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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2014
Copyright © Corinna Rogers 2014
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Corinna Rogers asserts the moral right
to be identified as the author of this work.
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available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the authorâs imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © September 2014
ISBN: 9780007568772
Version 2014-08-29
Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.
Ice creeps up the window, spider-webbing out to cover the glass pane completely. Shane watches it, amused, because itâs better than watching the ceiling, waiting for the knock on his door. The TV is on, some shitty program about parenthood and people who shouldnât be allowed within five hundred yards of it, and for a second itâs a struggle to remember why he shouldnât just throw it out the window.
The knock is tentative at first, soft, and that pisses him off. âGet in here.â
The man who enters is tall, just over six feet, and broadly muscled, enough that heâd be able to toss the TV out the window with one hand and little effort. Heâs got an open, honest face, smooth and darker-skinned than Shane, whether from his motherâs Portuguese heritage or his own tendency to forget about sunscreen whenever he leaves the house. His hair falls in dark-brown waves to the top of his back, accenting the strength in his chin, his straight nose, his rough, capable hands. Thereâs a hint of beauty about him, for all that he looks like he could be hit by a truck and apologize for denting the fender, accenting his cheekbones, his eyelashes, the little dip below his collarbone that Shane knows so well.
It doesnât matter how many times the man comes here. It never stops making Shaneâs heart ache. âI like those jeans. They make your ass look fantastic.â
âI was hoping youâd like them.â
That voice â god. It sends ripples up his spine, and Shane lets his legs spread a bit, leaning back against the headboard. He almost slips up, almost says, I miss you, but thatâs too much. âWant your mouth,â he says instead, and the other man nods, shutting the door behind him as he kneels on the bed between Shaneâs legs, hands sliding up his thighs.
Want to kiss you. It hurts, how much Shane wants to kiss him, but thatâs not part of the rules. Instead, he flicks open his own jeans one-handed, pulling himself out, already hard. âFor such a big guy, youâve got such a pretty mouth,â he croons, twisting a hand in the manâs hair. âPut it to good use. Donât flinch, youâve been wanting this all day, havenât you?â
The man licks his lips, swallows hard, but nods. âYeah. All day. Can I?â
Shaneâs hips twitch up at that question. Itâs so genuine, so wanting, for all that he knows it isnât. âGo on. See if you can take it all this time.â
No matter how many times theyâve done this, it always feels like fucking heaven, the first swipe of that hot wet tongue over his cock. âFuck, Drake. Such a good cocksucker. Good boy.â
The praise spurs the man on, sliding his lips over the head of Shaneâs cock, moaning softly as he stretches his lips wide to take it all, inch by thick, hard inch.
Itâs the little details that make this so good. Itâs the drag of his tongue over the head of his cock, sure, but itâs also the way Drakeâs eyelashes flutter, the way his hands splay out on Shaneâs thighs, the little noises he makes when Shane bucks up into the soft wet heat, making him gag.
âGo on, baby, take it. Thatâs what youâre here for, right? You didnât come here just to see my pretty face.â