[Siren Sensations ManLove: Erotic Romance, Alternative, Consensual BDSM, Bondage, Sex Toys, Spanking, MM, HEA]
Time Out of Mind
Doyle Turner’s a psychologist specializing in addiction recovery and is a professional sober companion. He’s also a recovering alcoholic with over twenty years of sobriety under his belt. And he’s a Dom in his personal life, which he hasn’t had much of lately.
Mevi Maynard not only tests Doyle’s infinite patience, the handsome rock star is testing his self-control, too. Mevi Maynard’s rock-bottom crash follows the discovery that his manager stole his fortune. Now, Mevi’s fresh out of rehab. But if he doesn’t want to file bankruptcy, he has to stay sober for the new tour, or he’s out of the band. But what he can’t admit to Doyle—and has never admitted to anyone—is that he’s gay.
One patient Dom. One stubborn rock star. Both are really stupid men, according to their friend Tilly. Can she help the men get out of their own way and see the light, and their love for each other, before it’s too late?
Following a humiliating breakup with his abusive ex and business partner, Wylie sells his software company and moves to Florida. He’s determined to be self-sufficient and turn his run-down homestead around.
There’s only one slight problem: he has absolutely no clue what he’s doing. He’s in way over his head.
Everett’s a skilled artisan metalworker exploring his kinky side. He never went to college, but he’s good at what he does, even if he doesn’t earn much working Ren Fair circuits. Enter a job offer from Leo, which solves one of his problems.
When the Viking blacksmith and the computer geek meet over a welding job, sparks fly. Literally. Egos clash between the two fish out of water while their intense chemistry draws them together. With love and sex as hot as Everett’s forge, the two men fall hard.
Then, Wylie’s ex tries to blackmail him into moving back to California. Is Wylie’s spine tempered steel? Or will Everett lose his first true love?
Tymber Dalton is a Siren-exclusive author.
Time Out of Mind
Doyle glanced at Mevi. He didn’t have enough info yet to process how to deal with him. A raised finger? A touch of the hand on the shoulder?
A stern look and arched eyebrow?
Somehow, he suspected a kind and gentle approach would be totally ineffective at the start, and would let Mevi think he could steamroll him.
Figuring out their dynamic’s workings would be one of Doyle’s first tasks over the next twenty-four hours. That was crucial to him establishing the hierarchy with the client. Feeling them out and figuring out what role he needed to be—outside of their sober companion—to get them to be the most responsive in positive ways. It also depended on the contract. Sometimes he was as much a babysitter as he was a companion. Sometimes, all he could do was sit back and try to provide a voice of reason and conscience to his client.
Fortunately, he’d yet to have a client relapse while under his care like this, although there’d been a few close calls.
And sometimes his dynamic with his client fluctuated, evolved, depending on how long he spent with them and how well they handled their sobriety. Sixty days out, Mevi might not be white-knuckling it too badly right now, despite his apparently irritated condition.
Following final handshakes, Doyle rounded the SUV to get in after fishing his car charger and sound patch cable out of his laptop bag. After driving Clark home, Landry would take Doyle’s car back to their condo.
Doyle settled into the driver’s seat and started to adjust it, the steering wheel, and mirrors, and then went about plugging his phone into the center console and setting it up for the sound system.
All the while, he didn’t so much as acknowledge Mevi, whom he sensed first watching, then staring at him.
Apparently, Mevi was a man not used to being ignored.
Then I’ll keep doing that until I find his breakthrough point. Or his breaking point. Either one.
* * * *
Mevi couldn’t help but watch the guy. He wasn’t used to people not at the very least deferring to him. Not that he expected them to, but after nearly twenty years in the industry, when someone didn’t do it, it always stood out.
Not necessarily in a bad way. It wasn’t like Doyle was being rude.
Even at the rehab center, people he met there, including staff, made pleasant comments about his music.
Maybe he doesn’t know who I am?
Clark and the other guy had already left, and yet there they still sat, the guy doing something on his damn phone. Finally, after about five minutes of that, Mevi had enough.
“What are you doing? Are we just gonna sit here all night?”
The guy didn’t even look up. He held up one finger and kept going through his phone. Finally, after another couple of minutes, he lowered his finger but didn’t look up from the phone.
“Rule one—driver controls the music. I might ask you your opinion, but I get the final say.”
Mevi wasn’t sure he’d heard him right. “What?”
The guy’s head didn’t move, but his gaze swiveled toward Mevi. “Did you not hear me, or not understand me?”
“What kind of asshole are you?”
Now Doyle shifted his head up, his dark brown gaze boring deep into Mevi. Instead of getting riled up, the guy actually seemed to downshift into a smoother, calmer, stronger gear.
“Rule number two—no insults. We’re adults. Act like one.”
Even the guy’s tone…it didn’t come off snippy. He couldn’t describe it.
Doyle’s focus returned to his phone. “You’re good-looking, but you’re a client, so that’s a hard no, sorry. I don’t sleep with clients. Rule three—you do what I say, when I say it. You need me a lot more than I need you. I’m not an asshole unless you treat me like one, and the first few days between us will be rocky enough anyway, I’m sure. But my job is to get you to Chicago, and help you stay sober, and that’s what’s going to happen if you want to pull your assets out of the fire.”
Doyle’s answer to Mevi’s off-the-cuff insult had caught him off-guard. This guy was an experienced addiction counselor and sober companion? This guy acted nothing like any of the counselors he’d had in rehab.
“You’re not dragging my ass to any twelve-step meetings.”
“As long as you do what I say, that won’t be necessary.”
He’d honestly expected a different answer than that despite what Clark had assured him. “Um…okay. Good.”
Doyle met his gaze again. “You’re probably not going to like this, but we’re dyeing your hair ASAP. Can’t hide that.”
Mevi dodged the statement. It’d been a couple of months since he’d been to a stylist, and his roots were long and obvious. “Where are we going?”
“I don’t know if there’s another one, but yes, Florida.”
“And we’re driving? Seriously?”
“I’m driving. Seriously.”
“Why aren’t we flying?”
Doyle smiled. “Because either you’re going to like or hate me at the end of this road trip. I don’t care which one, to be honest, but you can’t escape me. Driving will keep the paparazzi off our tails. And I happen to be a sadist.”
He hit a button on the phone before tucking it away in the center console and closing the cover.
The opening bars of the overture “Work Song” from Les Mis streamed through the speakers.
Incredulous, Mevi stared at the guy. “Seriously?” Although Mevi would give the guy points for being ballsy.
Doyle grinned as he buckled his seat belt. “I warned you, I am a sadist. Besides, I love this show. And I’m a fan of irony.”
* * * *
But mostly, Doyle was a sadist, even if the guy wouldn’t know he meant it literally, not metaphorically.
He was glad Mevi had immediately recognized the music. That meant they’d be listening to a lot of show tune albums over the next couple of days. Stuff they could either talk over, bond over, or ignore each other over. He had a lot more on his iPod, but hadn’t felt like digging that out of his suitcase tonight.
Working in his office or alone at home, he was usually doing something else he needed to focus on and couldn’t actually listen to the lyrics. In a car, driving, he loved music that told a story.
Hence show tunes.
As Doyle headed east, Mevi stared out the passenger window. “Where are we stopping?”
“That’s a shit-hole.”
“You’re not staying at the Ritz now,” Doyle told him. “We’re laying low. Hopefully there’s some place open between here and there I can get you some hair dye tonight. What color are you naturally?”
He didn’t answer at first.
Doyle waited him out even as Jean Valjean and Javert verbally duked it out through the speakers.
“Brown,” Mevi muttered, pulling the hood of his jacket back and taking off his hat.
In the dim light from the instrument cluster and passing street lamps outside, Doyle saw the guy’s roots providing a dramatic contrast to the rest of his hair.
Personally, Doyle thought the silver color made the guy look years older and it wasn’t even slightly flattering, but it was a style he’d had for years, his trademark. “Might have to go darker than that to get the color out. Would probably be easier if we cut your hair first.” Mevi’s hair was usually somewhat longer than it currently was anyway. At least, it always was in the promo shots and videos he’d seen of the guy. Short, dark hair would make the guy nearly unrecognizable.
“Fine. Whatever.” Mevi turned to the window again.
Doyle mentally revised his plan. He’d get a hotel room for them first, then go out. If he couldn’t find any place open, he’d go out in the morning and they’d do it before they got on the road again. He wanted a good look at the guy in decent lighting before dyeing his hair.
This was something he’d had to do a couple of times with other clients to help disguise them when they’d needed to stay hidden for a few weeks instead of being on a shoot. With an actor, it didn’t matter as long as a wig was being used for shooting. Sometimes, with female clients, he did get them a wig to wear until they were someplace he didn’t have to worry about them being recognized.
Photogs were too good at spotting celebs with sunglasses, hats, and hoodies.
You had to physically change someone’s appearance. Hair was the easiest way to do that.
They rode without talking as Doyle started singing along with the soundtrack. He’d seen the musical a couple of times in traveling productions, never on Broadway. And he had the movie on DVD.
* * * *
If anyone else had told this story to Mevi, he’d be laughing his ass off about now, and he damn well knew it.
But…this was his life.
Doyle didn’t have the best voice in the world, but he’d probably be a top contender at any average karaoke night. And bonus points for knowing all the words and apparently giving zero fucks what Mevi thought of his singing chops.
Grudgingly, Mevi found himself tapping his hand against his thigh in time with the music and even softly singing along with some of the songs. As the Pacific coast drew farther away behind them, he wondered exactly where this road trip would lead.
Or where his recovery path would lead.
He knew he was fucked if he didn’t pull it together. That pissed him off most of all, that somewhere along the way, he’d left his resolve, his will, in the dust.
Like he didn’t even give a shit.
That wasn’t him.
That was nothing like him.
But who was he, really?
He damn sure wasn’t the guy his fans thought he was. Would they even like him if they knew the real him after all the years he spent putting on a fake image for them? Would they still listen to his music?
Would the others in the band be punished professionally for him misleading his fans?
He’d feel horrible if that happened, and was yet another reason for his silence. Collateral damage wasn’t something he wanted on his conscience.
He settled in for the ride, since right now, that was all he could do.
Doyle turned to Mevi.
He looked hopeful.
Doyle pulled him in for a kiss. “Are you sure you want this? Me?”
Doyle ran a hand through Mevi’s hair. “No more of that stupid silver dye.”
Mevi smiled. “Yes, Sir.”
“And I don’t like long hair. No longer than this. Okay?”
Doyle sighed. “And you can always say no, or ask for a modification, or safeword.”
Mevi pressed close. “What if I don’t want to say no? What if I want Sir to decide those things?”
Doyle smiled. “Be careful what you wish for.”
* * * *
Doyle took Mevi’s hand and led him back upstairs as Mevi’s heart raced, eager to finally be with this man. The Walgreens bag had ended up on Doyle’s bed, and after sitting Mevi on the end of his bed—fully clothed—he showed Mevi what was in the bag.
Several boxes of condoms and a large bottle of lube.
He got the bottle of lube out of the box and removed the inner seal, getting it ready. Then he stood between Mevi’s legs, leaning in and kissing him, one hand on the back of Mevi’s head and the other grabbing Mevi’s hand and placing it on the front of Doyle’s slacks where his erection pressed against the zipper.
Mevi moaned at the feel of it.
“That’s going in your ass, boy,” Doyle rumbled. “And in your mouth. Although,” he quickly added, “not in that order. That’s just gross. No ass-to-mouth.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“You ever have anything in your ass before?”
Heat filled his face. “My fingers. In the shower. A couple of times, not a lot.”
“No one’s ever fucked you?”
He shook his head. “No, Sir,” he whispered.
“Good.” He stepped back and dug something out of his toybag.
A butt plug.
Doyle smiled as he held it up. “It’s a fairly small one, don’t worry. Ironically, yours is the first male ass it’ll have ever been inside. That’s sort of fitting, huh?”
Mevi smiled. “Yes, Sir.”
He’d also dug a small coil of rope out of his bag. “Something hurts in a bad way, you safeword immediately. Understand?”
Doyle shoved him back onto the bed and straddled him, pinning his hands over his head.
Mevi nearly came from how his own cock ground against Doyle through their slacks.
“Don’t you dare come yet, boy,” Doyle ordered. “Stay.”
Mevi kept his hands where Doyle put them while Doyle reached down and started unbuttoning Mevi’s shirt. Once he had it open, he tugged it out of his slacks and pulled it off over his head, dropping it to the floor. Then he proceeded to tie Mevi’s wrists together.
Doyle stood, smiling down at him. “Now then.” He pulled off Mevi’s shoes and socks before he started working on his belt and fly. Once Mevi lay naked before him, Doyle seemed to be feasting on him with his eyes. “When we’re alone, boy, you’re naked. Period. You ask permission to put on clothes. Understand?”
“It’s because I love looking at you, but also because I might want to bend you over and plow that gorgeous ass whenever I want.”
Mevi’s cock twitched, pre-cum pearling at the slit.
Doyle noticed. He smiled as he reached down and swiped his finger along the head, lifting it to his lips to taste.
“Mmm.” Doyle milked another drop from him, this time feeding it to him. “I have a very sweet boy,” he hoarsely said. “And yes, your cock will be getting sucked, too.”
Mevi bit down on his lower lip to keep from moaning.
“Oh, when it doesn’t matter, you better believe I want to hear your noises. Don’t you ever try to hide them when we don’t need to.” He leaned in and licked the head of Mevi’s cock.
Now he whined, desperate to hold back, not explode. “That’s the kind of noises I like.” He continued teasing Mevi, swirling his tongue around the head, flicking at the slit, licking up and down the sides of Mevi’s shaft. Then he shoved his thighs apart and tucked a towel under him.
“First, though, my boy needs his virgin ass stretched so he can take my cock. Because before we go to bed tonight, you will have had my cock in there. I’m going to claim what’s mine.”
Another word, said in that way, that threatened to make Mevi’s balls explode.
It’s all he wanted to be—belonging to him.
Doyle, still dressed, rolled a condom onto the butt plug, slathered it with lube, then added lube to his fingers and started probing Mevi’s virgin rim.
“Look at me,” Doyle ordered in that tone, the one that Mevi had fallen in love with.
His Dominant tone.
“Beg me for it.”
“Please, Sir, please fuck my ass!”
“My ass, boy. That’s my ass, my cock, my mouth. Not yours. I own you, so I own them, too.”
“Yes, Sir! Please fuck your ass!”
Doyle chuckled and leaned in to kiss him. “Okay, that does sound a little silly. I think the proper subbie syntax should be, ‘Please fuck your boy’s ass.’”
“Please fuck your boy’s ass, Sir!”
“Mmm.” One finger slipped through Mevi’s rim, drawing a long, low moan from him as Doyle slowly fucked him with it. “You beg sooo nice, boy. Be prepared to do a lot of begging in the future.” He continued to fuck him with his finger.
When he added a little more lube and started working a second finger in, that’s when Mevi whined, the pinching burn momentarily taking the edge off his need. Doyle slowly fucked him with two fingers, leaning in and occasionally sucking on Mevi’s cock as he did. As he scissored his fingers in Mevi’s ass, he swirled his tongue around the head of his cock.
No wonder sex had never been a big deal to him. It’d never been this good. Sex with Bonnie had mostly been a way to sleep in bed with her and not be alone. An excuse to cuddle all night just to have human contact. He couldn’t even count how many times he’d faked it with her, since they always used a condom for intercourse. A quick withdrawal and trip to the bathroom to dispose of it and she was none the wiser.
Sometimes she’d been able to get him over sucking him off, but only if he fantasized about guys while she did.
Both Doyle’s mouth and fingers disappeared. Mevi lifted his head to look. Doyle took the butt plug and pressed the tip of it against his rim, gently pushing. As he slowly started fucking it into Mevi’s ass, Doyle arched an eyebrow at him. “Push against it, just a little.”
He did, gasping when it suddenly slid into place. It wasn’t a bad feeling, it was just…different.
He couldn’t wait until it was Doyle’s cock.
“Good boy.” Doyle stood and walked into the bathroom. Mevi heard water running, and he returned a moment later. Then he started unbuttoning his shirt. “We’re going to start the evening with you over my lap and getting a spanking, because I want to make that sweet ass of yours nice and red before I fuck you.”
“Wylie? I’m Everett. Leo sent me to weld the mower deck.”
“Yeah.” He pointed to a barn set off behind the house. “It’s out there, you’ll see it. I’ll follow you.”
Everett held up a hand and continued on, hitting the button to roll the window up again. The guy was cute. Brown hair, brown eyes, slim. Maybe a little older than him, but no twink and definitely not a bear.
Stop it. He’s probably straight.
Doesn’t mean you can’t look, his dick helpfully replied.
He saw the mower deck setting in the grass and pulled up next to it. He was already out and examining it by the time Wylie limped up. Now Everett could see the guy was definitely shorter than him, maybe five eight, if that, although the way he was stooped over, it was hard to tell. No wedding rings, either, although that meant absolutely nothing.
He shook with Everett. “Wylie Young. Thanks for coming so quickly.”
Everett bit back the joke struggling to get free. Friend of a friend or not, this was a client, and he needed to act professional. “Everett Cannon. Not a problem. This bracket here, I take it?”
Wylie slowly nodded. The guy looked like he was in misery.
“Are you all right?”
“Just…” Wylie let out a pained laugh. “Sorry. Been a rough couple of days and I’m trying to get settled in. I trust Tilly, and she referred me to Leo. If you can fix it, whatever needs to be done, I’ll gladly pay and greatly appreciate it.”
Everett glanced out at the field adjoining the barn. It looked like a drunk toddler had tried to mow. “Need it to keep this place up, huh?”
* * * *
If Wylie hadn’t been in so much pain, he might be able to better appreciate the guy’s gorgeous blue-green eyes, his blond hair, or his delicious ass. Perfect body type for him, except for how damn scruffy he looked. At least six one and with strong, broad shoulders. Wylie wondered what the guy would look like without the long beard and mustache, and with his hair cut neat and short.
Probably a totally fuckable Top, on a scale of one to ten.
Mark chose that moment to walk up, of course. “You here to weld the deck?”
Everett nodded, smiling. “Are you his son?”
Mark snorted. “Nah. Neighbor. Live across the road. Those are my dad’s cattle.” He pointed to the eastern pasture. “I’m helping the greenhorn out.” Mark shot Wylie a playful grin. He knew he couldn’t be mad at the kid even though the friendly jab had dug deep into his pride. “Mr. M, the former owner, he had to fix the other bracket a couple of years ago.” He pointed it out to Everett.
“I saw that. Looks like it’s holding okay.”
“I was getting him used to pulling the mower deck when it popped yesterday.”
Wylie spotted the gears turning in Everett’s head as his expression changed, carefully schooled. “You’re teaching him how to use it?”
“Yeah. He just moved here Sunday. Don’t know nothing yet. I helped the former owner out. Mr. M. Died a few months back.” The kid looked sad, like he was blinking back tears before he sniffled. “I’m going to take care of the livestock. If you have any questions, I’ll be here for about twenty minutes before I need to catch the bus.” He headed off to the barn.
When Everett’s gaze fell on him, a battle between sexual heat and deep shame rolled through Wylie. The guy was probably straight, and probably fully capable of taking care of whatever happened in his life. Guys as hot as him usually were the full package.
“I-I’m the n-new owner,” Wylie found himself blabbering.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” The guy walked back to his work truck, where he started getting stuff out and preparing to do the job.
“What’d your wife say about the move?”
Wylie wasn’t stupid. No way in hell was he going to assume the guy was gay and feeling him out, although were he at a bar, that’s exactly what he’d think. “Recently single, but never married.”
“So how’d you end up in Florida?”
“Friends of mine live in the area. I decided to sell out my share of the software company I started and retire early. Wanted to homestead. Be independent.” Wylie tamped back his growing defensiveness. He didn’t want to piss this guy off, especially since Tilly had given him their number.
Guy gave him a little fair enough kind of shrug before he started doing… Wylie wasn’t sure exactly what he was doing, and standing there and uselessly watching him suddenly felt very uncomfortable in a way he couldn’t identify. He couldn’t make small talk with him, he didn’t want to ask a thousand stupid questions, and he knew he could put his time to better use helping Mark and maybe learning something from the teen.
“I’ll be around the barn if you need me.”
Everett removed the blindfold from Wylie and dropped it back into the bag. “Look at me.”
Wylie’s eyes fluttered opened and stared into his.
He caressed Wylie’s cheek with his fingertips, pausing over his lips. A thousand fantasies, dirty and sweet, all rolled through Everett’s mind at once and what he settled on was leaning in to kiss him again, sucking on his lower lip before coming up for air once more.
“Feed me a strawberry,” Everett ordered.
Wylie had to pull his gaze from Everett’s to see where he was reaching, but he managed to get the strawberry and dredge it through the chocolate sauce and up to Everett’s lips.
Wylie’s hands trembled.
“Feed me from your lips.”
Wylie’s chest rose and fell as he opened his mouth and put the tip of the berry between his teeth. Everett leaned in, taking it from him, enjoying the soft moans the other man made as he swiped his tongue over Wylie’s lips to get every last bit of chocolate.
“Again,” Everett said, his voice hoarse.
He could do this all night with him. Had he loved Lara? Yes, but he’d never felt this depth of passion or level of intimacy with her as he already did with Wylie.
That saddened him, that his denials had deprived both of them this kind of relationship before now.
Then again, maybe he couldn’t have handled someone like Wylie back then.
Wylie couldn’t mask the way his hand shook as he took another strawberry, this time holding it halfway between his teeth instead of just a little bit.
Everett cupped his hand behind Wylie’s neck and held him in place as he leaned in to take it, another long, deep sucking kiss following. Then he laid back, bringing the other man with him, on top of him. Wylie rolled completely onto his front and kissed him, hard, straddling Everett’s right thigh and grinding his bulge against him.
With a fistful of Wylie’s hair, Everett held him in place and savored him, refusing to be rushed, his other hand sliding down Wylie’s back and into the waistband of his briefs to cup his ass, kneading it and making Wylie moan as they kissed.
Rolling them over so Everett was on top, he braced his arms on either side of Wylie’s head and stared down at him. A light dusting of brown hair across his chest led to a treasure trail down past his belt buckle.
Everett lowered his head and licked a path from Wylie’s chin down his neck and over his chest to the man’s left nipple. Flicking it with his tongue, gently teasing and testing with his teeth, nipping, biting until he got the level of gasps and moans he wanted before moving to Wylie’s right nipple and repeating it. When Wylie wrapped his arms around him, Everett lifted his mouth from his nipple.
“Hands over your head.”
A soft whine in response, but Wylie complied. Everett changed position to hold onto the man’s wrists, pinning him in place as he slowly tormented him.
He only got one first time with Wylie, one first time with a man.
He refused to rush.
Eventually, he kissed and licked his way down the treasure trail until he reached Wylie’s belt. Sitting up, he stared down at him, their gazes locked as Everett unfastened Wylie’s belt and worked on his fly. The man’s hard cock pressed against the front of his jeans, springing free when he pulled his briefs down.
Everett started tugging his jeans off him, and when Wylie tried to help, Everett lightly slapped the outside of his thigh. “Stop. Hold still.”
Another soft whine in response, but Wylie fell still and let Everett do it.
His own cock was screaming and there was very likely a huge wet spot on the front of his briefs. He didn’t care. He wanted to do this his way, and once his own shorts came off, his cock would be quickly buried inside this gorgeous man’s body.
Once Everett had him stripped, he spread Wylie’s legs and started kissing a hot path along his inner thighs, from his left knee up, skipping his cock and balls, and down his inner right thigh. On his way up again, he paused at the man’s sac, breathing on him, staring up his body at the nearly mindless need painted on the other man’s face. Wylie trimmed, but still had bush.
“I want my boy shaved,” he said, brushing his nose along the man’s down. “One of your jobs will be helping me shave down there, too.”
He flicked his tongue out, a tease, along the bottom of Wylie’s sac. He could smell him, warm and musky and vaguely of soap, like he’d showered right before his errands. From the slit at the tip of his cut eight-inch cock a clear drop of pre-cum had pearled and slowly rolled down his glans.
“Do not come until I give you permission, boy,” he said.
With that, he reached out and held Wylie’s cock as he slowly licked his way up the underside from base to head.