Welcome to the pleasures of the night in this collection of Adam Carpenter's hottest short fiction.
In these ten stories, you'll be taken to dizzying new heights of pleasure and romantic entanglements. You'll be transported to some of the most exciting cities in the world, and even some fictional settings you may wish you could visit! Same for some of the characters you're about to meet, men who love and lust after other men. In these pages, sex may be the game, but love is the prize.
The men in these stories are fiercely independent, determined, and confident in expressing their passions and indulging their unquenchable desires. From hot cowboys to hotter firemen, buttoned-up city boys to country cuties, these men are virile and vital, handsome and hunky, and quite often hairy. Ultimately, these men are filled with an insatiable zest for life, love, and lust.
This revised edition includes “A Yearly Tryst” and “You Own Me,” as well as “An Assurance of Love,” previously published in the charity anthology Love Is Free.
EXCERPT FROM "You Own Me"
He looked into the mirror and saw two faces staring back, two people ... two identities.
Even though he had only one name.
And an unlikely mouthful of a name at that, Sinclair McQueen Talbot. His still-living, endearing, and fiery-natured mother was a literary fan, while his long-dead, bombastic, bastard of a father favored action movies, and so rather than allow their child to lay claim to his own identity they combined their worlds and thus was born a man who from his earliest moments on earth battled who he was. The challenge hadn’t changed as he grew his way into adulthood, and in fact, it may have taken a deeper root inside him. Because even when on the outside he was properly attired for a night in which he would meet his fans, underneath lurked another side, one driven by secret passions.
He was wearing one of his finest suits, a pinstriped Armani with gold rep tie.
His thick brown hair was properly parted, combed.
His wire-framed glasses rode high on the bridge of his aquiline nose.
In other words, he was the very picture of literate success.
Except for the tight fitting briefs he wore beneath it all, his flaccid cock stuffed inside.
Begging to be let out, to grow hard ... to release.
The torture was thrilling. He could so easily slide a hand inside and jerk himself off.
But he didn’t. He could wait.
Because he knew what was scheduled to happen later tonight—much later. Only after his obligations were fulfilled would he be happy too. The week’s long pent-up passion would produce the desired effect, a satisfying, knee-buckling explosion which would calm his inner fears, and bring to rest, momentarily, his innate insecurity. For now, as he readied to leave, he would have to be content to enjoy the friction of the silky material against his hairy skin, his needy cock. The thick nest of pubes matted against the material heightened the sensation.
All such thoughts of desire would have to wait.
He had an appointment to keep, fans both familiar and new to embrace.
Later, a stranger would embrace him a different way, with lips encircling his hard cock.
So, the man with the unwieldy name of Sinclair McQueen Talbot, aged forty-two, standing just a shade under six feet, with thick dark hair and penetrating brown eyes behind those glasses and a discerning smile that always let you know how he felt, just now let out a sharp exhalation. It would be a long night, one identity doing battle with the other, but in the end, wasn’t he really about pleasing both sides that dwelled within him? He smiled back at himself, knowing just how this night would end.
He closed the bathroom door behind him, his final check completed.
The alarm on his iPhone sounded, the gentle strum of guitars.
Time was 6:30 P.M., half an hour to his event. “Ah, time to depart.”
Sinclair McQueen Talbot was a man who lived his life according to a preset schedule.
It was the only way to successfully balance his life.
Wait, make that lives.
Grabbing his keys and the hardcover copy of his latest novel that he’d already earmarked for reading aloud, he knew there was nothing holding him back. A night of literary pursuits awaited him, and afterwards, an altogether different kind of pursuit. As the elevator arrived on the eighteenth floor, Sinclair felt a familiar tightening in his crotch. Yes, the material was doing its job, rubbing his cock, exciting it.
He rode down the elevator with his only neighbor, Mrs. Dowd, who was nearly blind as a bat as she neared her eightieth birthday, the two of them making pleasant chatter. Fortunately she couldn’t see that he was sporting a hard-on inside his trousers. It had nothing to do with her, of course.
The doors opened into an ornate lobby filled with beautifully appointed antiques.
And a doorman of dark, swarthy good looks. Today looked like he’d forgotten to shave, as a thick, sexy, five o’clock shadow coated his cheeks.
“Cab, sir?”
“Thank you, Ferro,” Sinclair said, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. He could feel solid muscle beneath the uniform and as always, wondered what the man looked like naked, what he liked to do in his spare time, and whether he enjoyed having wild, hungry sex with men. Propriety forbad tenants from asking too many personal questions of the building’s employees.
“Always, my pleasure.”
One day it would be nice if that were true.
