinking about the impossibly handsome Simon. On Monday, three days ago, he’d handed Michael an obituary notice. Michael was a fair-to-middling newspaper typesetter, and Simon was a stranger in mourning. Their hands never touched. A starchy piece of paper did not even change hands. The sulky man had looked at him briefly, with aqua eyes like deep tide pools, and then he’d laid the notice carefully on the linotype as if he could not bear to have anyone wrench it from his possession.

The sheet of paper had been carefully inscribed with the details of a memorial service and a funeral following. It had taken Michael only a heartbeat to understand that the dead man had been Simon’s friend. And perhaps much more. Yet he could not tame the sudden lurch of his prick under the heavy leather typesetter’s apron. This was a man he wanted in his dreams, in his arms, in his ravening mouth. His prick, he knew, would fit nicely in his ass when the time came.

This man Simon fit his qualifications perfectly. He would not be a threat to Michael’s hidden life, one he’d closely guarded for years. After a sufficient amount of Bushmills, he may very well take a liking to Michael’s silk neckpiece. And those eyes … he could drown in their promise of smoldering resistance and eventual surrender.

O’course, he thought, he’d allow the man his period of mourning. And then ’twould be time to introduce himself properly. As a fisticuff fighter seeking to win a wager. As a potential new flat-mate. And finally, he hoped, as a savage-and-gentle lover.

Michael prided himself on having the eye and the sharp senses of a kestrel. And yet, when he rose and left the sagging couch, he did not notice another man in the large room get up and take his place near the dormitory door. He, too, held the New Dawn, a newspaper he did not intend to read.

The man called Moses watched Michael leave the club. His lower lip jutted out naturally, putting a kind of pout on the older man’s face. The expression in his very dark eyes was hidden by lowered lids and by shaggy brows that nevertheless told a prologue to danger.

I suspect this man who watches Simon has no hidden desire, except the desire to bed him. Not if I can help it.

His brows arched and flapped, a warning to anyone who would put this particular young man in peril. Especially the peril of a man entering another man, even in spirit.

Simon, oblivious to the wings of angels spread outside the tiny dorm room, let another bit of whiskey coat his mouth, then swallowed carefully.

“Funeral. Friday.” He set the bottle on the floor near the bed and lay back.

The first twenty-five years of his life had been hell. And yet, he thought, nothing like the next quarter century would be. In spite of the pain in his gut, he still would not cry. Because of it, he would not sleep.

Twenty feet away, in another world, the pages of a newspaper rustled softly, like the rousing of feathers, like the whisper of rushes in the Nile. And somewhere outside, walking the four miles to the Silver Hind pub where Simon had a flat, a man stretched his arms and yawned, unconsciously imitating his archangel namesake, Michael.

Half a world distant, in a fog-shrouded city called San Francisco, another man sat smoking on an indifferent bed in a cheap hotel room. The bottle he held was prohibited by national law, and all the more desired because it was forbidden.

Sam Dashiell Hammett thought about his life as an undercover agent. He briefly considered his rude scribblings about a plain dick, an anonymous operative. And suddenly, maybe because of the goddamn booze, he thought about a handsome young Irishman he’d known years before. One he was sure he’d never see again.

I left without saying goodbye. I had folded my wings over him, my only friend … and then released him to find my own hell in the trenches of a bloody war. Grinding out his smoldering butt, the tubercular man began to cough. And then, without even thinking about it, he pulled a pouch and thin paper packet from his shirt pocket and began to roll another cigarette.