A Twist and Two Balls by Clare London

Title: A Twist and Two Balls (With a Kick Book 1)
Author: Clare London
Purchase at Amazon
Purchase at All Romance eBooks
Cover Artist: Lou Harper
Genre: Contemporary
Length: 27,000 words (novella)
Formats Mobi, Epub, PDF


Eduardo Mancini is going to be a star of the London stage and screen. Or that was the plan. His alter ego Eddy March hasn't got further than the chorus and a bit part in a TV series. His parents aren't supportive, his agent can’t place his particular skills, and he's finding it hard to hang onto his young dreams. Things go from bad to worse when he's late for an important audition, hasn't got enough money to pay the taxi fare, and is chased across the streets of Soho by the irate driver.

Eddy reaches what he believes is sanctuary - With A Kick, a store where ice creams are blended with alcohol and imagination, and where his friends can help him. But Nuri the taxi driver is persistent in his steady pursuit, above and beyond the money he’s owed. Despite their very different characters and background, Eddy and Nuri’s relationship goes from a complete unknown to a wary balancing act. There are still mistakes to be made, and hurdles to clear. And both of them have to admit that their life so far hasn’t gone the way they planned.

But maybe being caught by Nuri was just what Eddy’s career needed – both for his job and his heart.

With a Kick must be the best ice cream shop in the world, serving adult flavor combinations spiked with alcohol, along with flavors suitable for kids. Everyone's happy, right? This shop is the backdrop and a unifying element for the series. Eat ice cream, work out lovelife problems… Sounds good to me!

Eddie the aspiring actor manages to fall flat on his face a lot, but in the best way. Not enough money for a cab fare, missing auditions and revising his aspirations, and getting what he wants after all. Once he knows what that is, beyond Nuri the handsome cabbie of Turkish extraction. He’s quite histrionic, able to provide a comparison to every current situation from plays and TV shows. This also slops into his personality, leading one friend to be pleased when he stops acting like “a tragic Shakespearean arse or a blockbuster diva.” This reader appreciated it too, since once he got that tendency under control Eddie got a lot better at adulting.

His chance encounter with Nuri escalates from an unpaid cab fare to being incorporated into Nuri’s big, rambunctious family, who accepts him with open arms. They’re outspoken and if their charm is a little rude, their hearts are good. Eddie needs to be kicked into shape, and Adem, Sadi, Jamal, and the silent but observant grandmamma are just the ones to do it.

Nuri needs some nudges of his own, and this part I just have to believe, because the author knows the British system Nuri’s involved in and I don’t. Still, it’s good to see how Eddie helps Nuri, even if it wasn’t intentional, and very good to see how the family backs their own.

There's a lot of British flavor here, including some slang, but it's all clear from the context, and gives a nice sense of place to Clare London's always pleasing prose.

Patrick and Lee, owners of the shop, have their own simmering story. They’re secondary characters but you can tell there’s something between them aside from differing opinions on gratis dishes. It should be fun to continue the series and find out their story along with the friends they feed with sweet treats and reality checks.

This was a delightful afternoon’s read, and now I want ice cream! 4 marbles

A Thousand Word Thursday ficlet from Clare London

MAMIL* by Clare London

Frank looked at Vince and bit his lip. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Vince sounded belligerent. It was a difficult tone to carry off when clad neck to knee in yellow Lycra.

“I’m not sure.” Frank tilted his head and frowned. “You know I’ve always supported you.”

“But … what?”

“I didn’t say but.”

“Every damned mote of your being said but, Francis.”

Frank’s gaze ran over Vince’s form-fitting jersey, the slogan on his back from the local gay outreach scheme, the thigh-clinging leggings, the tight black fingerless gloves, then back up to his burly sideburns.

Vince pressed one of them against his cheek, a little defensively. “The sweat loosens the glue. All the Bradley Wiggins fans are wearing them.”

“I know,” Frank said gently.

“The right gear makes all the difference, you know.”

“I know,” Frank said again.

“I reckon twice around the park each morning and I’ll soon be fighting fit.”

“You’re pretty fit already.”

Vince scowled. “Finish it, Francis. Finish what you really want to say.”

“What?”

“Oh for God’s sake… you mean pretty fit for my age.”

Frank frowned. “Ever think that’s what you think, Vince, not me? You seem to go on about it a lot. We’re the same age, remember. But I don’t feel the need to wear Lycra and cycle with my arse off the seat and my head so far down on the handlebars I can barely see what I’m doing…”

“Just once,” Vince said, quickly. “Just once, I hit that lamppost. The bike was new, remember?”

Frank moved across the room to stand in front of Vince. He ran a hand almost aimlessly across Vince’s hip. Vince sucked in a breath.


“You must realise that Lycra is never going to be flattering,” Frank said softly.

“You mean my bum does look big?” A smile was tweaking the edge of Vince’s mouth. He’d turned his head so his temple rested on Frank’s forehead.

“Big and yellow, like a ripe quince.”

“Ouch.”

“And delicious.”

Slowly, a flush rose up Vince’s neck, peeking over the yellow turtle neck of his jersey. “Pervert.”
Frank chuckled. “Thank God.”

Vince sighed. His hand trailed over Frank’s as if considering whether to push it away or fold his fingers around it. “I should get going.”

“You should. If that’s your plan.”

Vince swallowed. “Is that bacon I can smell cooking?”

Frank nodded.

“And the new Italian coffee?”

Frank nodded again.

“I suppose I could delay this morning’s session–put in double work this afternoon.”

“Or not,” Frank said.

“Get thee behind me–”

“You want ketchup on your bacon bap?” Frank interrupted, apparently innocently.

Vince growled and started to peel off his gloves. Frank turned and walked slowly towards the kitchen. His hips sashayed very slightly, though he didn’t have the flexibility he used to.

Vince gave a little yelp. “Help.”

Frank turned, surprised. “What?”

“I can’t do this, Frank.”

Frank’s face twisted into a momentary expression of guilt. “I’m sorry. If you really want to exercise…”

“No, not that!”

“Huh?”

Vince grimaced, and tugged at the Lycra crotch of his leggings. “It took me 45 minutes to get this outfit on in the first place. Are you going to help me take it off again?”
-------------------------------------------------
*MAMIL = Middle-Aged Man in Lycra

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Clare London's done it again! What a cute story to go with our cyclist picture! And after that, you'll want to read more of her wonderful storytelling.  This little fic is also on Clare's website on the Free Fiction page. https://clarelondon.com/books/my-free-fiction/

 You can get a wonderful present from Clare this month: A Twist and Two Balls is free at Smashwords for July 2016!  This is the first in the With a Kick series, and I can already tell you it's a fun read.

Eduardo Mancini is going to be a star of the London stage and screen. Or that was the plan. His alter ego Eddy March hasn’t got further than the chorus and a bit part in a TV series. His parents aren’t supportive, his agent can’t place his particular skills, and he’s finding it hard to hang onto his young dreams. Things go from bad to worse when he’s late for an important audition, hasn’t got enough money to pay the taxi fare, and is chased across the streets of Soho by the irate driver.

Eddy reaches what he believes is sanctuary – With A Kick, a store where ice creams are blended with alcohol and imagination, and where his friends can help him. But Nuri the taxi driver is persistent in his steady pursuit, above and beyond the money he’s owed. Despite their very different characters and background, Eddy and Nuri’s relationship goes from a complete unknown to a wary balancing act. There are still mistakes to be made, and hurdles to clear. And both of them have to admit that their life so far hasn’t gone the way they planned.

But maybe being caught by Nuri was just what Eddy needed – both for his job and his heart.
Buy Links:  amazon.com / amazon.co.uk / allromance ebooks / smashwords
         
Follow the whole WITH A KICK series at Clare’s website: https://clarelondon.com/series/with-a-kick/


EXCERPT from A Twist and Two Balls
© Clare London

He thrust his handful of money at the driver with all the confidence he could muster, and scrambled out of the cab. The uneven cobbles tripped him, and he bumped into a couple of tourists as he tried to right himself. Now he needed to scarper, and fast, before the cash was counted and the shortfall discovered. In his mind, he saw himself turn and run like the wind, like the Chariots of Fire opening sequence, though not in slow motion, of course, and without the benefit of proper sports clothing because he was in his audition gear, that is, trousers a little too tight since Christmas, and his favourite jacket that was always going to be too hot for this time of year—

A hand landed on his arm before he’d taken the first leap forward from the imaginary sound of the starting pistol.

“It’s not enough,” the cabbie said. He’d followed Eduardo out of the cab.

Eduardo looked into deep, dark brown eyes set under heavy brows. The man’s skin was dark, his jaw line and upper lip covered by similarly dark hair. Eduardo couldn’t get away from the dark theme, and he wasn’t thinking of his preferred type of boyfriend. The grip on his arm was tight and the cabbie obviously wasn’t letting him go.

“I’m late for an appointment,” Eduardo said. That wasn’t a tremble in his voice, was it? “You must let me go. At once.”

“No,” the cabbie said. His voice was strangely calm, but the deep tone made him sound so much more assertive than Eduardo. Eduardo felt a warm, roiling feeling in his gut. He was trapped! It was like one of the new breed of police thrillers, the hero chased to the end of a dank, pitch black alley, then turning to face his erstwhile attacker with nothing to defend himself except…

Eduardo tightened his grip on his messenger bag. As if that were going to protect him, as if his copy of The Complete Stanislavsky Toolkit could be used as a club, as if a selection of emery boards or his smartphone stylus could possibly morph into his own personal lightsaber. No, he was trapped, alone, defenceless, and hidden in the depths of gangland—

Except, actually, he was pressed back against the side of a London black cab in broad daylight in one of the most populated tourist areas. Even so, the trapped feeling persisted. The cabbie’s chest was broad and his biceps bulged out from under a tee shirt that had presumably shrunk in the wash. His throat was sinewy, and hair from his chest curled up and over his low neckline. With a further frisson of shock, Eduardo realised he was forced back against a flat surface by a positive bear of a man. 

Delicious. His libido was liable to wake up and lick its lips, although Eddy would have kicked himself at this inappropriate reaction if he thought his legs could work normally. Instead, his whole body was shaking and he felt more than a tad nauseous.

“Please,” he said. “I must go.” How long did he have until the audition closed its doors? Would they still see him if he were beaten and bruised, maybe even bleeding? He wasn’t sure that was acceptable for a revival of one of Noel Coward’s mannered social commentaries.

“What’s your name?” The cabbie’s voice was a soft growl in the back of his throat.

“Eduardo Mancini.”

“Spanish?”

“Excuse me?”

The cabbie frowned. “You’re Spanish?”

What? “No.”

“Yet you have a Spanish name.”

Eduardo tried bluster. “I hardly see why it’s any business of yours what my name is.”

“I will need it for the police,” the cabbie said, quite coolly.

Eduardo gaped. “You’re calling the police?”

“You owe me my fare. I cannot allow passengers to cheat me.”

“I’m not cheating you! I mean, I know I’m a little short of funds right at this exact moment, but I assure you I can find you fair recompense if you give me a little time.” Eduardo wondered why, when he needed to blush to order for a particular role, he always found it so bloody difficult. Right now, he felt as hot as if he’d stepped into the Sahara. Lawrence of Arabia, anyone? He must salt this ghastly experience away for future reference on the stage.

“Fair recompense?”

There was a strange rumble underlying the cabbie’s reply. Eduardo took a moment to recognise what the noise was, drowning out the ticking of the cab’s engine and a screech of chatter from a passing group of teenagers. He was laughing. Laughing at Eduardo!

“You are an actor, yes?”

Eduardo blinked. “Yes. I mean, how—? But yes, I am.” For a brief, bemused moment, his courage returned. He wasn’t above using his public exposure for private gain, let alone defence. “Maybe you’ve seen me act? I was in the chorus of Blood Brothers for a few weeks.” Until the proper cast member returned from his drying-out spell, that was. “What about TV? I was in an episode of Casualty last year.” He felt his head go up, instinctively showing his better profile. “And that advert for toothpaste? I’m the man who crunches the apple at the end.”

“I have not seen you on TV.” The cabbie leaned in harder, his arm across Eduardo’s chest, effectively cutting off his words. All Eduardo could do was take shallow gasps, breathing in the aroma of warm skin mixed with the hint of spicy flavoured breath. “I don’t watch TV. I work.”

Eduardo suspected that criticism was aimed at him, but was damned if he was in any position to complain. He huffed and pushed ineffectually at the strong arms, and rather surprisingly, the cabbie let him go and stepped back. But only one step.

“You hurt me,” Eduardo croaked. “That’s assault!”

The cabbie started to laugh again. The sound was loud and uninhibited, his chest shaking with it. “But yes, of course you’re an actor! You are so melodramatic.”

Well, duh. But Eduardo didn’t explain that came with the territory. He didn’t say anything, in fact, just started to back into the busy street behind him. He could cut across into Charing Cross Road and then sprint up to Shaftesbury Circus, and just maybe he’d be in time to catch the tail end of the audition and no one would know he’d only just arrived. He turned and started walking briskly away.

Two streets later, he was starting to wheeze with the effort of rushing but trying to look as if he wasn’t, when a warm, cumin-flavoured smell wafted across his senses again. He whirled around and found himself nose to nose with the cabbie. “What the hell? Why are you following me?”

The cabbie raised his eyebrows. “What do you expect me to do? Not only do you not pay the fare, but now you try to run away.”

“Of course I’m not trying to run away!” A young couple on the pavement glanced quickly over at the two men arguing, and a rickshaw cyclist wobbled on his seat as he passed. Eduardo knew his voice was too loud. He sounded borderline hysterical, too, as if he were in the last act of a Tennessee Williams play. Well, any act, to be honest: he’d always played them at drama school rather close to the emotional edge.

He turned abruptly, deciding to cut through Chinatown, but the cabbie still followed. Eduardo imagined he could hear the steady footsteps on the pavement behind him, despite the babble of other street noises. He swerved around two more corners and suddenly lost his already precarious sense of direction. Bloody hell. He realised he was heading back towards the original place where he got out of the cab. Yes, there it was, parked neatly at the kerb, lights and engine off as if there’d never been any problem at all.

And his pursuer was still behind him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Now I have to read the rest of the story!  Buy Links:  amazon.com / amazon.co.uk / allromance ebooks / smashwords

Let Me Explain! A Ficlet from Clare London

“Charlie! Let me explain!”

I had to turn back and look, didn’t I? I mean, the guy had an accent that’d cut through a football crowd on match day. Anyone would have to listen to those sexy syllables, me included. Especially the way he rolled “Char-lie!” over his tongue like the sweetest, honeyed schnapps.

Didn’t have to like it, though.

I paused on the pavement outside his Knightsbridge flat, the sky still tinged Wedgewood-blue at this early hour of the morning. Took a deep breath. Glanced up to his third floor window.

Jesus.


Aleksandr was leaning out of the window, naked torso in full view, still in his designer tighty whiteys. Did he have no shame? Then I remembered the way he’d balanced a brace of shot glasses on that naked torso last night, as we sampled all the flavours of his schnapps collection; how he’d laughed every time they spilled into his navel and I had to lap it up, until I figured out he was clenching his abs deliberately.

I’d been easily distracted, okay?

I remembered what he’d done to me last night with his luscious lips and his elegantly manicured fingers. The way he’d gripped my arms and breathed on my neck, and flexed his wonderfully sculpted, four-days-a-week personally trained glutes as he thrust….

No. He had no shame at all, and not just because he was a younger son of some Russian bloody oligarch.

But I still wasn’t going back.

“Charlie!” He waved at me and flashed those perfectly straight teeth in a beaming smile. “You misunderstand things, Charlie. You mustn’t leave in such a bad mood.”

A woman passed me on the pavement, walking her dog. She peered up at him over her D&G sunglasses, and a smile threatened to crease the Botox-ed skin around her eyes. Three doors down, a UPS guy stood on the front steps of a building, finger paused before hitting the entry intercom, staring shamelessly at Aleksandr’s window. Damned guy looked like he was drooling.

I wasn’t in a bad mood, at least not in the way Aleksandr suspected. I was heavily hung over, my arse hurt from delicious over use, and I was wondering if I had enough fare money on my Oyster card to get back in time for afternoon kick-off on TV: the Arsenal match promised to be a real killer. But none of that was much different from any Saturday morning after the Friday night before.

However, Aleksandr’s expression was tinged with serious concern.

“He is an old friend, Charlie. We slept together for fun, for a summer, that is all. It’s all over, I promise.”

I shook my head slowly. Took another deep breath. Might as well give his affluent neighbours something to talk about, right? “He’s still sleeping in your spare room, Aleksandr,” I called back. One of his spare rooms, I could have added, but there hadn’t been time between being picked up by an oligarch’s gorgeous son in the pub and being dragged back to his luxury apartment for a night of unfettered sex to check through all the others for random half-naked men.

“I am just a good friend. He cannot go back to Russia yet. He’s looking for a job. I barely know that he is there, from day to day—”

“He came in to watch us. Having sex.”

Farther up the street, the UPS guy dropped the parcels he was carrying.

Aleksandr didn’t even have the decency to blush. “It’s okay by me. You look good in bed, Charlie. We look good. You over react.”

Over react? Please. My groin stirred: bloody cock always had its own agenda. “You invited him to join us.”

The UPS guy sat down on the steps of his delivery address, ignored the tumble of parcels around him, and settled in to listen.

Aleksandr flashed the seductive smile again. “Was it such a bad idea? Your dick didn’t think so. I felt it thicken at the thought, resting in my palm.”

Yeah. Definitely had its own agenda.

“Can’t you imagine the fun, Charlie? Hands on you, front and back. Lips touching you from ear to toes. Behind, beneath, between. All at the same time.” His smile was sly: I didn’t need the UPS guy’s rapt expression as proof. “You said you were an adventurous man, Char-lie.”

And that was the turning point for me. Yes, I had said that. Yes, that was what I told myself, every weekend when I went out on the pull—or to be pulled. Life’s too short not to take advantage of everything that comes your way. Like a handsome Russian with enough money and clout to give me a great Friday night in the best London bars, to ply me with smooth spirits and restaurant dishes I never even knew the name of, to offer a shower in a luxurious wet room the size of my living room, to share a night of sex play that’d be in my top ten for years to come, I reckoned. And in a bed large enough for half Arsenal’s first team.

Or us and a Russian flatmate.

I glanced at the UPS guy. He was very flushed, and gave me a leery thumbs up.

I looked back up at Aleksandr. Cocky bastard was already moving away from the window, grinning, tugging at the waistband of those tighty whiteys.

The route to the Tube station forgotten, I ran back up the steps to his flat.

After all, I could watch the highlights of the match on catch-up, couldn’t I?

*******
Gotta fan myself after that! And oh look! Clare has more goodies for us!

BOYS IN …

A series of collections of Clare London stories full of sweet, sexy romance, and boys seeking friendship, fun and inspiration.

Available on Kindle Unlimited and for sale.

Boys in Brief     |     Boys in Season    |  Boys in Hand: Coming Soon!

@  Goodreads

BIO: Clare London took her pen name from the city where she lives, loves, and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home, she juggles her writing with her other day job as an accountant.

She’s written in many genres and across many settings, with award-winning novels and short stories published both online and in print. She says she likes variety in her writing while friends say she’s just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she’s happy. Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic, and sexy characters.

Clare currently has several novels sulking at that tricky chapter three stage and plenty of other projects in mind... she just has to find out where she left them in that frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home.

Clare loves to hear from readers, and you can contact her here:

Website: http://www.clarelondon.com
E-mail: clarelondon11@yahoo.co.uk
Blog: www.clarelondon.com/blog
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/clarelondon
Twitter: https://twitter.com/clare_london
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/clarelondon
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/author/clarelondon/

Flashfic from Clare London: She knows what this card player's holding

DOPE
© Clare London

“So, what have you got?”

Drew blinked at me over the top of his cards. Pretty, thick lashes. Wide eyes with that sparkle in the corner like a cartoon character. “I don’t think I’m meant to tell you, Charlie. Even I remember that much about the rules.”

I smirked. He loved to play the dopey twink. “I just meant, what are you gonna play next?”

The wide eyes narrowed. “You mean, what card?”

“Yeah.”

He frowned. It looked just as cute on him as a smile, his mouth plumped into a pout rather than a grin. “I can’t decide.”

I bit back a sigh. Sometimes the dopey twink seemed more than a role. “The suspense is killing me here. You take minutes for every bloody move.”

Drew’s eyes were back on mine. Bright; concentrated. Much as that made my mouth go dry and my briefs turn a size smaller, I’d rather he got on with the bloody game.

“You said to be careful. To think each move through.”

Jesus. “Yeah, but also to finish the game before Tuesday.”

“That’s sarcasm. The lowest form of wit, you said.” He stuck out his tongue at me. Quickly, glisteningly, like a small, sexy snake tasting the air. Then he moistened his lips.


Did I say a size smaller? More like two. “Okay. I didn’t expect you to pay that much attention to what I say, I suppose.”

That frown again. He’d lifted his cards so I could only see upwards of the bridge of his nose. A cute nose. Sexy wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Fine hair tousled over his forehead. “You think I’m stupid.”

“No, I don’t.”

“That I can’t manage a sophisticated card game. That you’re so much brainier than I am, because you went to college, you can tell me what to do all the time.”

Oh shit. “No! Of course not.”

He grinned suddenly, startling me. “Gotcha.” And while I was still reeling, he laid a card carefully on the duvet. A King. “That’s my trick, I believe?” He cleared his throat. “Yet another one. I think you’ll find…”

“You’ve won.” I sounded morose.

He laughed. “Yes. That makes three times in a row, Charlie. You’re a good teacher.”

I caught the glint in his eye. “You’re a devious student, more like.”

He laid down the rest of the cards and wriggled closer. The mattress dipped beneath us. The sheets were cool under my bare legs as I shifted toward him. He nestled his mouth against my neck and I shivered. He had strong hands; a solid, muscled torso. Hairs that tickled my thighs when I spread around him.

“Honey,” he breathed. “I’ve been playing cards since before you took your first beer.”

“I just meant—”

“Hush.”

His hand was inside the waistband of my briefs. I was pretty sure they were coming off, and soon. Though that could only be good for genital circulation, right?

“Lay back, Charlie. Now it’s my turn to teach my twinky dope some things.”

“Your—?” My protest was weak. “Come on, I’m only—“

“Eleven years younger?” His smile wasn’t just cute. It was knowing. Mature. Slyly triumphant.
“Let me win this trick, Charlie. Let me win you.”

I lay back, letting him tug off the last piece of my clothing.

Foregone conclusion.

I’d never been any bloody good at strip card games.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Mmm, Clare London has done it again with a flash fic.  Now that you've had a taste, take a big bite! Clare's latest release, Smack Happy, is available now.

A Valentines Day short story

Phiz can’t always control his hyperactivity and propensity for chaos. But he no longer has to feel marginalised because of it, not now he has Bryanfor a friend and lover. Bryan’s calm, ordered attitude is the perfect foil for Phiz: and Bryan’s private desire for kink is just what Phiz needs to keep him grounded. This Valentine’s Day, Phiz wants to give Bryan a special gift, but Bryan can’t be tempted away from his work. At least, not until he opens Phiz’s gift and realises love means… taking time away to play.

Amazon

All Romance eBooks

Smashwords

iTunes

Kobo

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WITH A KICK SERIES

Bryan and Phiz first met in the book “Slap and Tickle”, one of a series of romance novellas based around the alcoholic ice cream shop in Soho called With A Kick. A joint-authored project with Sue Brown, each story has a self-contained romance, and follows the history of the shop throughout.

The WITH A KICK series:
#1 A Twist and Two Balls – Clare London
#2 Hissed as a Newt – Sue Brown

#3 Slap and Tickle – Clare London

#4 Bells and Balls – Sue Brown

#5 Pluck and Play – Clare London

#6 Nice and Snow – Clare London

#7 Smack Happy – Clare London

All details and BUY links here: http://www.clarelondon.com/series/with-a-kick/

Clare London took her pen name from the city where she lives, loves, and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home, she juggles her writing with her other day job as an accountant.


She’s written in many genres and across many settings, with award-winning novels and short stories published both online and in print. She says she likes variety in her writing while friends say she’s just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she’s happy. Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic, and sexy characters. 
~*~*~*~*~

Thank you, Clare!

A Thousand Word Story from Clare London

TOUCH ME by Clare London
© Clare London 2014

(NSFW but oh so good -- Cryselle)


“Touch me,” I whisper.

The undergrowth rustles and creaks around me: the air is thick and moist. It’s warm in the clinging, humid way that I’ve learned to expect in these caves. I try to raise my arm but it’s pinned at my side.

The trap was sprung well.

“Touch me! It’s what you want, isn’t it?” I raise my voice, though the fingers at my throat are strong, pressing hard on my throat, thickening my breath.


But they’re real fingers: real hands. The answering breath at my neck is human enough for me to recognise. To appeal to. To crave.

My heart is beating higher in my chest than normal. Sweat beads on my skin. A trickle of it rolls down my back between my shoulder blades.

The sticky tendrils on my belly shift very slightly. The arm across my chest tightens, the skin cool and taut on my own fevered flesh.

He’s listening.

“Make use of me,” I say. My thighs clench at the thought of his other hand sliding down from its grip on my waist, of it reaching lower into my shorts. A flex of those fingers and the cloth will be ripped away. I’ll be naked; bound in his clutches. I cannot move my legs. I cannot see his face. I cannot fight back. But I can feel every inch of that muscular body behind me, the pinioning strength of his limbs.

I’m naked already, in all other ways.

The air ripples softly around me. It’s the sound of a slow but powerful beat of huge wings stretching themselves, reaching for release.

“Don’t waste me,” I say raggedly. A tighter grip of his hand, and my neck will be broken. “I want you before I die. I want to know you.”

The reaction to fear is a strange one, but unmistakable. My cock is swollen, aching to be freed: to be stroked. I’m an inch from death, but my body aches for him.

Did I allow the trap to take me? Did I deliberately step into his web of tangled roots and viscous thread?

One of the fingernails at my throat scrapes almost gently over my bared skin. His other hand slides down my hip, dragging and tearing my last clothing with it. The body behind me shifts again. My bindings don’t loosen but me legs are pulled further apart. I’m like a doll. A plaything.

I don’t expect a verbal response: I don’t get one. But I’m still alive.

The wings beat again, the air being sucked in and out of our space. The hanging vines slap against my skin. Breathing hurts. There are tears at the corners of my eyes, but they’re not for sorrow.

Anticipation has no time to be savoured. He enters me before I have time to brace for it. I can take his forcefulness, but I’m not being asked. My back arches as he thrusts. The bindings tighten on my thighs and arms, then relax as he pulls back. Then tighten again as he pushes into me.

He fills me, but the smooth movement is unexpected. There’s desire and demand, but no cruelty. Every stroke both claims and caresses me. I’ve no time to wonder at this. The warmth across my groin is more than just the atmosphere around us. The prickle of need is getting urgent. My arse quivers, the buttocks clenching against him.

He must feel it too.

His next thrust is long and deep and I come with a wail of satisfaction and anguished pleasure, my hips rocking with the involuntary movement of my cock, my mouth opening wide, careless of his hold on my head.

But his fingers don’t bite into me: I don’t feel the gasping horror of further strangulation.

Shaking, I feel him inside me for a longer time, time enough for me to lose myself in the motions, to arch against his rhythm, to feel both relaxation and a secondary throbbing in my balls.

When he comes, he’s embedded so deeply my whole body is compressed against his. We jolt and shudder together. It’s as if the tendrils respond to his grasp. They cling to me like a lover’s touch, yet with a captor’s greed. The wings brush my shoulders as if closing around us both. It goes on for far longer than my own relief.

I lie stretched in my bonds, feeling his skin shiver against mine. I daren’t think that shows anything more between us than physical reaction.

Will it be now? Has he taken what he wants, and has no more need of me? Will the hands tighten on my neck and wrench my spine apart? I want to feel some satisfaction in my last moments – in this coupling.

But it’s not enough.

It never will be.

“I want more,” I whisper. My voice is hoarse from my cries and from the tension. “That’s the truth. Take that from me as well.”

His shivering eases. The tendrils loosen around my arms and legs. Slowly at first, I slump down, then fall to the ground. The foliage is thick here despite the rock beneath it. There’s no botanical sense to it, but it makes for a relatively soft landing.

For a shocked, disbelieving moment I lie there, afraid to move.

Afraid to escape.

The wings beat behind me. I turn my head, but my neck is agonisingly painful and my whole body’s stiff. By the time I’ve opened my eyes, there’s nothing to see except the damp fronds hanging around me like a veil, and a ripple of movement in the dark depths of the cave.

Withdrawal.

I’m still alive. I’m aching, not just from physical pain.

The last tendril slides off my body, tickling the skin on my belly, lingering on my flesh for far too long before plopping to the soft ground.

As if reluctant to leave me.

My relief is much more than the joy of being allowed to live. His touch is mine.

We’ll meet again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wow! I post a darker picture and Clare London said her "every writing synapse" went to work!

After that we need some more of her delicious imagination, which we'll get in her new release, No Angel, available from Amber Allure.

Felix’s life is full, juggling a supportive homelife for his disabled brother, a job as a care home assistant, a brand new boyfriend – and now he’s had his arse pinched by a lewd gay ghost on the late night bus!

If only that were the end of it. But Bryn the ghost follows him home and wheedles himself into Felix’s life. That includes sharing his shameless opinions on the patronising way Felix treats his brother, on how Felix should eat more food and put some flesh on his bones, and – worst of all – exactly how Felix should be getting down to it with his seriously sexy new boyfriend Mickey! And in between all that, Bryn finds time to leer at Felix himself and make outrageous suggestions on what they’d be doing if Bryn wasn’t … well … ghostly.

Felix considers he’s a tolerant guy. But the last thing he needs now is to get wrapped up in the mystery of a missing teenage girl, the inhabitants of a local squat, and conversations with a fire-and-brimstone old preacher. However, with a nudge or six from Bryn, the help of his brother Patrick, and some cosy loving from Mickey – Felix starts to wonder how he ever thought his life was busy before!

Chase the Ace by Clare London

Title: Chase the Ace
Author: Clare London
Publisher listing at Amber Allure
Buy at All Romance eBooks
Cover Artist: Trace Edward Zaber
Genre: Contemporary
Length: 24k (novella)
Formats: epub, mobi, pdf, prc, Microsoft Reader

Blurb:

Newly single in his late twenties, and looking for more fun than he gets from his boring job, Daniel Cross soon discovers the lure of social media. After a few hiccups, he’s excited at the chance of tracking down his old mates from the Scorching Summer Sports Club of 1990. He lost touch with his “Gang of Four” after that summer, but now he launches a personal quest to find out what kind of man each boy has become.

It starts well with a link to the first boy’s current address, through a mutual friend on Facebook, until Dan realises he’s been chatting online to the wrong man. Nick Carson isn’t an old school friend at all. It’s a genuine mistake, and Nick isn’t offended. He offers to accompany Dan on the trip to find the others. It’s the first step to friendship and something more for both of them.

For Dan, the reunions with the “Gang of Four” range from startling, heartening and disturbing. Nick’s company is a constant support, though neither of them are prepared for the exposure of personal secrets they’d thought were long-hidden. Dan begins to suspect that he’s really looking for a direction in his own life—and the excitement and purpose he craves may be closer to home than a quest with its roots in a boyhood dream.

Review:

After that blurb, there’s not a lot I can say that’s spoilery—the story is now a matter of how rather than “what”, but it’s still a pleasant afternoon’s read.


Daniel’s remarkably social media-inept for someone of his age bracket, which is good for a chuckle or three, even if it’s a bit contrived. Facebook friending leads him to a road trip with someone who isn’t the old sports club pal he originally thought. Nick’s up for an adventure, and since he drives and Daniel doesn’t, it’s a good thing that he’s got enough flexibility to keep going as they gather addresses.

He’s very good company, too, which leavens the encounters with Daniel’s now-grown friends, which range from entertaining with a side of surprise to shocking and painful. In every visit, Daniel finds a new puzzle in himself, in how he could have overlooked things then, and what he wants for himself now. Nick stays in the background during these encounters, but he has some very good questions later, and Daniel uses the answers to grope towards his own true desires.

I was a bit startled to find an old misconception about cross-dressing trotted out, but other than that I enjoyed the read, watching Nick and Daniel find more intimacy than they expected. There’s more to Nick than meets Daniel’s eye at the beginning, and of course, Daniel’s psyche is kind of hanging out for Nick to get to know because of the nature of their journey. And the sex is hawt.

The chemistry between them is good, and we’re left with the feeling that this road trip is only the beginning of something wonderful. 4 marbles

A Thousand Word Thursday story from Clare London

DRESSING by Clare London


“What’s up?” Sal looks at me across the table, a half smile on his handsome face. “You don’t like the meal?”

A slice of sweet pepper catches in the back of my throat and I start coughing. “No,” I reply hoarsely. “It’s great.”

“It’s my signature recipe, you know.”


“I know.” My voice still seems ragged. I’m far too hot for the cool kitchen. “You made it for me the first time we dated.”

“Yeah.” He grins and I know he remembers that night just as clearly. “Maybe the salad isn’t as fresh this week.”

“No, it's fine.”

Sal shrugs. The muscles on his torso clench and relax. His upper arm tightens as he stirs the green leaves deeper into the mix. “Perhaps I overdid the herbs.”

“No. Sal, listen, it’s great, as always. I mean it.”

His eyes are dark with mischief. “So what’s up?”

“You said that already.” I can barely taste the marvellous food, my gaze fixed on him. My throat’s dry, my hand clenches around my fork, and my dick aches inside my jeans. And this is my comfortable fit pair. “Nothing’s up.”

“Nothing, huh?” He reaches over to grasp the bottle of oil. There’s a bead of sweat caught in the sparse hairs between his pecs. When he sits back, the table edge is level with his waist. His treasure trail meanders casually down and behind the shelter of table and bowl. It’s hidden from view, but not imagination.

He rolls the lid of the bottle between his fingers and grins at me. “So that’s it!”

“What?”

He stands up. He’s completely naked, from the strong shoulders to the well developed chest, to the smooth belly, to those lickable tram lines that draw my gaze down to his legs, thighs, curly bush and…

“It’s the dressing.” He gestures with the oil and winks at me. “You’re not sure about that.”

I let my eyes run all over him as he puts the bottle back down on the table. I notice his hand is shaking, maybe with laughter, maybe with excitement.

“Oh, but I am!” I say. “Very sure.” And laughing too, lightheaded with anticipation, I put down my fork and go to join him.


--------------------
Clare London, Author
Writing ... Man to Man

Clare's new novella, Chase the Ace, is available now from Amber Allure.

Newly single in his late twenties, and looking for more fun than he gets from his boring job, Daniel Cross soon discovers the lure of social media. After a few hiccups, he’s excited at the chance of tracking down his old mates from the Scorching Summer Sports Club of 1990. He lost touch with his “Gang of Four” after that summer, but now he launches a personal quest to find out what kind of man each boy has become.

It starts well with a link to the first boy’s current address, through a mutual friend on Facebook, until Dan realises he’s been chatting online to the wrong man—Nick Carson isn’t an old school friend at all. It’s a genuine mistake, and Nick isn’t offended. He offers to accompany Dan on the trip to find the others. It’s the first step to friendship and something more for both of them.

For Dan, the reunions with the “Gang of Four” range from startling, heartening and disturbing. Nick’s company is a constant support, though neither of them are prepared for the exposure of personal secrets they’d thought were long-hidden. Dan begins to suspect that he’s really looking for a direction in his own life—and the excitement and purpose he craves may be closer to home than a quest with its roots in a boyhood dream.

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Compulsion by Clare London

Title: Compulsion
Author: Clare London
Cover Artist: Anne Cain
Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
Genre: Contemporary
Length: 250 pages

The past always catches up with you. Max Newman should know—he’s been running from his ever since he dropped out of Uni and made a disastrous move to the seedier side of London. Now he’s returned to Brighton to lick his wounds. Though Max believes the club scene is better left behind him, one night he lets his friends drag him out dancing. And suddenly the simple life he’s tried to lead gets complicated.

At Compulsion, the Medina Group’s newest hotspot, Max meets Seve Nunez, a member of the Medina management and a man used to taking what he wants. The sexual chemistry between Max and Seve immediately leads to an intimate encounter in the backyard of the club—just the kind of dangerous behavior Max tried to leave behind. Despite that, he can't help but crave more, and Seve seems just as eager.

But Max soon suspects that Seve may not be the scrupulous businessman he claims. Max has seen the Medina Group at work before, and what he saw got a good friend killed. He's not sure what future he has with Seve, but he'll have to decide whether to trust in Seve’s innocence or keep running. The wrong choice could land them both in mortal danger.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If ever two men can’t keep their hands off each other, it’s Max and Seve. From their first meeting in the nightclub where Max had to be dragged in, to the climactic scene where everything changes, these guys are all about the sex. They’ve got chemistry, but do they have a future?


They're not so much about the talking, though, which makes it easier to believe that their relationship is only physical, and when Max, our sole POV character, starts to wonder if he has more complicated feelings for Seve, he rightly considers that his mind has been clouded by the edgy sex. For a long time, it seems to be that heady feeling of sex spiced with the thrill of being caught or the bliss of surrender. These two men might well be a drug for each other—the compulsion to be together runs both ways.

Max’s backstory comes out in little intervals between the sex scenes (the book is heavily front loaded with some hawt stuff), making Seve (short for Severino, it’s not a typo) one of the worst possible choices of partner. Maybe. It’s that maybe that keeps Max from running. The baggage Max bought back from London doesn’t make him such a great choice for Seve either, but Mac’s growth in understanding his role in his previously sordid choices let us hope that maybe this will all work out. His is a story of redemption, and one thing that made me like him better toward the end was that he knew the cost of his redemption might include Seve, and he was ready to pay it. His need for redemption was that great, and his reasons are doled out through the story, not plopped on the reader.

Max has a wonderful set of friends running through the story who care deeply for him, little though he feels he deserves it, and each of them is a small bright presence throughout the book. I was especially fond of Louis.

The back half of the book explodes with action, where the front was heavy on the sex, and sex actually plays a huge role in the action, though in a very different way. Unfortunately, the big relationship talk happened in this section, so while Max and Seve were hashing out some important issues, I was mentally screaming Not now! Take care of the problem in the kitchen first!

The emphasis is heavily on the men and their evolving relationship, told in Clare London’s trademark gritty prose, which reads very viscerally. The external plot wraps in one swift chapter with some really handwavy elements, which may not stand out for other readers as much as it does for me. Seve and Max have something more than sexual attraction, and although they and the readers have to go through a lot to get there, it’s a great place to end up. 4 marbles

Thousand Word Thursday Story from Clare London

OF NARCISSUS by Clare London
©2012

You may call my time at the river like this an indulgence. I call it an escape. I sit silently on the grassy bank, staring into the water, my skin as cool or warm as the weather allows me, but uncaring of any discomfort. It’s my time to be thoughtful.

My brothers scoff. “What’s wrong with you, Cecco? We don’t skulk around in our precious hours off, when there’s wine and women to be found in town. You waste time like a child. Like a girl.” For them, it’s the ultimate insult.


Papa laughs at me–I always hoped I was a favourite of his, being a late and unexpected addition to the family–yet there’s a harsh edge to it. “There’s no time for idleness, Cecco. There’s work to be done to help Mama.”

“Tired of being a housewife?” my brothers sneer. “We have your place ready at the forge any time you want!”

They see I haven’t grown into a lusty country man like them: that I don’t drink, that I’m nervous of women and show no appetite for them. But they think I’m slow, and it’s just a matter of time before I become like them. In the meantime, they tease my shyness mercilessly.

But the young man Papa hires to help clear the forge on busy weekdays sees me in a different way. His dark, sweaty curls fall over his forehead as he looks up at me through thick lashes. His gaze often follows me as I carry things about the yard for Papa. Sometimes his flush is not just from the heat of the fire.

Seated here today on the river bank, I think of him: his smooth-skinned jaw, striped with soot; his callused hands; his nervous, pretty smile. There’s a sudden splash as a fish breaks the surface, and I hear the plop as it dives again. I put aside my bread and cheese and scramble to my knees. If I perch at the edge of the bank and lean forward, I can see into the river. I see fish weaving between the fronds of sea ferns, and the rough and tumble of the depths ebbing around the uneven stones of the river bed.

And then I see the boy. I’m not startled–I’ve seen him before. He stares back up at me from under the surface, a smile on his face. He looks my age, with the same big eyes and unruly hair. But he never has the sad expression that Mama says she sees on my face. He looks cheerful and confident and … mischievous.

I’ve never heard his voice aloud, but I always know what he’s saying. “Has he spoken to you yet? Cecco, tell me at once!”

I smile back, ruefully. “No,” I whisper. “I think he’s afraid of Papa’s anger. He works hard in the forge, he has no time to stop and talk.”

“He wants to, though. I know!” The boy chuckles. “He likes you. You need time together.” A gust of wind blows suddenly over the river and the surface ripples. His face blurs briefly. It’s a beautiful face, though my brothers would snort to hear me describe a male that way.

“I cannot talk to him for you,” my friend says, suddenly sober. “You’d welcome that, wouldn’t you?”

I can’t help blushing. It’s as if he reads my mind. “I don’t have your courage.” The tree branches creak in the wind: the leaves rustle behind me. “I’m not handsome like you. I don’t have your words. I am afraid …”

“Of being yourself?” he whispers back.

I nod. Tears settle as a lump in my throat. My belly aches all the way to my groin. I know what I want–but I never dare seek it out.

“You deserve happiness, Cecco. You’re beautiful, just like me, though you never believe me.” His expression is sympathetic now, his eyes full of love that seems to be for me. “It’s not easy, and you must be careful of yourself. But you cannot deny your needs forever. Your dream of being an artist, your sensitive love of beauty, your need for a man to make you sob with pleasure and cry out in the night…”

“Hush!” My whole body feels hot now. “Someone’s coming!”

The water ripples again and I draw back. Behind me, someone pushes through the bushes, their boots crunching through the fallen leaves. It’s a heavy but hesitant step. I wonder if Papa has sent someone to fetch me back.

“Cecco?”

To my astonishment, it’s the boy from the forge. I just stare at him. I imagine I can hear the boy in the water laughing fondly at me. I almost feel him nudge me to speak. Go on!

“I like to come here,” I say. “It’s a quiet place.”

My voice sounds too high, but he smiles at me and nods. “A quiet place is good. The forge is hot and busy. And here … perhaps I can speak with you. Alone.”

We’re both blushing by now.

He likes you, Cecco!

Perhaps the courage and mischief of my friend in the river is contagious. I pat the grass beside me. “Will you sit for a while? I’d like to talk to you, too.”

He laughs, a burst of relief from his mouth, the tone high and excited and almost musical. That’s how I know this boy has dreams, too, that extend beyond a few hours’ manual labour in a forge. He drops to the ground beside me, wriggling to get comfortable, and it brings him closer. His thigh brushes mine. His body is warm with sweat and eagerness, but the cool wind blows the fragrance of the riverbank through his curls. I want to touch him. I know I will touch him.

We sit there for a moment, then laugh with ease. I slide a hand over his and he grasps mine in return.

I know the words will come, when I need them.
**********************************
Thank you, Clare! Here's some news about her latest release, complete with a little excerpt.

COMPULSION by Clare London

Available at Dreamspinner Press (in print and ebook), Amazon Kindle and other online bookstores.

BLURB: The past always catches up with you. Max Newman should know—he’s been running from his ever since he dropped out of Uni and made a disastrous move to the seedier side of London. Now he’s returned to Brighton to lick his wounds. Though Max believes the club scene is better left behind him, one night he lets his friends drag him out dancing. And suddenly the simple life he’s tried to lead gets complicated.

At Compulsion, the Medina Group’s newest hotspot, Max meets Seve Nunez, a member of the Medina management and a man used to taking what he wants. The sexual chemistry between Max and Seve immediately leads to an intimate encounter in the backyard of the club—just the kind of dangerous behavior Max tried to leave behind. Despite that, he can't help but crave more, and Seve seems just as eager.

But Max soon suspects that Seve may not be the scrupulous businessman he claims. Max has seen the Medina Group at work before, and what he saw got a good friend killed. He's not sure what future he has with Seve, but he'll have to decide whether to trust in Seve’s innocence or keep running. The wrong choice could land them both in mortal danger.

~~~~~~

EXCERPT:

I ordered a beer for myself. Tonight it tasted as sharp as if I’d been waiting for weeks, not days, for a drink. I savored the cold, blissful shock of it in my throat, the dribble of condensation on my hand from the bottle. Glancing back over to the table, I saw Jack and Louis had been joined by another couple of friends. They were all laughing, distracted. I finished the first beer quickly and ordered another. I meant to take my time drinking this one, but the cool liquid was both stimulating and seductive. I was still shaken from my talk with Jack, so I found a spot at the bar where I could lean on the counter, resting my back against a pillar. It meant I wasn’t jostled too often by other customers and I could look back over the seating area. The hope was that I’d calm down and recover my equilibrium, but the cruel, sorry memories of London wouldn’t leave me alone. I lifted the bottle to my mouth and back down a few more times and felt my mind retreat into itself, away from the hubbub and flashing lights. When I nodded to the barman for a third beer, I felt a residual sway in my body. Shit, I was out of practice.

This time I was handed a paper napkin with the bottle. I glanced at it, intending to discard it back on the bar. It was a promotional sheet with “Compulsion” written across one corner in bold but elegant script. Below that was printed “a Medina Group venue” and the website details of the new owners.

My stomach clenched. The words blurred slightly as my head spun with both anger and shock. It was a coincidence, wasn’t it? I peered at it again as if I’d discover I’d misread it.

Wishful bloody thinking. I crumpled the napkin with more force than was necessary and dropped it back on the counter.

 
********************************

Clare took the pen name London from the city where she lives, loves, and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home, she juggles her writing with the weekly wash, waiting for the far distant day when she can afford to give up her day job as an accountant. She’s written in many genres and across many settings, with novels and short stories published both online and in print. She says she likes variety in her writing while friends say she’s just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she’s happy.  Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic and sexy characters.

Clare currently has several novels sulking at that tricky chapter 3 stage and plenty of other projects in mind . . . she just has to find out where she left them in that frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home.

Find details of her publications and plenty of free fiction at her website, including an invitation to her mailing list. Visit her today and say hello!

Website : http://www.clarelondon.co.uk

Blog : http://clarelondon.livejournal.com/

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/clarelondon

Twitter: http://twitter.com/clare_london