Complexity (A Kinky Connection Chronicles novella) by @AuthorHarpMill Release Day Blitz & #giveaway @CreativMindsPR

TITLE: Complexity 

SERIES: Kinky Connect Chronicles 

AUTHOR: Harper Miller 

COVER ARTIST: Taria Reed Digital Artist 

LENGTH: 140 Pages 

RELEASE DATE: July 8, 2016 

BLURB: Fairy tale endings weren’t made for people like me. Happy for now usually ain’t in the cards, either.

The dents on my wall from where my headboard kept knockin’ against the same spot was the first clue that I needed to calm my ass down. At the rate I was racking up notches and plowing through hookups, I wasn’t ever gonna find nothing real. Guess I kinda jinxed myself. I created my circumstances. You can’t get what you want if you keep falling back into the same pattern of bad habits. But then things changed. I stumbled onto somethin’ I never in a million years expected to happen. You gotta understand, I’m never the guy who wins. It was supposed to be just sex, but that shifty, rhyming and scheming bastard, Cupid, pulled a fast one.

I may have changed some stuff to protect a couple of people. But before you go believing the tabloids, make sure you understand that you’re gettin’ the lowdown straight from the source.

I needed to get this off my chest and it’s only fair that you at least get my side of it all. At some point, I might regret telling you any of this, but for now, you need to know.

*Disclaimer* This is a novella. Not a short story, novelette, or novel. This tale features an M/M pairing. If gay erotica/erotic romance is not your cup of tea and you are offended by same-sex relationships or crass language, you should bypass this story. Content is intended for a mature audience, 18+.

Complexity is the fourth installment in The Kinky Connect Chronicles. The Kinky Connect Chronicles are short erotic stories/novelettes all wrapped up in neat little bows. These stories are standalones. No cliffhangers in the lot!

 

Here I am, trying to put myself into a box, and it pisses me off. Why does it have to be either-or? Why do I need to put a label on who I am? I know how I feel. I still enjoy women, but when I’m with him, I . . . I don’t want anyone else. No other women, no other men. Just him.

I crave him. Seeing him with Armand shouldn’t have rattled me, but it did.

It was a just another Wednesday on set. Those early starts made waking up a bitch. Filming wasn’t scheduled to begin until nine, but I wasn’t there for that anyway. I was hired to put the film’s star through hell. The good thing about a six a.m. private training session is that I could get my daily workout in and get paid for it. I beat my own ass that day in a grueling shoulder, chest, and ab workout, and still had time for a decent shower before I headed back to my studio and my other clients. I took my time getting changed, luxuriating in a trailer that was doper than most of the hotels I’d been in. My mini-vacation was over, so I headed to grab something from Craft Services before I made my way across town when I saw him hanging out with the crew laughing and shooting the shit. No biggie. He was a friendly guy, but what bothered me was the full-on flirt session he was having with the costume designer.

I shouldn’t have felt threatened, but I was. I had no right to be. We weren’t an item, but this old queen had me feeling territorial. Everybody on set knew Armand. Even though he had about twenty years on me, he was a head-turner even without his flamboyance. Armand wrapped his willowy body in a pair of pinstriped black pants and a light gray button-down that had like three buttons undone, exposing a whorl of chest hair. Despite being old as fuck, he was still a good-lookin’ dude. He looked like a shape-shifting cartoon villain with his tightly coiffed hair streaked with silver, soul-stealing hazel eyes, and a nose so sharp he put me in mind of a bird of prey. I half expected Armand to take flight in the middle of all his overexaggerated hand-talking.

A frown formed on my face as I watched Armand sidle up and paw all over him and even go so far as to brush wet hair from his face. I wanted to slug the guy for touching what was mine, but that’s the thing: He wasn’t mine. I had no say in who flirted with him. I had no say in who touched him. I wanted to think it didn’t mean anything, since Armand had a hard-on for anything attractive with a cock, but seeing him get groped like that, even playfully, made me wanna deliver a beatdown. Weren’t there sexual harassment laws in place to prevent that type of shit? No part of costume designing was involved in what was happening.

I was almost willing to overlook it and quit being paranoid. But when our gazes met, it was like he was tryna make me jealous with this Armand shit. There were tons of people around—there’s always somebody lurking who makes it their business to be in everybody’s business—so it wasn’t like I was about to flirt and say some inappropriate shit around all those nosy motherfuckers. I knew better than to fraternize like that in public, but I wondered if he was testing me to see how I would react. Why bother tryna make me jealous? We were nothing to each other but distractions. Sexual distractions.

Right. This . . . whatever it is . . . ain’t nothin’ but a sexual distraction. Maybe if I say that shit enough, I might actually believe it.

So much has changed in six months. We’ve grown closer, more—I don’t know—intimate? Does that even make sense? And now . . . now, my feelings are coming to a head. Heh, head. What I wouldn’t give right now to feel his lips wrapped around my dick. I miss his mouth milking me dry, like my seed was some sort of prize and he was desperate to win top honors.

We both fooled ourselves into believing we could have sex and nothin’ but bomb-ass orgasms would come from it. “Fuck buddies” sounds like a cool arrangement, right? Wrong.

What makes this not just a friends-with-benefits deal is that neither of us ever addressed the 800-pound gorilla in the room: exclusivity. We never talked about it, never brought it up. Whenever one of us headed in that direction, the other found a detour.

He didn’t know it then, and probably doesn’t know it now, but I haven’t hooked up with anyone else since we started fucking. I mean, he might have figured that out. When I wasn’t working or spending time with friends and family, I was with him. There wasn’t time for me to fool around with other people even if I wanted to. But the thing is, I didn’t want to. I wanted to spend whatever free time I had with him. He never asked me outright if I was seeing anyone else, but I think he’d wanna know if I was, right? Well, my guess is he would wanna know. I dunno.

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Harper Miller is a thirty-something native New Yorker. She's traveled the world and lived in a variety of places but always finds her way back to the Big Apple. A lackluster love life leaves time to explore new interests, for Harper it is writing. The Sweetest Taboo: An Unconventional Romance is her debut novel. In her mind, the perfect Alpha male possesses intellect, humor, and a kinky streak that rivals the size of California.

When she isn't writing, Harper utilizes her graduate degree in the field of medical research. She enjoys fitness-related activities, drinking copious amounts of wine and going on bad dates.

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