Word Play: Story Orgy, Vol 1
Story Orgy, Vol 1

Excerpt

Harper's Discovery by Em Woods

"What did I say the last time I caught you out?" Cold realization simmered in Harper's belly, hardening into resolve. He wasn't anyone's pawn. If the man didn't want to be in a relationship, Sly just had to fucking say so.

Of course, with Harper paying for everything, why would Sly want to lose that?

"That we'd be through if I did it again."

Harper waved a hand between them. "This is over. Get your shit out of my apartment."

The wounded look on Sly's face would have given Harper pause if he'd really given a shit about the other man. Instead, Harper found he was more relieved than anything else to be rid of this particular bit of baggage.

Sly nodded, hanging his head in what he would have called a suitably remorseful fashion. "I'll swing by tomorrow."

"Good." Harper turned away from his ex, wanting nothing more than to put tonight's events behind him. Ten steps later he found his path blocked. There weren't many men who would chance him walking over the top of them. Really, only one that Harper knew made a habit of it.

Pitt Mullen.

Harper took his time to look over the shorter man in front of him. Sky blue eyes and dark blond hair, tanned skin, a pert nose and cheeks that would dimple completed the prettiest face Harper had the privilege of knowing. He'd dreamed of Pitt more times than he cared to admit but he'd been dating Sly which made him unavailable. Until now.

Pitt continued to stare up at him, a slight quirk to his full lips.

Harper's gaze dialed in on them, watching as a pink tongue darted out to lick those lips. He stifled a groan as his cock hardened in his jeans. Jesus.

Pitt's gaze slid off in the direction Harper just came from as he jerked his chin in Sly's direction. "You finally get your head out of your butt?"

Harper's lip curled up. "Just because we're friends, don't think I won't kick your ass, Little Bit."

Quick as a flash, Pitt pressed his body against Harper's, shifting just a bit to leave no doubt how turned on he was by Harper. "Sure that's what you wanna do with my ass, Harp?"

Wicked Reflection by Hank Edwards

Kirk stepped to the sink and twisted the hot faucet. As he dangled his fingers in the spray, waiting for it to warm up, he studied his reflection in the mirror, disheartened to see the toll of moving. Dark circles gathered like storm clouds beneath his eyes, his hair was a spiky mess, and dust and dirt smears marred his pale skin. Even the blue of his eyes looked faded and tired.

The water heated up quickly, thank God, but it was rusty. He left the tap running and turned to the tub. Dirt and dust darkened the white surface, and he didn't have the energy to clean it for a shower. He decided to settle for washing up at the sink and turned back, stopping as his heart stuttered like a startled bird.

Steam from the hot water had fogged the old mirror, revealing something written there in all capital letters.

DON'T LET HIM IN

Kirk shut off the water and looked around the empty bathroom. He stepped into the bedroom and found it empty, as well. He was alone.

The doorbell rang downstairs, the old, heavy bell chiming loudly through each of the floors, making him jump.

Swallowing his fear, Kirk peered in the bathroom at the clearing mirror. As he watched, the words vanished, and a small knot of unease settled inside his chest.

The doorbell chimed again, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He silently cursed the mirror for giving him the creeps in his new house on the first night, then left the bathroom.

Kirk descended both flights of stairs to stand in the entryway and stare at the front door. He hesitated, opening and closing his fists a few times. The doorbell rang again, making him jump once more, and he reached out to touch the large brass knob, worn smooth and dark from years of handling.

A breath in and out, then Kirk pulled open the door.

And smiled at the handsome man standing on his stoop.

He was taller than Kirk, six foot two probably, with a dark goatee and a shaved head. His eyes, blue as a tropical lagoon, crinkled with his smile.

"Hi there." The stranger's deep voice smoothed down the hair on the nape of Kirk's neck and eased the fluttery feeling in his chest.

"Hi," Kirk said. It was the best he could do.

"I live down the block." The man jerked a thumb over his shoulder, then extended his hand. "Alan Donaldson."

Kirk reached out. Alan's palm was warm but dry, his grip strong. Dark hair dusted Alan's knuckles and swept over his forearms like meadow grass, and Kirk longed to run his tongue through it, feel the hair slide beneath, taste the salty skin.

"And you are?" Alan lifted an eyebrow and grinned, still holding Kirk's hand.

Kirk laughed and his cheeks warmed. "Sorry. I'm, um, I'm Kirk Stanford."

Alan laughed and pulled his hand free. The air touched Kirk's palm again, cool after the heat of Alan’s grip.

"Nice to meet you, Kirk Stanford. I wanted to stop by and welcome you to the neighborhood." He held his arms out and flashed a grin that made Kirk's cock twitch. "So, welcome to the neighborhood. Sorry I didn't bring a muffin basket."

Kirk laughed, much too loudly, he could tell. "Oh, no problem. I don't need the carbs."

"I dunno, you look pretty damn good from here," Alan said in a low voice. His gaze slid down Kirk's body and back up to his face, then flashed that grin once again, his teeth so white within the dark goatee.

Harlan’s Ryde by Havan Fellows

"What I'm trying to say is, I love you, Ryder. I want us to have a long, happy life together and I think we should start that life by finding an apartment of our own."

Harlan sighed with relief that he actually got through his spiel without making an ass out of himself and smiled at Ryder. For all the doubts he had about himself, this he didn't doubt. He knew in his heart how Ryder felt.

Seconds turned to minutes and his smile froze on his face. Why wasn't Ryder professing his own love in return? He watched as the light left Ryder's eyes, as the smile faded. What did he say wrong? Ryder loved him, he knew it, he just knew it.

Ryder began to talk, but the visuals Harlan got from Ryder's face and body language were so strong that he only caught half the words; drunk, wrestler, future, fling, satisfied.

Finally Ryder's ramblings stopped and they just sat there looking at each other.

The silence between them was no longer amicable. Harlan ingested the words spoken, his brain finally arranging them into the proper order. He didn't satisfy Ryder. Ryder had sex with another man who did. Harlan felt his lips start to tremble, felt the moisture pool in his eyes and knew he had to get out of there. He couldn't—no he wouldn't cry in front of the man he had just spilled his heart out to.

One fact was clear in his mind above everything else. His future didn't have six more months, much less six more years. His future didn't have any more anything.

Off The Beaten Path by JR Boyd

Colby popped the top on his own beer and raised his can high. "Here's to you and me, buddy." He took a long drink. "Ahhh! That, my friend, is very refreshing. It's another one of them hot and steamy kind of days." Colby tucked his beer between his legs and peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt. "Yes!

That's much better. Why don't you take yours off, too, Mitch? It's a lot cooler."

Mitch glanced admiringly at Colby's pecs and pondered the notion. I'm so damn horny and that ain't helping none. But Mitch shoved the thought to the back of his mind as usual. "You might be onto something there." Mitch tugged at his shirt with one arm and worked like hell to peel the clingy fabric from his back. "Help me with this? I'll hold the steering wheel with one hand and you just pull the shirt over my head."

Colby smiled and slid across the seat to give his friend a hand. "You look kinda funny with your elbows all tangled up in your shirt like that." Chuckling, Colby grabbed the wheel, "You take care of the mess you're in. I got the wheel, just slow down a little."

Mitch let go of the wheel, reached back behind him, and inched his shirt up his back and pulled it over his head. "Jeez! This damn shirt wants to stick to everything." He struggled free of the clinging, sweaty shirt and tossed it onto the floorboard as he took back the wheel. Feeling better and much cooler, a smile crept across his face as he refocused on the winding road.

Colby hollered "Woooo-hoooo! Now, doesn't that feel better?"

"Yup, I ain't never felt better, I don't think." Mitch leaned over against the door, propped one elbow on the ledge, and flopped his other wrist across the steering wheel as his fingers drummed the dashboard in time with the music.

Colby whooped again. "Look, Mitch! I just saw a nice pond in a clearing behind those trees. Hopefully, no houses are around. Let's check it out."

The Park At Sunrise by Lee Brazil

"I see you're dressed for the weather as always, Morgan." Jason's voice was husky, hesitant.

A pair of black knit gloves landing in my lap tipped me over that edge from making a snide remark to throwing an uncalled-for hissy fit.

My jaw clenched tightly. Screw breathing deeply. I yanked the cap from my head, pulling long strands of black hair from the band at my neck, and winced at the tiny pain. I flung the cap to the ground in front of us and looked up the black denim-clad legs to the black pea coat and beyond. My mouth opened to swear, but no sound came out. The hissy fit drained away to something else entirely. My pulse still raced, but for an entirely different reason.

How fair was that? How fucking fair was it that after ten years apart, my hair showed silvery streaks and my face showed my age, but Jason was still the slender, boyish youth of years gone by? Yeah, he'd shaved the dirty blond dreadlocks. Those wire-rim glasses were new, but he appeared as youthful and vibrant, untouched by life, alive as he had when we'd all parted years ago to make those sunrise dreams reality. His black jeans had the telltale smudges of paint, and I'd be willing to bet that underneath those leather driving gloves lurked more paint.

This wasn't the reunion we planned then. It was nine years too late, for one thing. We were one man short, for another.

The bench creaked as he perched next to me on the top slat, and instinctively I grabbed his knee to anchor both of us so we wouldn't topple backward. His hand covered mine before I could jerk it away, and he refused to relinquish it when I tugged. I gave in with ill grace. Jason’s touch stirred physical responses that I’d rather not experience.