Frank Sinclair believes only in the visceral, the real, what he can touch and taste. After all, his mother left him when he was five years old, so how can love exist? His next sexual conquest is what makes his world go around, not romance and happily ever after. The hot guy he sees working along the highway in an orange jumpsuit fuels his bad-boy fantasies. Coincidentally, the guy shows up at the gas station across the street from his apartment building, and you can bet he’s going to take his shot.Roy Ingalls is his bad boy parolee in orange, and he’s ready and oh-so-willing to be Frank’s next conquest. But Roy isn’t quite the bad boy he seems—deep down he’s sweet, naïve… and the most intoxicating man Frank has ever met.
The sex is the best of their lives, but can a man who mistrusts love and another who isn’t ready to admit he’s actually gay ever move beyond friends with benefits?
Buy links: Dreamspinner | Amazon US
Cat gives this one 4 Meows with a 4 Purr heat index...
Frank is the main character that I thought I wouldn't like. He is pretty full of himself, though he says he isn't conceited. He only does one night stands or a .f...buddy. First sign the other man is getting too close he sends them packing. He was brought up that everyone leaves you. His dad was a Casanova and he wasn't taught any better. he was just following in his father's footsteps. Love em and leave em was his Motto. BUT, once I read about his dad and why he had the views he had...I liked Frank. By the end of the story, I was in love with him. Roy, I fell for right away. probably from the first description of him on the roadside. that was quite hot.
I thought this story was pretty unique and had some unusual characters. I did missed the humor that usually is in B.G. Thomas stories but I still loved it.
The story starts out with quite a bit of sex and I felt some stuff was a bit repetitive, whole lines or even paragraphs, But I liked the story enough to not let it bother me. There are lots of fun quirky characters and a few shocking surprises. I hope to see Wilbur's story as well as Roy's friend from jail.
If you like stories of finding yourself, coming out, woodworking, and some hot man-sex this is for you.
Excerpt...
CHAPTER ONE
“HEY,” FRANK Sinclair said to the stranger. “You want a blowjob?”
And then he waited for the answer.
Everything would depend on the next few seconds. There would be either a smile or a snarl, and sitting there in his red Mazda MX-5 Miata, Frank’s left foot was on the brake and his right hovered over the gas in case he got a hostile answer.
Thing was, though, a surprising number of men said yes. Even the straight ones. Odds were, most of them would be straight. Statistics said nine out of ten. Yet still he got to give those blowjobs.
Frank figured his good luck hinged a lot on the fact that he was not only good-looking but well-built and masculine also. He’d always been able to fit in anywhere he went. Be “one of the guys.” This was not conceit on his part, and he thought it was ridiculous, stupid even, when an attractive person pretended they were unaware of their looks. Knowing you were good-looking and being conceited about it were two entirely different things.
Come on, say yes, he beamed to the hottie standing there.
Wait.
Waiting….
The man stared back at him, mouth agape, clearly taken by surprise.
He was hot. Fuck, he was hot. Both figuratively and literally.
Figuratively because the guy was a stud—younger than Frank by five or more years, muscular, with a mop of brown hair, a thick, almost-wild beard, and huge—simply huge—blue eyes. He was wearing nothing but a thin-strapped tank top and bright Lycra biker shorts so revealing he might as well have been naked. Frank could clearly see the length of the guy’s penis, the flared head, and two significantly sized balls nestled beneath, one a little lower than the other.
And literally because it was in the upper 90s today, as it had been for unrelenting weeks, and the man was sweaty, hair stuck to his forehead, the wide-open sides of his tank top dark with perspiration. Frank thought if he stuck his head out the window, which at this point he dared not do, he could smell the man, and he knew it would be a good smell. Not acrid or nasty, but all man. That’s what his imagination was conjuring up, at least.
All of which was the first (no, second) reason Frank had made his blatant offer.
Of course, it certainly wasn’t the first time he’d proffered such an unashamed solicitation, and it certainly would not be the last. Coming on to strangers, especially those as hot as this, was one of his two fetishes, and one he’d been able to fulfill many times.
God, this guy was hot. Even better up close. Frank liked what he saw, and he wanted to see more, even though the man’s shorts were so revealing. Frank was from Missouri, after all, the Show-Me State, and Show Me was his motto.
A quick glance (and it had to be quick because he didn’t want to take his eyes off the guy’s face for long) down past the bulge in those shorts revealed muscular, hairy legs and big feet, the latter encased in tennis shoes, sans socks. Certainly not those fruity ankle socks with the little pompoms on the back that Frank would forever associate with the kind the high school cheerleaders used to wear. On a girl they were fine, if not a bit silly. But on a man? The thought practically turned Frank’s stomach.
Anyway, the guy’s whole outfit, what there was of it, was a wet dream come true—
(although not as hot as the man had looked in orange)
—and Frank found he was holding his breath in anticipation.
Say yes. Say yes. Say yes!
Frank had been parking his car in front of his apartment building—a virtual miracle that the space had been open and he hadn’t had to park in the lot around back—when he’d spotted the man in the bright (and very tight) shorts at the gas station kitty-corner across the street. Even from that distance, he could see the guy was built. And since Frank had been horny all day, his balls actually heavy with need, he impulsively drove over to see if the guy was as hot up close as he was from across the street.
To Frank’s great surprise, the guy was the “man in orange.”
He’d been so surprised he had simply stared for a moment, his come-on unsaid. Holy shit! Not only was this guy a jerk-off fantasy, but he was the man to whose image Frank had already jerked off to more than once.
Better and better.
God, who would have believed it? Frank’s cock had started to harden the second his lewd offer had sprung from his lips.
But now? Now he was steel hard and throbbing in his jeans. What would the dude say? It had taken him a moment to realize that this man was that man. His hair had been very short the first time he’d seen it. Marine cut. And his beard shorter. Much shorter.
But God, it was him.
They locked eyes. Those eyes! Bordering on unreal. Almost like eyes from some character in one of those Japanese cartoon movies everyone was so crazy about.
The man swallowed. So hard his Adam’s apple bobbed. And…
This is it!
“O-okay,” he said quietly.
Yes! Christ, Frank couldn’t believe his fucking luck.
Wait….
Was the guy blushing? Adorable.
The guy trembled. Looked around nervously. Licked his lips. Changing his mind?
Don’t let him change his mind.
“I live right across the street,” Frank said quickly.
“You do?” Dude asked, voice cracking.
Frank nodded and finally took his foot from its position above the gas. The guy wasn’t going to punch him. “I was parking my car and saw you.”
“From across the street?”
Frank nodded again. “Yeah. And you were so fucking hot, I had to ask.”
“You thought I was hot from over there?” Dude’s Adam’s apple bobbed again.
“Fuck yes,” Frank said, his voice almost a growl.
Dude’s eyes flashed. “Let’s do it.”
THE FIRST time Frank saw him, the man was walking in the grass alongside the road.
He was wearing orange.
The traffic was crawling along I-70. Frank had taken the top of his Mazda down so he could enjoy the breeze through his thick, wavy hair and the skin on his bare chest. He was wearing his jeans shorts—the ones he’d made, not those horrible nearly knee-length shorts that were popular today. He blamed those ugly things on that motherfucker Michael Jordan, who’d turned the only sexy American sports uniform into something that looked like bathing suits from the 1910s.
Frank’s shorts? They weren’t cut so high his balls would hang out, but they showed off his muscular thighs, and as hard as he worked on them, he wanted them to be seen!
But none of that made a bit of difference when the traffic came to a total stop. Or close enough. He was just thinking it was time to put the damned top up so the air conditioner would do some good when he saw the men along the side the road. The men in orange.
His friend Cody had a little fantasy. He liked UPS men. “I’ll tell you what brown can do for me!” he’d said one evening after too many cosmos.
Cody wasn’t the only one. Turned out a lot of guys thought men in those brown UPS uniforms were hot. And Frank had to admit they often were. The shorts were short, for one thing. And the men were usually fit. Their jobs involved a lot of driving but a lot of running as well. Leaping in and out of those trucks, running to a front door lugging packages of various sizes and weights, and then dashing back to their vehicle. He’d had to laugh when Cody suggested it was dirty old queens who did the hiring for UPS.
“I mean, have you seen a UPS man who isn’t hot?”
Frank had to agree. He understood the appeal of the color brown.
But for him, it was orange.
The only difference was he didn’t know anyone else who shared his interest.
Frank didn’t know what it was about those men in their orange jumpsuits. Maybe he didn’t need to. Evaluating such a thing was something Cody would do. Frank only knew those men turned him on.
And that hot day, he laid his eyes on one who put iron in his cock in about thirty seconds.
The man was around twenty-five, give or take a year. He was very fit, slim, and wide in the shoulders, and he gave the almost-shapeless orange jumpsuit a run for its money. Tight. Like he was wearing one a size too small. His beard wasn’t quite as full that day as it was today, but trim, shorter, and his hair was in a buzz cut. He was carrying a bag and a pole with a claw at the end, and he was picking up garbage. Then—as if Frank had been a remarkably good boy and Karma was rewarding him—a man in a police uniform handed the guy a bottle of water. Frank still couldn’t believe what had happened next. The man in orange—the hot man Frank was taking back to his apartment right now—opened the bottle, drank about half of it, his throat working, working, working, and then—oh Christ!—he poured the remainder over himself, tossing his head to either side as he did. It was like something out of a sexy bottled-water commercial. Time seemed to slow down as the water ran right off that buzz-cut hair. Some of it spread through his trim beard and then went flying out in a fan. The rest poured down his front over his bare, very muscular chest—his orange jumpsuit had been unzipped scandalously low—and where the water touched the edges of his garment, the fabric turned almost red.
And then—
(oh God, and then!)
—he turned his head and looked at Frank.
“HEY,” FRANK Sinclair said to the stranger. “You want a blowjob?”
And then he waited for the answer.
Everything would depend on the next few seconds. There would be either a smile or a snarl, and sitting there in his red Mazda MX-5 Miata, Frank’s left foot was on the brake and his right hovered over the gas in case he got a hostile answer.
Thing was, though, a surprising number of men said yes. Even the straight ones. Odds were, most of them would be straight. Statistics said nine out of ten. Yet still he got to give those blowjobs.
Frank figured his good luck hinged a lot on the fact that he was not only good-looking but well-built and masculine also. He’d always been able to fit in anywhere he went. Be “one of the guys.” This was not conceit on his part, and he thought it was ridiculous, stupid even, when an attractive person pretended they were unaware of their looks. Knowing you were good-looking and being conceited about it were two entirely different things.
Come on, say yes, he beamed to the hottie standing there.
Wait.
Waiting….
The man stared back at him, mouth agape, clearly taken by surprise.
He was hot. Fuck, he was hot. Both figuratively and literally.
Figuratively because the guy was a stud—younger than Frank by five or more years, muscular, with a mop of brown hair, a thick, almost-wild beard, and huge—simply huge—blue eyes. He was wearing nothing but a thin-strapped tank top and bright Lycra biker shorts so revealing he might as well have been naked. Frank could clearly see the length of the guy’s penis, the flared head, and two significantly sized balls nestled beneath, one a little lower than the other.
And literally because it was in the upper 90s today, as it had been for unrelenting weeks, and the man was sweaty, hair stuck to his forehead, the wide-open sides of his tank top dark with perspiration. Frank thought if he stuck his head out the window, which at this point he dared not do, he could smell the man, and he knew it would be a good smell. Not acrid or nasty, but all man. That’s what his imagination was conjuring up, at least.
All of which was the first (no, second) reason Frank had made his blatant offer.
Of course, it certainly wasn’t the first time he’d proffered such an unashamed solicitation, and it certainly would not be the last. Coming on to strangers, especially those as hot as this, was one of his two fetishes, and one he’d been able to fulfill many times.
God, this guy was hot. Even better up close. Frank liked what he saw, and he wanted to see more, even though the man’s shorts were so revealing. Frank was from Missouri, after all, the Show-Me State, and Show Me was his motto.
A quick glance (and it had to be quick because he didn’t want to take his eyes off the guy’s face for long) down past the bulge in those shorts revealed muscular, hairy legs and big feet, the latter encased in tennis shoes, sans socks. Certainly not those fruity ankle socks with the little pompoms on the back that Frank would forever associate with the kind the high school cheerleaders used to wear. On a girl they were fine, if not a bit silly. But on a man? The thought practically turned Frank’s stomach.
Anyway, the guy’s whole outfit, what there was of it, was a wet dream come true—
(although not as hot as the man had looked in orange)
—and Frank found he was holding his breath in anticipation.
Say yes. Say yes. Say yes!
Frank had been parking his car in front of his apartment building—a virtual miracle that the space had been open and he hadn’t had to park in the lot around back—when he’d spotted the man in the bright (and very tight) shorts at the gas station kitty-corner across the street. Even from that distance, he could see the guy was built. And since Frank had been horny all day, his balls actually heavy with need, he impulsively drove over to see if the guy was as hot up close as he was from across the street.
To Frank’s great surprise, the guy was the “man in orange.”
He’d been so surprised he had simply stared for a moment, his come-on unsaid. Holy shit! Not only was this guy a jerk-off fantasy, but he was the man to whose image Frank had already jerked off to more than once.
Better and better.
God, who would have believed it? Frank’s cock had started to harden the second his lewd offer had sprung from his lips.
But now? Now he was steel hard and throbbing in his jeans. What would the dude say? It had taken him a moment to realize that this man was that man. His hair had been very short the first time he’d seen it. Marine cut. And his beard shorter. Much shorter.
But God, it was him.
They locked eyes. Those eyes! Bordering on unreal. Almost like eyes from some character in one of those Japanese cartoon movies everyone was so crazy about.
The man swallowed. So hard his Adam’s apple bobbed. And…
This is it!
“O-okay,” he said quietly.
Yes! Christ, Frank couldn’t believe his fucking luck.
Wait….
Was the guy blushing? Adorable.
The guy trembled. Looked around nervously. Licked his lips. Changing his mind?
Don’t let him change his mind.
“I live right across the street,” Frank said quickly.
“You do?” Dude asked, voice cracking.
Frank nodded and finally took his foot from its position above the gas. The guy wasn’t going to punch him. “I was parking my car and saw you.”
“From across the street?”
Frank nodded again. “Yeah. And you were so fucking hot, I had to ask.”
“You thought I was hot from over there?” Dude’s Adam’s apple bobbed again.
“Fuck yes,” Frank said, his voice almost a growl.
Dude’s eyes flashed. “Let’s do it.”
THE FIRST time Frank saw him, the man was walking in the grass alongside the road.
He was wearing orange.
The traffic was crawling along I-70. Frank had taken the top of his Mazda down so he could enjoy the breeze through his thick, wavy hair and the skin on his bare chest. He was wearing his jeans shorts—the ones he’d made, not those horrible nearly knee-length shorts that were popular today. He blamed those ugly things on that motherfucker Michael Jordan, who’d turned the only sexy American sports uniform into something that looked like bathing suits from the 1910s.
Frank’s shorts? They weren’t cut so high his balls would hang out, but they showed off his muscular thighs, and as hard as he worked on them, he wanted them to be seen!
But none of that made a bit of difference when the traffic came to a total stop. Or close enough. He was just thinking it was time to put the damned top up so the air conditioner would do some good when he saw the men along the side the road. The men in orange.
His friend Cody had a little fantasy. He liked UPS men. “I’ll tell you what brown can do for me!” he’d said one evening after too many cosmos.
Cody wasn’t the only one. Turned out a lot of guys thought men in those brown UPS uniforms were hot. And Frank had to admit they often were. The shorts were short, for one thing. And the men were usually fit. Their jobs involved a lot of driving but a lot of running as well. Leaping in and out of those trucks, running to a front door lugging packages of various sizes and weights, and then dashing back to their vehicle. He’d had to laugh when Cody suggested it was dirty old queens who did the hiring for UPS.
“I mean, have you seen a UPS man who isn’t hot?”
Frank had to agree. He understood the appeal of the color brown.
But for him, it was orange.
The only difference was he didn’t know anyone else who shared his interest.
Frank didn’t know what it was about those men in their orange jumpsuits. Maybe he didn’t need to. Evaluating such a thing was something Cody would do. Frank only knew those men turned him on.
And that hot day, he laid his eyes on one who put iron in his cock in about thirty seconds.
The man was around twenty-five, give or take a year. He was very fit, slim, and wide in the shoulders, and he gave the almost-shapeless orange jumpsuit a run for its money. Tight. Like he was wearing one a size too small. His beard wasn’t quite as full that day as it was today, but trim, shorter, and his hair was in a buzz cut. He was carrying a bag and a pole with a claw at the end, and he was picking up garbage. Then—as if Frank had been a remarkably good boy and Karma was rewarding him—a man in a police uniform handed the guy a bottle of water. Frank still couldn’t believe what had happened next. The man in orange—the hot man Frank was taking back to his apartment right now—opened the bottle, drank about half of it, his throat working, working, working, and then—oh Christ!—he poured the remainder over himself, tossing his head to either side as he did. It was like something out of a sexy bottled-water commercial. Time seemed to slow down as the water ran right off that buzz-cut hair. Some of it spread through his trim beard and then went flying out in a fan. The rest poured down his front over his bare, very muscular chest—his orange jumpsuit had been unzipped scandalously low—and where the water touched the edges of his garment, the fabric turned almost red.
And then—
(oh God, and then!)
—he turned his head and looked at Frank.
B.G. Thomas lives in Kansas City with his husband of more than a decade and half, and that marriage has been legal since 2014! They share their home with their fabulous dogs, Sarah Jane and Oliver. He is lucky enough to have a lovely daughter as well as many extraordinary friends.
B.G. loves romance, comedies, fantasy, science fiction and even horror—as far as he is concerned, as long as the stories are character driven and entertaining, it doesn't matter the genre. Since he’s gone conventions since he was fourteen years old, he's been lucky enough to meet many of his favorite writers, many of whom inspired him to pursue his own writing dreams.
Excited about the growing male/male romance market, he decided to begin writing for the first time in years. Gay men are what he knows best, after all. He submitted his first story in years and was thrilled when it was accepted in only four days, and since then has had over thirty short stories, novellas and novels published.
“Leap, and the net will appear” is his personal philosophy and his message to all. “It is never too late,” he states. “Pursue your dreams. They will come true!”
Visit his website and blog at http://bthomaswriter.wordpress.com/. You can contact him there and he is always happy to hear from his readers.
great excerpt
ReplyDeleteThanks for the good review & excerpt, Cat. I like B.G.'s work, and this sounds like another hot one from him. - Purple Reader,
ReplyDeleteTheWrote [at] aol [dot] com
It's an entertaining excerpt!
ReplyDelete--Trix, vitajex(at)Aol(dot)com
Thank you for the review and excerpt!
ReplyDelete