If you look at the image above, that was basically me for most of my life. I wasn’t just indifferent to the holidays; I was a card-carrying member of the “I Hate Christmas” club. I was the guy rolling his eyes at the first notes of a carol, the one muttering under his breath while everyone else was roasting chestnuts. I genuinely despised the season. But if you know me now, you know that script has flipped. I’ve somehow crossed the line from “bah humbug” to actually humming along with the radio.
It wasn’t a random personality quirk; there’s a reason I hated it. Let’s be real: my family of origin was, to put it mildly, completely fucked up. It was a train wreck. Being gay on top of that definitely didn’t help matters; it just added a layer of isolation to an already volatile mix.
Then I spent years working retail as a makeup artist. If you’ve never worked a cosmetics counter in December, you haven’t seen the true face of humanity. I was trapped in a mall, drowning in a sea of aggressive shoppers demanding the perfect shade of red lipstick like their lives depended on it, all while the same five holiday songs played on an endless, maddening loop. The sensory overload of perfume, panic, and incessant jingling bells didn’t just annoy me—it completely wrecked the season. By the time I clocked out, the last thing I wanted to see was tinsel; I just wanted silence.
For a long time, the holidays weren’t a celebration—they were something I had to survive. But eventually, I escaped that hell. I got out, I built a life of my own, and most importantly, I met Ricardo.
Ricardo and I had a rollercoaster romance—off again, on again, spanning years—but through all the turbulence, he was undeniably the love of my life.
Then came my move to Mexico, and shortly after, the world fell apart. Ric passed away during the Covid epidemic, and I was absolutely gutted. The silence he left behind was deafening. But the following Christmas, sitting with that grief, I made a choice. I decided I needed to change my attitude, not just about the holidays, but about how I was processing everything.
I turned to the one thing that always makes sense to me: writing. I channeled that energy into a novella called Making It Glitter. The irony isn’t lost on me—after years of despising my time in retail, I wrote a romance about two guys falling in love while working at the mall, one dressed as an elf and the other as Santa. It was my way of taking the setting of my nightmares and turning it into a place of love.
Writing is what changed me.
Now that I’m away from retail and family drama, the holidays have become enjoyable for the first time. I even have a playlist of holiday music I’ve been listening to while working on my next holiday themed romance, The Naughty List.
I’ve been a huge fan of romantic comedies my entire life, and The Naughty series if a result.
First there’s The Naughty Professor, my gay version of The Nutty Professor. Coming the day after Christmas is The Naughty List, my first snowed in romance. This has been so much fun to write, and I daresay it’s much more romantic than I expected it to be. It kind of reminds me of one Christmas Ric and I were trapped in a cheap motel in Pennsylvania. We’d been driving back to Richmond from his family’s place in Ohio, accompanied by our chihuahua, Pepe. It was cozy, warm, and… I’ll keep the rest of that memory to myself. *wink*
Preorder The Naughty List now from Amazon, and lock in the sale price of 3.99. The price goes up to 4.99 on release day.
Sometimes, writing a rom-com means channeling deep emotion, exploring vulnerability, and digging into the human heart. And sometimes… it means writing two unhinged divas beating the hell out of each other with a rhinestone-encrusted purse.
This scene is one of my absolute favorites from The Naughty Professor. It’s pure chaos — cold cream, sequins, feathers, and profanity flying through the air like confetti at a drag brunch. Lux (formerly Juniper) is reborn, Velvetina Jackson is not having it, and what unfolds backstage at Badlands is nothing short of a sparkly war crime.
Grab a drink, maybe a boa, and prepare yourself for glitter-fueled violence, campy dialogue, and one of the funniest transformations I’ve ever written.
I woke up in a panic.
Everything was spinning — the lights, the ceiling, maybe my soul. I fluttered my eyelids open, and for a brief moment I imagined I had died and become a disco ball.
Then my brain rebooted.
Wait. Who was I? Where was I? Why did the floor feel like it was covered in rhinestones?
I pushed myself upright, swaying. “Okay,” I croaked. “Check for pulse. Check for dignity.”
No pulse problems. Dignity… pending results.
I looked up — and froze.
The mirror across the room reflected something tragic: black lipstick smudged like I’d made out with a chimney, raccoon eyeliner, a tangle of black and blue hair that looked like it had lost a fight with a leaf blower.
“Oh hell no,” I rasped. My reflection blinked back, equally horrified. “I am not that bitch anymore.”
Something inside me snapped, fizzed, and rewired all at once — like someone had poured espresso into my DNA. I felt awake for the first time in my life.
A grin curled across my lips. “I’m Lux.”
It came out naturally, like the name had been hiding under my tongue waiting for the right dramatic entrance.
Music thumped beyond the dressing-room door — heavy bass, a crowd screaming, and a deep masculine voice roaring, “JAX!”
I staggered to the door, cracked it open, and peeked out. There he was — gold thong, glitter and glory — Jax himself.
My muse, and the vessel that contained my creator, Dr. Sterling.
He was performing like sin in motion. The crowd adored him. Phones were flashing, hands reaching for him. I felt an ache of envy — no, not envy. Hunger.
I wanted to be out there too. To be seen, worshiped, and adored. But not looking like Siouxsie Sioux and Robert Smith’s unwanted love child.
I slammed the door and looked around for salvation. That’s when I saw it: a jar of cold cream sitting beside the mirror like a beacon from the gods of reinvention.
“Well,” I said to myself, “every resurrection starts with a deep cleanse.”
I dipped my fingers in and smeared the cool cream across my face. Black streaks slid down my cheeks in oily rivers. My eyeliner surrendered first, then the lipstick, until all that remained was… me.
And holy hell.
I leaned in. For the first time in my life, I actually saw her — wide eyes, soft mouth, cheekbones that could start small wars. No armor. No sarcasm. Just skin and light.
“Oh damn,” I whispered. “I’m this fucking hot?”
The universe, clearly amused, offered no comment.
But something was missing. No makeup, no sparkle — I looked like a clean canvas, and that just wouldn’t do. A diva without glitter is just a civilian.
I scanned the counter. Empty. Just a few lonely bowls of body glitter sparkled under the vanity lights.
Then I noticed her — sprawled on the floor like a collapsed chandelier: Velvetina Jackson, still out cold, mouth open in a perfect “O,” with one leg bent in a way that defied basic geometry.
“Sorry, sis,” I said, crouching beside her. “But desperate times call for petty crimes.”
I tried to pry her rhinestone-encrusted purse from her manicured grip, but the purse gave a stubborn little tug back.
I froze.
A low groan rose from the heap of sequins on the floor. One glitter-caked eyelid fluttered open.
“Unhand my Chanel knock-off!” Velvetina croaked. Her wig was sideways, one lash dangling like a sad tarantula on her cheek, but the menace was real.
“Oh, you’re awake,” I said brightly. “Great! Now go back to sleep.”
“Over my dead, perfectly contoured body!” She sat up with the grace of a resurrected diva, clutching the purse to her chest. “That’s Velvetina Jackson’s emergency glam kit, and I don’t share foundation shades or life advice with anybody!”
We locked eyes—predator versus glitter-addict.
I grabbed the purse and yanked. She yanked back. The purse made a noise like a dying accordion.
“Let go!” I hissed.
“Never!” she shrieked, wobbling to her feet in stilettos that could double as murder weapons.
She swung the purse like a mace. Lipsticks and false lashes went flying, a high-speed cloud of cosmetics. A compact whizzed past my ear, exploding against the mirror like a grenade of pressed powder.
“Girl!” I shouted. “Do you mind? I NEED THAT MAKEUP!”
Velvetina bared her teeth. “Nobody steals my look, baby—especially not a Hot Topic wannabe!”
“You fucking bitch!”
I lunged. She counter-lunged. We collided in a shower of sequins. For thirty glorious seconds, it was less catfight and more interpretive dance of rage—two sparkly demons tangled in a whirl of wigs, powders, and profanity.
“You fucking drama queen!” Velvetina growled. “Let go of my shit!”
She tried to choke me with her feather boa. I grabbed it mid-swing and yanked, spinning her like a glittery tornado. “You asked for drama!” I cried.
“I am drama!” she screamed back—right before tripping over her own stiletto heels.
Velvetina pinwheeled, arms flailing, and I swear time slowed down.
“Ya-a-a-as!” echoed through the room before she toppled backward into the vanity. A rain of rhinestones followed, and Velvetina Jackson went down.
Silence.
I stood there, panting, boa in one hand, purse in the other. Glitter drifted through the air like angel dust.
“Sweet dreams, queen.”
💋 The Naughty Professor officially hits all major retailers on October 16, but guess what? You don’t have to wait! It’s already live in my Cruz Publishing bookstore, where you can grab it early for just $3.99. Preorder now from the other retailers like Amazon and Kobo and lock in that price before it jumps to $4.99 on release day. This book is pure romantic-comedy chaos — glitter, lab coats, and love potions gone wrong. If you like your rom-coms sexy, smart, and a little bit unhinged (in the best way), The Naughty Professor is waiting for you right now at Cruz Publishing. 💫
I knew the moment I walked into Dr. Felix Sterling’s office that I’d found my next leading man—or at least, the messiest genius in a three-mile radius. His office was part library, part explosion, and part cry for help. Books everywhere. Three open laptops. A whiteboard covered in formulas that may or may not have been about lube viscosity.
Dr. Sterling himself was hunched behind a desk, chewing the end of a pen and looking like a gay Doogie Howser who’d aged into anxiety and never stopped pulling all-nighters.
Me: Dr. Sterling. Thanks for letting me barge into your natural habitat.
Felix: Oh! Yes! Thank you for coming. I—wait, not like that—I mean, thank you for visiting. [He shoves a pile of papers off a chair with a panicked gesture.] Please, sit down! I printed out a journal article for you but then spilled coffee on it. And ink. And possibly a chemical that makes mice fall in love.
Me: Happens to the best of us. So, you’re a tenured professor, a published researcher, and you’ve got a… very interesting extracurricular situation.
Felix:[blushes hard] If you’re referring to the, um, transformation serum, that was honestly never supposed to be public. I synthesized it during a particularly lonely Valentine’s Day. [beat] They say necessity is the mother of invention, but loneliness? She’s a wicked stepmother with a strap-on.
Me: Wow. Okay, let’s unpack that. Are you lonely?
Felix:[laughs nervously, then stops] Yes. Profoundly. I haven’t had a boyfriend. Ever. Not a real one. I mean, there was that guy from Reddit who mailed me a lock of his hair, but that doesn’t count, does it?
Me: …No. That counts in court records, not dating history.
Felix: Exactly. I’m just not… I don’t know. People don’t see me that way. I talk too fast. I care too much about obscure 18th-century aphrodisiacs. I own a custom lab coat with my D&D character embroidered on it.
Me: Sounds like husband material to me. But you did create a serum that changes your entire personality?
Felix: It’s more than that. The compound rewires neural inhibition, boosts testosterone, and hijacks frontal-lobe regulation. It unleashes the part of me that isn’t scared all the time. The part that doesn’t double-check his outgoing emails for tone. [quietly] The part people actually want.
Me: Felix. C’mon. You are the whole package. You just don’t see it.
Felix: That’s sweet of you to say, but I assure you, the only people who’ve called me “hot” were under the influence of my own synthetic aphrodisiac. And it was a peer-reviewed double-blind trial, so they didn’t technically know it was me.
Me: Felix. Babe. What if you drank the serum right now?
Felix: Oh no no no no—absolutely not. The last time I did that, I woke up with glitter in places I don’t talk about, a tattoo of a dolphin with abs, and a police citation for “inappropriate hot tub evangelism.”
Me: Exactly. That’s the kind of energy this blog needs. For the readers.
Felix: But—I—this is supposed to be a serious academic interview!
Me: This is serious. I’m seriously begging you. C’mon, just one sip. For science. For love. For the readers who like a good “nerd to thirst trap” transformation.
Felix: sighs Fine. But if I start stripping, you have to turn the recorder off. Unless it’s for Patreon content.
Me: Deal.
Felix opens a drawer and retrieves a small, glowing vial. He eyes it like it’s his worst idea and his best chance. With one last glance at me — equal parts dread and curiosity — he knocks it back like a man surrendering to fate.
He shudders. A low sound escapes him. And then… he changes.
The curve of his spine straightens. The nervous fidgeting stills. His eyes sharpen with intent. One eyebrow arches in slow, sexy defiance. The glasses come off and so does the act.
Jax: Ahhh. That’s better. [Cracks his neck, flashes a grin so smug it should be illegal.] You must be Ian. You’ve got the kind of vibe that makes a man wanna misbehave in a hotel elevator.
Me: I—okay. Hi, Jax. Welcome to the interview.
Jax: Thanks, darlin’. Felix gets all shy about this part, but I’ve got no such hang-ups. What do you wanna know? I’m an open book. A very naughty, slightly bent book.
Me: Well, people are curious. Who are you, exactly?
Jax: I’m what happens when Felix stops worrying about tenure and starts worrying about pleasure. I’m the part of him that says, “Screw the rules,” and then actually does. I like good wine, bad decisions, and kissing boys who use big words. [leans forward] Especially if they wear glasses and pretend they’re not kinky.
Me: You seem… confident.
Jax: Oh, I am. Confidence is just chemistry with better posture. I don’t waste time overthinking. I want something, I say it. I feel something, I do something. And if someone wants me? Baby, I notice.
Me: So you’re basically Felix, minus the insecurity.
Jax: Exactly. Felix is all heart and no hustle. I am the hustle. And sometimes, people need both. [pauses, then softens — just a little] He wants to be loved, you know. Not just admired for his brain. He wants someone to look at him and see him — the stammering, brilliant, lonely man who’s never quite believed he was enough. He doesn’t think he deserves to be wanted.
Me: But you do?
Jax: Oh, sweetheart. I know he does. That’s why I exist. [grins again, full heat this time] And if anyone needs convincing? I’ve got a few ideas that don’t require words. Just consent… and maybe a sturdy table.
The Naughty Professor is available to preorder now. Come fall for Felix. Try to survive Jax. And maybe discover that sometimes, the messiest love stories are the ones that actually stick. The preorder price is 3.99, and goes up to 4.99 on release day!
I wasn’t scheduled for anything else today, which meant one thing: freedom. Sweet, beautiful, no-lube-needed freedom. No studio lights, no body oil, no terrible dialogue I had to deliver while holding a plank position.
I leaned against the front desk like I had nowhere better to be, which was a lie, but a cute one. Petyr was scrolling on his phone, probably looking at tweets about union strikes or articles on OSHA violations. Dimitri had a sudoku book open, pencil tapping against the counter like it was a metronome set to “mildly annoyed Russian.”
“Another thrilling day in adult entertainment customer service,” I said, grinning. “Tell me, gentlemen… when you dreamed of escaping Soviet oppression, is this what you pictured? Lube shipments and call sheet drama?”
Petyr snorted. “Back then, I dreamed of eating a sandwich without standing in a line for three hours.”
“Dream big,” I said.
Dimitri didn’t look up from his puzzle. “At least this job comes with free coffee. Even if it tastes like sadness and broken promises.”
I laughed. They were both like that—sharp, dry, impossible to rattle. They were also disgustingly in love. It had been what, decades now? Since before I was born, probably. Every time I caught them sneaking little glances at each other or making dirty old man jokes, part of me wanted to roll my eyes… but a bigger part of me just… wanted.
I wasn’t used to that feeling. Most of the time, I was perfectly fine just floating. Hookups, jokes, nights on stage with a mic in my hand, making people laugh so they didn’t notice I was deflecting my loneliness like a human pinball machine. Love was for other people. People with stable home lives and functional trust issues.
But watching Dimitri scribble in his sudoku while Petyr tilted his phone toward him to share some meme, and seeing the way they smiled at each other like it was all still new? Damn. I wanted that. Someday. Maybe.
If I didn’t die of sarcasm poisoning first.
I was about to say goodbye and head out when the phone on the desk rang. Dimitri picked up, still holding his pencil like he was ready to stab something if this was another spam caller. “Boys On Film, how can I direct your… oh. It’s you.” His whole tone shifted. “Yes, sir. He’s standing right here.” Then he held the receiver toward me like it was radioactive.
“It’s the boss.”
I blinked. “Jack?”
Dimitri nodded. “Da.”
I grabbed the phone, a little confused. Jack never called me directly unless it was about a scene. “Nico Steele, local legend, speaking.”
Jack’s voice crackled on the line. “Cute. Listen, I need you to come to the production meeting. Conference room. Ten minutes.”
I frowned. “Production meeting? Why? I’m not a producer. Or a director. Or even emotionally stable enough to be in that room.”
“You’ll understand when you get there,” Jack said. Then he hung up.
I lowered the phone slowly. “Well. That’s not ominous at all.”
“Good luck,” Petyr said, already back to doom scrolling.
Dimitri winked. “If there are bagels, bring me one.”
I headed toward the conference room, curiosity buzzing in my chest like a bad caffeine hit. This was weird. What did Jack want me there for? Was I in trouble? Was I getting fired? Promoted? Canceled?
Right as I turned the corner near the makeup suite, I almost collided with… oh no.
Bradley.
He was limping like a war survivor. Moving like every joint hurt. And his face… Jesus. The area around his eyebrows was an angry, blistering red. Like he’d lost a fight with a glue gun.
I winced in sympathy. “Dude… you okay?”
Bradley just shook his head, slow and defeated. His eyes were wide and glassy, like he’d just seen the face of God, and it was wearing a waxing apron.
“Eyebrows?” I guessed, nodding at his scorched forehead zone.
He gave me a barely there nod. His mouth opened like he wanted to speak, but no words came out. Just air and trauma.
I wanted to hug him. Which was new. Physical affection wasn’t usually my default setting. But there was something about the way he looked right then. Like a kicked puppy who’d been dumped in a rainstorm, that tugged at something soft in my chest.
Before I could act on the impulse, he mumbled, “I’m supposed to meet Jack and Liam for… something. A meeting.”
My ears perked up. “Wait. No way. Me too. Come on, just follow me.”
Bradley hesitated, like he didn’t trust the universe anymore. Which was fair, but he limped after me, anyway.
And as we headed toward the conference room, side by side, something in my stomach did a weird little somersault. Like… anticipation. Or dread. Or… something else I couldn’t name yet.
Bradley shuffled next to me like a condemned man heading toward the firing squad. Every step looked like it hurt. Hell, even watching him walk hurt.
I kept glancing sideways at him, debating whether to put an arm around his shoulders. Would that be weird? Too much? Too soon? Probably. But… damn. The poor guy looked like he’d been through a full season of America’s Next Top Traumatized Porn Star.
We hit the hallway leading toward the conference room. Carpeted, quiet, the kind of corporate ambiance that screamed “free coffee and passive aggression.”
Bradley cleared his throat. “Do you… uh… do you know what this meeting’s about?”
I shook my head. “Nope. Jack was super evasive. Real ‘I’ll tell you when you get there’ energy. Like a horror movie, but with worse lighting.”
Bradley sighed. “Awesome.”
There was a beat of silence. Then, just loud enough for me to hear, he muttered, “Can’t even sit down…”
I glanced over. “Wait. Why?”
He stopped walking. Turned toward me. His eyes were shiny, like actual tears pooled up along the lower lids.
And in the most broken, betrayed voice imaginable, he said, “That crazy old lady… bleached my asshole.”
I froze. My brain short-circuited. Like, full system reboot.
My mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
And then, before I could talk myself out of it, I opened my arms wide. “Oh, buddy… come here.”
Bradley didn’t even hesitate. He stepped right into my chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I wrapped him up in both arms, pulled him tight… and immediately regretted how hard I squeezed when he made a tiny, wounded noise and whispered, “Ow… my back…”
“Shit, sorry.” I loosened my grip fast, hands going soft on his shoulders. “Forgot about the… uh… full body trauma.”
We laughed, both of us quick and awkward, and then kept walking.
When we pushed open the conference room door, the full cast of characters were already mid-salad. Laura, Liam, Jack, Nessa, and Moira were all sitting around like the judges’ panel on some adult industry version of Shark Tank. Coffee cups were everywhere. Half-eaten chopped salads. Nessa had her phone out like she was live-tweeting Bradley’s suffering.
Jack looked up first. “Grab some food and have a seat.”
There was a buffet spread along the back wall. Sandwiches. Fruit. A giant bowl of mixed greens that looked like sadness coated with dressing.
Bradley made a beeline for the farthest end of the table, keeping his distance from anything leafy.
I drifted behind him, watching the way Nessa’s eyes lit up when she spotted him. Like a cat that discovered a bird with a broken wing.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” I muttered under my breath. I parked myself next to him at the buffet line, close enough to block her line of attack.
Bradley hovered awkwardly over the food, looking like none of it made sense to him. Like he wasn’t sure if eating would make the pain better or worse.
Trying to cheer him up, I nudged his shoulder. “You know what helps after a traumatic cosmetic experience?”
He glanced at me, wary. “What?”
“Carbs. Lots and lots of carbs. Bagels are nature’s apology letter.”
That got him. A tiny, reluctant laugh broke out of him. Soft but real. His first actual smile since I’d seen him.
And wow.
Hearing that sound, God. It hit me right in the chest. Made me want to hear it again. Immediately.
So I kept going.
I grabbed a sandwich and held it up like I was a game show model showing off a prize. “This one’s got turkey and provolone. Full of healing properties. Also, I’m pretty sure eating it will reverse the psychological damage caused by Lola’s… services.”
Bradley’s laugh got a little louder. “Not sure that’s medically accurate.”
“Oh, I don’t do medical accuracy,” I said, grinning. “I do emotional support and poor decisions.”
He smiled down at the sandwich tongs like they were suddenly the funniest thing he’d ever seen.
We were still standing there, giggling over deli meats, when Jack cleared his throat.
Both of us turned toward the table.
Everyone—and I mean everyone—was staring at us.
Laura had one eyebrow raised, like she was mentally taking notes. Liam was biting back a smirk. Moira had gone into full gossip-mode, sipping her coffee slowly like she was watching a soap opera. And Nessa… Nessa looked like Christmas had come early.
Jack gave us a look that said “Anytime, gentlemen.”
Sheepishly, Bradley and I grabbed our food and hustled to two empty chairs side by side.
As we sat down—Bradley gingerly, like every surface was made of hot coals—I stole one last glance at him.
He was still red around the eyebrows. Still moving like he needed medical leave. Still adorable in that whole wounded-animal sort of way.
I didn’t know what this meeting was about.
But I suddenly didn’t mind being here at all.
Jack cleared his throat again. “Alright. Let’s call this meeting to order…”
And with that, we were off.
Jack cleared his throat again, tapping a pen against the table like he was warming up for a TED Talk. “First off… Nico.”
I blinked. “Me?”
Jack nodded, giving me a rare, genuine smile, the kind he usually reserved for Liam or big subscriber milestones. “We want to thank you for trusting us with your comedy career. It means a lot. We’re gonna work our asses off to make sure you’re a success.”
My stomach did this weird, flippy thing. “Wow. Thanks, boss.” I gave him a little salute. “I like the sound of ‘success.’ Sounds expensive.”
The table chuckled.
Nessa leaned forward, her huge acrylic nails tapping against her iced coffee like castanets. “And speaking of expensive… your management contract’s ready.” She pointed at me, all sly grin and Bronx attitude. “After this meeting, I’ll give it to you to look over.”
Liam immediately jumped in, waving a forkful of salad for emphasis. “And get an entertainment lawyer to review it. Seriously.”
I gave him a thumbs-up. “Obviously. I like to know exactly how I’m selling my soul.”
“Good man,” Liam said.
Jack set his pen down with a little clap against the table. “Okay. Now, for the real reason, we’re all here.”
Everyone shifted in their chairs. Moira put down her phone. Even Laura sat up straighter.
Jack gestured toward Nessa like he was passing a live grenade. “Ness, you wanna explain?”
Nessa beamed like it was Christmas morning and she’d just unwrapped a pair of Louboutins. “Absolutely.” She flipped open her notebook and pushed her sunglasses up onto her head like a Wall Street executive, if Wall Street executives wore hoop earrings and hot pink lipstick.
“So. Earlier today, I had a visit from a group of Japanese businessmen.” She gave a dramatic pause, letting that sink in. “They’re here in the States for some kind of… tech conference? Anyway, they found our site, watched a few of our videos, and they want to hire us, Boys On Film, to produce a custom scene for them.”
Laura blinked. “Wait… an outside contract? Like… an actual commission job?”
Nessa nodded. “Yep. Fully funded. Their production company wired over the deposit already.”
There was a collective buzz of excitement around the table. This was big. Like… real-world, industry-recognized big.
“They’ve offered…” Nessa flipped a page for dramatic effect. “…almost two hundred thousand dollars for the project.”
The entire room went silent.
Even Jack looked like he might faint.
For about three full seconds, the only sound was Moira’s straw sucking the last inch of coffee from her cup.
Then, all at once…
“Two hundred K?!”
“Holy shit.”
“Are you serious?”
I just sat there blinking. Even Bradley—poor traumatized, still-pink Bradley—looked like he was having a mild out-of-body experience.
Liam held up a hand like a traffic cop. “Okay, hold on. This all sounds amazing, but… what exactly are we making for them?”
Jack smirked. “Glad you asked.”
All eyes swung back to Nessa. She bit her lower lip, clearly savoring the buildup like it was dessert.
“When I heard what they wanted,” she said, voice syrupy with fake innocence, “the first person I thought of… was Bradley.”
Everyone turned.
Bradley froze like a deer caught in very judgmental headlights.
“Wait, what? Why me?” His voice cracked halfway through.
“Yeah… why Bradley?” Liam asked, glancing between them.
Nessa clapped her hands once. “Because the project is… drumroll please…”
Moira tapped on the table obligingly.
“…a gay bukkake video.”
The room went dead silent again.
I felt my pulse kick up, suddenly wide awake. “Okay wait… I’ve heard that word before… but I don’t actually know what it is.” I looked around the room like I was expecting someone to say it meant “group hug” or “team-building exercise.”
Laura gasped like I’d just admitted to not knowing how to use Google. “Oh, my God. No. Are you sure we wanna go there? Boys On Film’s never done something that hardcore before!”
Nessa waved her off like she was swatting at a fly. “Laura, sweetie, did you not hear me? Two. Hundred. Grand.”
That shut everyone up again.
I mean… we were all whores in different ways. But two hundred thousand dollars? That was… retirement money. Health insurance money. Rent-for-a-few years money.
Liam gave Jack a look. “We’ve… never done anything like this before.”
Jack’s expression stayed cool and calculating. “We’ll figure it out.”
I raised my hand like I was back in high school. “Okay, but like… what is it, though? Someone explain for the people in the room who don’t have a porn PhD.”
Moira snorted into her coffee.
Nessa smiled at me sweetly. “It’s simple, baby. One guy kneels on the floor… and a bunch of other guys… finish on him.”
My brain took about five full seconds to process that.
I turned to Bradley just in time to see all the color drain from his face like a cartoon character fainting.
He pushed back from the table like he was about to make a run for it. “Hell no,” he said. Loud and immediate. “Absolutely not. There’s no way I’m letting a bunch of guys jizz all over me. No. Nope. Not happening.”
I kind of wanted to applaud. The man had conviction.
Jack leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table, that signature wicked grin spreading across his face. “Would you do it… for twenty thousand bucks?”
Bradley froze mid-freakout.
I could practically see the math happening behind his eyes. Rent. Debt. Food. Survival.
He swallowed hard.
And then, after the most painful, reluctant pause in history, he said, voice both soft and doomed:
“Yes. Yes, I’ll do it.”
Heads up, babes! The Casting Couch is officially up for preorder at your favorite online bookstore—and trust me, you’ll want to lock it in early. The preorder price is just $4.99, but it jumps to $5.99 on release day, July 17. That’s one hot dollar saved—use it to tip your favorite fantasy or buy a pack of gum for the awkward scenes. Either way, grab your copy now and get ready for a hilarious, steamy ride full of ex-cons, adult film chaos, and one seriously complicated crush. 💋
Every June, we celebrate Pride—not just love, but resistance, survival, and the ongoing fight to be seen. For many of us, Pride is glitter and parades. But for others—especially in history—it was silence, code words, and stolen moments in the dark.
In writing The Fire Beneath the Frost, I kept thinking about how many love stories never got told. Queer people in the Soviet Union were criminalized, brutalized, erased. And yet—they loved. They found ways.
The USSR and LGBTQ Identity: Erasure as Policy
In 1934, Stalin criminalized male homosexuality under Article 121 of the criminal code. It stayed on the books until 1993—two years after the Soviet Union collapsed. Men convicted under this law were imprisoned, often subjected to forced labor, “corrective” rape, and blackmail. It wasn’t just the law—it was the culture. LGBTQ identity was painted as bourgeois deviance or Western corruption. It was considered anti-Soviet to live as your full self.
Women weren’t criminalized in the same way, but not because the USSR was enlightened. Lesbians simply didn’t exist in the official record. The state erased them by pretending they weren’t real—denying visibility, dignity, and identity.
To survive, queer people went underground. Literally, sometimes. Secret clubs. Nicknames. One glance across a room that could change your life—or end it.
Love, Hidden and Burning
In The Fire Beneath the Frost, Dimitri and Petyr live through the final gasps of the USSR. One is a soldier returned from Afghanistan, broken and trying to find himself. The other is a married man working in a government-run factory, holding secrets behind a smile. They fall in love not in spite of the world they live in—but because of it. They are each other’s breath of freedom.
Their love is tender, messy, forbidden—and absolutely real. Just like the love stories that were never recorded, never spoken of, never celebrated during Soviet times. TFBTF is fiction, but it’s rooted in truth. In the hidden history of our queer elders. In the resilience of love when it has to bloom in the cracks.
Pride as Protest—and as Memory
Pride Month is about more than visibility. It’s about honoring those who couldn’t be visible. Those who had to code their feelings in poetry and posture. Who were arrested, or exiled, or forced into marriages they didn’t want. Who died before they ever got to say, “I love him,” out loud.
And it’s about reclaiming that space. Saying the quiet things boldly. Writing books like The Fire Beneath the Frost, where two Soviet men fall in love, lose each other, and—decades later—find their way back.
Because sometimes Pride means remembering what it took to get here. And who never got to come along.
If You’ve Ever Loved in Silence
This one’s for you.
For the boy who wore his sister’s scarf in the mirror and got slapped. For the girl who married a man because she didn’t see any other way. For the soldier who kissed his lover once, in a snowy alley, and never again. For the artist whose paintings were burned. For the factory worker who felt everything and said nothing.
For all the hidden stories—The Fire Beneath the Frost is a love letter to you.
Preorder your copy of The Fire Beneath The Frost today from your favorite online retailer. It releases on 12 June, 2025.
I held out my hand in the dark. The flickering credits lit Dimitri’s face in pulses—white, then shadow, then white again. He stared at my open palm like it might bite him.
I said nothing. I didn’t need to. He understood what I was offering. Not just help from the creaky velvet seat, but something else. A question I couldn’t speak aloud.
After a long second—two, maybe three—Dimitri slid his hand into mine. His skin was warm. Warmer than I expected, and dry like paper in winter. I tightened my grip and lifted him to his feet.
And then I let go.
We shuffled down the narrow aisle with the other filmgoers, coats rustling like dry leaves, boots scraping the cracked tile floor. I kept my hands jammed in my coat pockets, fingers still tingling from that brief, stupid, beautiful contact.
Outside, the cold wrapped around us like a punishment. The night air smelled like burnt coal and wet stone. My breath came out in ghosts. I couldn’t look at Dimitri. Not directly. Not yet.
The streets were mostly empty—too late for commuters, too early for the drunks. A trolley clattered past on the far side of the square, its windows steamed up, casting yellow light like a terrible memory.
I should’ve left it there. Should’ve said goodnight, gone home to a mug of watery tea, and tried to pretend that a man like Dimitri never would have taken my hand in the dark. But I couldn’t stop thinking about what I saw in the restroom earlier.
He was leaning against the cracked porcelain sink, with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Sergei. One of the old guard from Sanctuary. He nodded when he saw me and said nothing—but I knew what that meant.
“Is it still there?” I asked him casually, like I was asking about the price of eggs.
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at me, eyes sharp. Then: “No. Moved last week. Same password. Bathhouse on Kirochnaya, three blocks from here.”
I barely had time to thank him before he stubbed out the cigarette on the sink and vanished like smoke.
And now here I was, walking with Dimitri, who might ruin everything.
If I was wrong—if I’d imagined the way he looked at me, the way he sat just a little too close in the cinema—then this was suicide.
If I was wrong, he could report me. One anonymous phone call to the wrong party official and I’d disappear like that cigarette smoke. Not just me, either. Every man at Sanctuary, every man who ever trusted me.
I had Vera, thank God. She could say all the right things. She could cry on cue. Our neighbors loved her. She’d never crack.
But if Dimitri ever found out that she and I were fake—just a pair of ghosts in a frame—then I’d be out of alibis. And Vera… she didn’t deserve to go down with me.
I couldn’t tell him. I wouldn’t tell him. If this night led to anything—if it became a story instead of a mistake—I’d tell him Vera didn’t know a thing. I’d lie through my teeth to keep her safe.
We walked in silence. Our boots crunched on the old frost. The bathhouse loomed just a couple of blocks ahead, abandoned by the city but reborn by us. Its windows were dark. Always dark.
Halfway there, Dimitri stopped walking.
“What is Sanctuary?” he asked.
My heart made a noise I didn’t care for. Not a beat, no, something worse. Like a hinge breaking.
I turned toward him. Dimitri looked serious. Not angry. Not frightened. Just… wary. Like someone listening to a song he didn’t know the words to.
And that was the moment. The moment to turn around, to say “Forget it, let’s get a drink,” to laugh it off like it was a joke.
But I looked at him, like I really looked at him. And something in his face, his eyes, maybe, or the way he tilted his chin like he expected pain, made me want to put my hands on his shoulders and promise him everything would be okay. Even if it wouldn’t.
“It’s a club,” I breathed. “A secret one. Very exclusive.”
He frowned. “For what?”
I exhaled, fog billowing between us.
“For men,” I said. “Like ourselves.”
He blinked. “Like—what do you mean?”
I didn’t answer. Just started walking again, slowly. He followed.
I didn’t know if that meant Dimitri understood, or if he just didn’t want to be left alone on the street. Maybe both.
Each step closer to the bathhouse felt like a countdown. To what, I wasn’t sure. Salvation, or exposure. Either way, I’d know by the end of the night.
The old bathhouse loomed like a relic of some forgotten empire, all crumbling stone and ironwork detail blackened by years of soot and cold. The windows had been boarded up long ago, and the glass that remained was warped and yellowed like old teeth.
As we approached, I spotted a man lingering just to the side of the main entrance. Heavy coat, fur hat pulled low, cigarette glowing between his fingers. I knew his face. Mikhail, or maybe it was Milosz—names were slippery here, rarely used.
I nodded once. “Where’s the entrance tonight?”
He didn’t speak, just jutted his chin toward the alley that snaked down the left side of the building.
“Thanks,” I muttered, and led Dimitri down the narrow passageway.
The alley was quiet, shielded from the wind, but no warmer for it. A rusted drainpipe dripped somewhere behind us. Halfway down, we found the door—plain wood, painted gray, with a handle that looked like it had been yanked off an industrial freezer.
I knocked. Once, then twice, then once again. The rhythm, like always.
It opened a crack. A man with sharp cheekbones and a shaven head peered out, face cast in shadow.
“Who sent the invitation?” he asked.
I didn’t hesitate. “The conductor’s baton,” I said.
He nodded, unimpressed. “Two rubles each.”
Of course. I pulled my hand from my pocket and handed him a folded bill. He took it, inspected it like it might be counterfeit, then swung the door open wider and stepped aside.
“Welcome to Sanctuary,” he muttered.
We stepped inside.
The first thing that hit me was the heat. Not just warmth—heat. The kind that made you want to rip off your coat and shirt and skin. It smelled like old steam, sweat, cigarettes, and the ghost of something floral—someone had brought cologne, bless them.
The lights were dim, with low-watt amber bulbs that made everyone look better than they were. The ceilings were high, still arched, like in the days when men came here to sweat out their sins. Cracked tiles lined the floor, and the walls were flaking paint in pastel shades of green and blue.
There were maybe twenty, thirty men. Some milling about in twos and threes, talking in low voices. Others leaned against the walls like they were part of the furniture. At the far end of the room was a bar—more of a table with bottles on it, but it did the job. A mirror hung crookedly behind it, and a fan turned lazily above, doing absolutely nothing.
“I’ll get the first round,” Dimitri said suddenly.
I blinked at him. “What?”
“You paid to get us in.” His jaw was set like he was volunteering for the front line. “Let me get the drinks.”
I didn’t argue.
We approached the bar, and the bartender, a man who looked like he’d lived through several regimes and hated all of them, eyed us with suspicion before grunting. Dimitri ordered vodka. Two shots. The genuine kind, not the potato-flavored turpentine they served in worker bars.
The bartender slammed the glasses down and swept the money away before we could blink.
We took our drinks and started walking. I didn’t lead. I let Dimitri take it in, his eyes darting to the shadows, the alcoves, the archways that once led to changing rooms and now led to secrets.
That was when he stopped.
He froze mid-step. Glass still in hand.
I turned to follow his gaze.
In the far corner, half-hidden behind a concrete column and a threadbare curtain, two men stood very close. One pressed the other against the wall, his hand buried in the other’s hair. Their mouths moved together, slow and hungry, like they had all the time in the world.
Dimitri stared. He didn’t blink. His jaw slackened just slightly.
I said nothing.
The noise of the room fell away. It always did in moments like this, when the rest of the world didn’t matter. Only the breath between us. The beat of a heart. The truth rising up from somewhere too deep to deny.
I took a breath. Held it.
Then, with all the calm I didn’t feel, I reached for his hand.
He didn’t look at me. Not yet. He stared at my hand like it was something that might explode.
Then Dimitri looked up.
His eyes—God, those eyes—widened, not in fear, but in recognition. Something clicked. Some ancient lock deep in his chest finally gave way.
And then, slowly, he slid his hand into mine.
It was warm. Steady.
I wanted to shout out loud and drag him out onto the cracked tile floor and dance until our boots fell apart. I wanted to kiss him right there, just to prove I hadn’t imagined the whole thing. But I didn’t do any of those things.
Instead, I just squeezed his hand.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I hadn’t been wrong.
I didn’t say a word as I led him away from the soft murmur of voices and the flickering amber bulbs. Just tightened my grip on his hand and walked, careful not to rush, careful not to let go.
There was a quiet alcove off to the side, half-shielded by an old shower curtain still hanging from a bent rod. The tiles back here were chipped worse than the rest, the air damp with ghostly memories of water and steam. It was far enough from the others to feel hidden, but not so far as to feel dangerous.
We stopped.
I turned to face him, and he looked at me like I had just pulled him underwater. His eyes searched mine, restless, unsure whether to fight or surrender.
We still held our drinks.
“To surviving another week of blankets,” I said, trying for humor, but my voice cracked halfway through.
He blinked. Then nodded, and we both tipped back our vodka. It hit like fire and smoke.
Dimitri lowered his glass and stared at it for a long moment.
Then, in the quietest voice I’d ever heard from him, he asked, “Why did you bring me here?”
His voice trembled. Not with fear, at least not only that, but with something heavier. Hope, maybe. Or a longing that hadn’t yet found a place to land.
I took the glass from Dimitri’s hand and set it down beside mine on the low ledge. Then I stepped forward, into the small pocket of space between us.
He didn’t move.
I reached up, rested my fingers on his jaw, and saw his throat jump as he swallowed.
“Because I couldn’t keep pretending,” I said, my voice low. “I couldn’t stop thinking about what you might taste like.”
And then I kissed him.
There was no music. No crescendo of violins or clamor of trumpets—just the wet click of our lips and the pounding of my heart, too loud in my own ears.
He gasped into my mouth, like he’d forgotten how to breathe until now.
It wasn’t a perfect kiss. Our noses bumped, and my hand shook a little, and I felt him trembling beneath his coat like a storm just starting. But when he kissed me back, God, when he kissed me back, it was like the world cracked open.
I broke away first, only because I had to. Because if I didn’t, I was going to fall apart right there.
We were both breathing hard. Not like men who had climbed stairs, but like men who’d been holding their breath their whole lives and had finally exhaled.
“This,” I said softly, brushing my thumb against his cheek. “This is why I brought you here.”
Dimitri blinked, dazed. “Because of the kiss?”
I nodded. “Because of everything leading up to it.”
And Dimitri kissed me again.
This time, there was nothing gentle about it. It was hunger and terror, and his hands clutched at my coat like he was afraid I might disappear. I pressed him back against the cold tile wall and gave him everything I had.
We broke apart, panting, eyes locked. Every part of me felt like it was sparking.
There was a pause. Long. Heavy. Beautiful.
Then Dimitri whispered, “What happens next?”
Preorder your copy of The Fire Beneath The Frost from your favorite online bookstore now.
There’s something radical about writing queer romance in a world that doesn’t want it to exist. That’s especially true when the world in question is the crumbling Soviet Union, and the lovers are two men who can barely speak the truth out loud, much less live it.
In The Fire Beneath the Frost, I tell the story of Dimitri and Petyr, two factory workers in late-Soviet Leningrad who fall in love under the grinding weight of silence, shame, and survival. They work side by side producing endless rows of scratchy green wool blankets—function over comfort, just like everything else in their lives. And yet, amid the roar of the looms and the stink of machine oil, something tender takes root. Something dangerous. Something warm.
And then they touch.
Writing high-heat romance in this kind of setting isn’t just a challenge—it’s a statement. These aren’t just sex scenes. They’re acts of defiance. They’re love letters in code. They’re the only time Dimitri and Petyr can fully be themselves in a world that insists they don’t exist.
Queer sex in fiction—especially historical fiction—is often a risky proposition. Too many stories fall into tragedy, where sex becomes a symbol of downfall or shame. But I wanted to do something different in TFBTF. I wanted their intimacy to be a lifeline. A place where they could fall apart and be whole at the same time. Yes, it’s erotic. Yes, it’s explicit. But above all, it’s about survival. Emotional survival. Identity survival. Love, scraped raw and held close like contraband.
There’s one scene I keep coming back to as I write. Something terrible has happened—something Dimitri couldn’t control. And Petyr, understanding exactly what kind of pain Dimitri is carrying, offers himself up. “Take it out on me.” It’s not a simple line. It’s a confession, a dare, and a door flung wide. What follows is sex that teeters on the edge of violence and collapses into safety. It’s beautiful. It’s terrifying. It’s not what they’re supposed to have, but it’s what they do have—and it’s theirs.
Writing these moments isn’t just about heat for heat’s sake. It’s about showing that queer people have always found ways to express love and desire, even when the world is cold, repressive, and watching. It’s about saying that we’ve always been here, burning quietly, even when history tried to bury us under wool and silence.
If that kind of love story speaks to you—if you’ve ever longed for queer romance that aches, that fights, that burns hot against the cold—then I invite you to meet Dimitri and Petyr.
You can preorder your copy of The Fire Beneath the Frost now from your favorite online bookstore. Trust me: their love might be forbidden, but once you feel the heat, you won’t forget it.
Let’s just say the basement of Blackwood (better known as Sodom) has seen its share of secrets… but none quite like this.
In this exclusive scene from Prisoners of Sodom: The Betrayal, Austin and Mario find themselves trapped between danger, desire, and a wall of dusty files. What starts as tension turns electric, as these two men—each with his own secrets and scars—finally give in to the pull between them. It’s raw, it’s hot, and it just might be the moment that changes everything.
If you haven’t stepped into the world of Prisoners of Sodom yet, this is your invitation. Come for the power plays and psychological mind games… stay for the sex, the stakes, and the men who refuse to break.
The scene continues down below—and don’t say I didn’t warn you. 🔥
Austin settled into the ancient chair, its springs creaking in protest beneath his weight. The computer booted with a series of wheezes and clicks that sounded alarmingly like death rattles. While waiting for the ancient machine to stagger to life, he pulled the nearest box toward him, coughing as a cloud of dust billowed upward.
The cardboard was soft with age, disintegrating at the corners. Inside, manila folders were packed so tightly they might have been wedged in with a hammer. Each bore typed labels, some with handwritten notes in faded blue ink.
“Might as well start somewhere,” he muttered to himself, pulling out the first folder.
Hours passed in a blur of paper and dust. Austin developed a rhythm: open folder, scan document, type basic information into the database, move to the next. The work was mind-numbing but oddly soothing in its monotony. Here, surrounded by the forgotten history of thousands of lives, Austin could almost forget his own circumstances.
Almost.
By midday, he’d opened a dozen boxes, each more deteriorated than the last. In one, he discovered a nest of desiccated roaches, their translucent bodies crumbling to dust when he disturbed them. Another box contained hundreds of intake forms from the 1970s, the paper yellowed and brittle, smelling faintly of cigarettes.
The worst was a box tucked beneath a leaking pipe. When Austin pulled it free, the soggy bottom gave way, spilling its contents across the floor. Along with the waterlogged papers came three mummified mice, their tiny bodies preserved in the airless confines of the box, whiskers still intact, eye sockets empty and accusing.
“Jesus Christ!” Austin stumbled backward, nearly toppling his chair.
He stared at the tiny corpses, his stomach lurching. After a moment of frozen disgust, he remembered the camera mounted above the door—a silent, watchful eye recording his every move.
Austin forced himself to breathe through his mouth as he found a discarded file folder to scoop up the desiccated remains. He deposited them in a metal trash can by the desk, trying not to think about how many more such surprises might be waiting in the unopened boxes.
That’s when he heard it—the soft, deliberate tap of footsteps approaching from the corridor outside. The footsteps paused just outside the door. Austin swiveled in his chair, wincing at the betraying creak of ancient springs. His heart stuttered when he saw who stood in the doorway.
Mario.
His face was taut with urgency, his index finger pressed firmly against his lips in the universal sign for silence. His dark eyes darted meaningfully toward the camera mounted above the door, then back to Austin.
Austin’s gaze followed. The camera’s red recording light blinked steadily, its unblinking eye trained directly on him. But Mario was standing just outside its field of vision, pressed against the wall in a camera blind spot that shouldn’t exist. A cold wash of understanding slid down Austin’s spine—Mario shouldn’t be here at all.
Mario’s finger moved from his lips to point leftward, a deliberate, unmistakable gesture. Austin turned his head casually, as if surveying his next batch of boxes. Between the towering stacks of cardboard and filing cabinets, he saw it: a narrow pathway he hadn’t noticed before, winding through the labyrinth of storage toward the back of the cavernous room.
Mario nodded once. His eyes spoke volumes in that single gesture: Follow the path. Now.
Austin’s mouth went dry. With deliberate casualness, Austin stretched his arms above his head, feigning fatigue. He yawned elaborately for the benefit of whoever might be watching the feed, then rose from his chair. He made a show of reaching for a box on a higher shelf near the path entrance, as if that had been his intention all along.
“Just need to check these records,” he said aloud, his voice echoing oddly in the vast room. “Cross-reference some dates.”
Austin slipped between the towering stacks of boxes, each step carrying him deeper into the archives. The air grew thicker, stagnant with the scent of old paper and decay. Dust clung to his skin, the fine grit catching in his throat. He suppressed a cough, ears straining for any sound beyond his own careful footfalls.
The corridor of forgotten history seemed endless. The deeper he went, the more the boxes deteriorated—some had caved in, their contents spilled like abandoned confessions. Scattered among them were the skeletal remains of mice, dried and shriveled.
Austin’s fingers tightened into fists. He didn’t consider himself squeamish, but the sheer number of dead things made his skin crawl. The hush of the archives became oppressive, broken only by the occasional, almost imperceptible sound—a faint rustle inside the walls, a scrabbling noise that made his stomach clench.
Rats, he thought, swallowing hard.
A distant clink sent a chill down his spine. He froze. Then another sound—this one unmistakable. Metal shifting.
His gaze snapped toward the back wall just as an old ventilation grate trembled, the bolts groaning against decades of rust. The cover popped free with a metallic clatter and swung open. For half a second, the darkness behind it yawned like a mouth, gaping and endless. Then Mario emerged.
He stepped down onto the concrete floor, dust cascading from his shoulders.
Mario’s gaze locked onto him, dark and unreadable, but filled with something deeper, something urgent. And then, before Austin could utter a single word, Mario closed the distance between them and captured him in his arms.
The kiss wasn’t careful. It wasn’t tentative. It was hungry, raw, and unchecked. Mario’s hands gripped Austin’s face, rough palms anchoring him as his lips crashed against Austin’s with a fervor that stole the breath from his lungs. Heat seared through him, obliterating every thought, every lingering shadow of fear.
He melted into Mario’s embrace, and Mario kissed him like he was afraid this moment would be stolen away. His mouth was demanding, insistent, tasting of longing and something darker. Nothing mattered except this—Mario, solid and unyielding against him, the sharp press of his stubble against Austin’s skin, the way he exhaled a ragged breath between kisses, like he had been holding it all inside for too long.
Austin’s knees nearly gave out. His hands slid up Mario’s back, feeling the tension there, the muscles wound tight with barely restrained emotion. He wanted to say something, anything, but words felt pointless in the face of this. Instead, he let himself drown in the moment, let the cold, dust-choked air and the eerie whisper of the past dissolve around them.
Mario broke away first, just enough to press his forehead against Austin’s. His breath was warm against Austin’s lips, his grip still firm, like he couldn’t bear to let go. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, edged with something unspoken.
“I had to see you.”
Austin closed his eyes, swallowing against the thickness in his throat. “I know.”
For a moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, the whisper of distant scurrying in the walls, and the lingering taste of longing on Austin’s lips.
Then Mario’s hand slid down to clasp his wrist. “We don’t have much time. There’s so much we need to say, but…” Mario took Austin’s hand in his, then pressed it against his erection. Austin gasped and realized his own cock was painfully hard. “Austin, there’s been no one else since I’ve been here in Sodom. You’re the only man I want.”
Austin’s breath caught in his throat. The surrounding archives seemed to recede, the dust-laden air electrified with tension. He felt Mario’s pulse hammering beneath his fingertips, matching the frantic rhythm of his own heart.
“This is insane,” Austin whispered, even as his hand pressed more firmly against Mario’s bulge. “If anyone finds us—”
“They won’t,” Mario growled. His eyes, dark and intent, never left Austin’s face. “I’ve been mapping this place for months. The camera feeds have blind spots—deliberate ones. Someone designed it that way.”
Austin’s mind raced, trying to process this information while his body burned with need. “Why would they—”
Mario silenced him with another kiss, gentler this time, but no less urgent. “Later,” he breathed against Austin’s lips. “I’ll explain everything later.”
His hands were already working at Austin’s belt, fingers deft and purposeful. Austin felt himself being guided backward until his spine met the cool metal of an ancient filing cabinet.
Mario’s answering smile was wolfish in the dim light. “Here. Now.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper. “I’ve thought about this since I saw you in the cell across from mine. Dreamed about it.”
The confession broke something open in Austin’s chest. Caution evaporated as he pulled Mario closer, his hands sliding beneath the other man’s shirt to find warm skin stretched over taut muscle. The feeling of skin against skin was electric, addictive.
“I’ve missed you so much,” Austin breathed.
Time compressed, folded in on itself. Their movements became urgent, frantic even, clothes pushed aside rather than removed completely. Mario’s mouth traced a burning path down Austin’s neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin where neck met shoulder. Austin bit back a moan, acutely aware that the sound might carry in this cavernous space.
“I want to hear you, love,” Mario murmured against his collarbone. “But not here. Not yet.”
The promise in those words—of a later, of somewhere else—sent another surge of heat through Austin’s body. Mario’s hand slipped between them, wrapping around them both, and Austin had to press his face against Mario’s shoulder to muffle the sound that threatened to escape.
Mario dropped to his knees, unzipped Austin’s pants and pulled out his aching cock. He gazed at it for a long moment, as if it were a momento of the time when they were both free on the outside. Then he took it in his mouth.
Mario’s mouth was warm and wet, a shocking contrast to the cool, stale air around them. His lips slid down Austin’s length with ease, his tongue tracing patterns that made Austin’s vision blur. Austin’s fingers tangled in Mario’s dark hair, not guiding, just anchoring himself to something solid as waves of pleasure threatened to buckle his knees.
“God, I’ve missed this,” Austin whispered, his voice barely audible even to his own ears. The sight of Mario on his knees before him, eyes closed in concentration, cheeks hollowed with each deliberate pull, was almost too much to bear.
Mario worked Austin’s cock with an intensity that bordered on reverence, alternating between deep, engulfing strokes and teasing flicks of his tongue that made Austin’s toes curl inside his cheap prison shoes. When Mario’s hands gripped his hips, pinning him against the filing cabinet with unexpected strength, Austin felt the cool metal press against his back through his thin shirt, a grounding counterpoint to the heat building low in his belly.
The room around them faded to nothing—the dust, the decay, the watchful cameras, all of it receded beneath the tide of sensation. There was only Mario’s mouth, the slick sounds of pleasure, and the ragged cadence of their breathing.
Just as Austin felt himself approaching the edge, Mario pulled away. His lips were swollen, eyes dark with need as he rose to his feet in one fluid motion. From his pocket, he withdrew a small plastic tub, unscrewing the cap with trembling fingers.
Vaseline.
“Commissary,” he muttered, the word rough at the edges. “Cost me a bundle, but…”
Austin cut him off with a desperate kiss, tasting himself on Mario’s tongue.
With deft movements, Mario pushed Austin back and freed himself from his uniform pants, his erection jutting between them. He dipped his fingers into the vaseline, coating himself generously, his eyes never leaving Austin’s face.
“Turn around,” he commanded, his voice dropping to a register that vibrated through Austin’s chest.
Austin complied, bracing his forearms against the filing cabinet. Behind him, he heard Mario’s breath catch, felt rough hands on his exposed skin as his pants were roughly pulled down to his knees. The cool air against his bare skin made him shiver—or perhaps it was anticipation.
There was a moment of pressure, a burning stretch that made Austin wince, his body tensing at the intrusion. Mario paused, one hand stroking soothingly down Austin’s spine.
“Breathe,” he whispered, his lips brushing the nape of Austin’s neck. “Just breathe.”
Austin drew in a shuddering breath, his body gradually yielding to Mario’s gentle persistence. Each exhale released more tension, allowing Mario to sink deeper.
“That’s it,” Mario murmured, his voice strained. His fingers dug into Austin’s hips, leaving crescent-shaped impressions that would bloom into bruises by morning. “God, you feel even better than I remembered.”
The words sent a jolt through Austin’s body, clenching around Mario and drawing a hiss from both of them. The dusty air of the archives seemed to thicken, charged with electricity and desperation. Austin pressed his forehead against the cool metal of the filing cabinet, its surface fogging with his ragged breaths.
“Give it to me,” Austin pleaded, his voice barely recognizable to his own ears. “Hard. Rough.”
Mario’s response was immediate—a slow withdrawal followed by a deliberate thrust that sent stars exploding behind Austin’s eyelids. The careful rhythm quickly gave way to something more primal, more urgent. Mario’s hips snapped forward with increasing force, each thrust driving Austin against the filing cabinet with a muted metallic thud that seemed impossibly loud in the hushed archives.
Austin bit down on his lower lip to keep from crying out. The sensation was almost too much—Mario filling him completely, stretching him open, hitting that spot inside that made his legs tremble and his vision blur. It had been so long since they’d been together like this. The separation had hollowed him out, left him aching and incomplete. Now, with Mario’s body joined with his, Austin felt something vital clicking back into place.
Mario’s breathing grew ragged, his movements more erratic. One hand snaked around Austin’s hip to grasp his neglected cock, which leaked steadily against the metal cabinet. The touch was almost unbearably intense, sending shockwaves of pleasure-pain through Austin.
“I won’t last,” Mario warned, his voice breaking on the confession. “You feel too good. It’s been too long.”
“Me neither,” Austin gasped. Mario’s thrusts became harder, deeper, each one striking that perfect spot within Austin that made his vision swim. The cabinet rattled softly with their movements, the sound blending with their muffled groans.
Austin felt the pressure building, coiling tight at the base of his spine. His body trembled on the precipice, hovering at the edge. Mario’s rhythm faltered, his grip tightening on Austin’s hip as he buried himself deep.
“Oh Austin, mi amor…”
Austin felt the hot pulse of Mario’s release, triggering his own climax. He bit down on his forearm to muffle his cry as pleasure crashed through him in waves, his body clenching around Mario, drawing out every last sensation.
For several heartbeats, they remained frozen in place, connected and trembling. Mario’s forehead rested between Austin’s shoulder blades, his breath hot against sweat-dampened skin. His arms encircled Austin’s waist, holding him close as if afraid he might dissolve into the dust-laden air.
“I missed you,” Mario whispered, the words so soft they barely disturbed the silence.
Austin closed his eyes, savoring the weight of Mario against him, inside him. “I missed you too.”
Mario’s mouth pressed kisses against the back of his head, and Austin thought his heart would give out. Then Mario pulled his cock out of him, turned Austin around, and stared straight into his eyes.
“Why the hell are you in Sodom, Austin? What the hell did you do?”
Read Prisoners Of Sodom today. It’s available at all major online bookstores as well as Cruz Publishing. This is an ongoing dark gay romance serial with new episodes releasing twice monthly.
After more than a decade apart, Benjamin Kensington returns to his family estate—only to come face-to-face with the one man he never truly let go of. In this long-overdue reunion, old tensions and undeniable chemistry simmer beneath the surface as Benjamin and Deacon Langford meet again in the dusty confines of the Kensington barn. But with history between them as weathered as the estate itself, will they find common ground… or just reopen old wounds?
Read on for Chapter 3 of Making It Real, where the past and present collide in the most unexpected way.
The late afternoon sun stretched long golden fingers across the fields, the tall grass swaying like waves on a restless sea. The scent of honeysuckle and warm earth filled the air, wrapping around me in a way that felt almost too familiar. Too intimate.
I walked beside my mother, our steps crunching softly over the dirt path that led toward the barn. She talked a mile a minute, her voice light and lilting, as if I’d only been gone a few months instead of more than a decade.
“I just can’t tell you how pleased I am to have you back, Benji,” she said, looping her arm through mine. “Even if it’s just for a little while.”
I gave her a sideways glance. “You make it sound like I was lost at sea.”
“Well, weren’t you? New York, all that hustle and bustle—Lord knows I don’t understand how anyone could live in a city like that.” She patted my arm. “I always knew you’d come home, though. Kensington men always do.”
I swallowed. She hadn’t asked me about my being fired, and I wasn’t ready to talk about it. Not yet.
Instead, I let her chatter on about the latest local news—the Hansons’ dog finally had her puppies, some new bakery had opened up on Route 33, and Lord help us all, Lucille Montgomery had been in three car accidents over the past year. Mom wondered when they’d take her license away.
I nodded along, but my attention was elsewhere.
For the first time, I really looked at my mother.
She was still the formidable Maggie Kensington, with her perfectly styled hair and that air of effortless Southern charm, but there were new lines around her eyes, a certain tiredness in the way she moved. When had she started looking… older?
Something uneasy settled in my chest. Maybe it really was time to come home.
Not permanently, of course. Just long enough to make sure she was okay.
We rounded the bend, and the barn came into view.
I nearly stopped in my tracks.
The old place looked like hell.
The once-bright red paint had long since faded to a tired, splintered gray. The roof sagged in places, and I didn’t even want to think about the condition of the inside.
Mom let out a sigh, shaking her head. “Lord, it needs work.”
That was putting it mildly.
She gave me a sideways glance. “You remember how beautiful it used to be?”
I did. I remembered everything.
Sneaking in here as kids, building forts in the loft, whispering secrets in the dark. And later—much later—stealing away to this very barn in the heat of summer, pressing Deacon against the rough wooden beams, feeling the solid strength of him beneath my hands, tasting sweat and salt and something sweeter than anything New York had ever offered me.
I swallowed hard.
Deacon.
Jesus. What if I saw him while I was here?
Would he still hate me? Probably.
I deserved it.
I’d spent years trying not to think about how I’d treated him. The cruel words I’d said. About the way I’d tried to shape him into someone he wasn’t, someone who would fit neatly into the polished future I’d imagined for myself.
But he’d been right.
He wasn’t meant for skyscrapers and boardrooms. His destiny was this land, the fields, and the sun on his skin.
And God help me, I’d never felt as safe, as seen, as whole as I had when I was with him.
Mom gave my arm a little squeeze. “Come on, let’s look inside.”
I took a breath and followed her into the dim interior, expecting dust and disrepair.
What I wasn’t expecting was him.
Deacon stood in the middle of the barn, shirt in hand, his tanned skin gleaming with a light sheen of sweat. He looked like something out of a damned painting, the afternoon sun cutting through the slats in golden beams, lighting him up like a statue of a god—earthy and strong, carved from muscle and memory.
My breath caught in my throat.
Deacon’s eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, time folded in on itself.
I wasn’t Benjamin Kensington, the man who’d clawed his way up the corporate ladder. I wasn’t the guy who had just lost everything.
I was eighteen again.
I was standing in this barn, my hands buried in Deacon’s hair, my lips pressed to his, the world outside falling away.
Heat crawled up my neck, and I realized, with no small amount of horror, that I was blushing.
Mom clapped her hands together, oblivious to the tension that had sucked all the air out of the barn.
“Well, now! Isn’t this just perfect?” she said, beaming between us. “The two of you, back together, just like old times.”
Not exactly, Mother.
She turned to me with a wide smile. “You know, Deacon’s been helping me out around here for years. I was just saying how much this place needs work—wouldn’t it be wonderful if you two worked on it together? Just imagine it, Benji! The two of you, bringing the estate back to its former glory.”
Her voice was light, hopeful.
Deacon’s face was unreadable.
And me?
I was wondering how the hell I was supposed to survive this.
Mom kept talking, her voice bright with excitement, but I wasn’t listening.
I couldn’t.
Deacon’s gaze locked onto mine, and for the life of me, I couldn’t look away.
Those eyes—icy blue, sharp as ever, even in the hazy light filtering through the barn. When we were younger, I used to swear they could see right through me, past all the charm and bravado, straight to the things I didn’t dare admit.
Now?
Now they held me in place like a snare.
The golden shafts of afternoon light caught the flush creeping up his chest, dusting across his neck before settling high on his cheeks. He turned away first, and I exhaled, realizing I’d been holding my breath.
Was that embarrassment? Or something else?
Did he still hate me?
Or had seeing me again hit him just as hard as it had hit me?
“Benji, did you hear me?” Mom’s voice pulled me back, her perfectly manicured hands gesturing around the barn. “I said we need to find a way to make this place profitable again.”
“Hmm?” I asked, still too caught up in Deacon’s presence to register the question.
Deacon shifted, rolling his shoulders, then cleared his throat.
“It’s good to see you, Benjamin.” His voice was low, rough around the edges, like he hadn’t spoken much today. Maybe he hadn’t.
That flush from before deepened across his throat, and something tightened low in my stomach.
I opened my mouth, but before I could respond, Mom jumped in again.
“Benji, I asked how we can make Kensington House profitable. Property taxes are going up, but there’s next to no revenue coming in.”
I blinked at her, barely processing the question. My mind was still stuck on Deacon, on the way his voice had brushed against my skin like a whisper of a touch.
Mom huffed, impatience creeping into her tone.
“Well?”
I rubbed my temples, sighing. “Maybe we’d be better off selling it to someone who actually cares about it.”
The words had barely left my mouth before I realized my mistake.
Mom’s eyebrows shot skyward. Deacon frowned, jaw tightening as his eyes darkened.
The air in the barn shifted.
Mom placed a hand on her hip. “Benjamin Kensington, I cannot believe you just said that.”
“Mom—”
“This land has been in our family for generations.” She waved an arm toward the open barn doors. “Do you have any idea how much history is here? Your grandfather, your great-grandfather, every ancestor before them—they worked this land, they built this home, and you think selling it is the answer?”
I sighed again, this time heavier. “I’m just saying—”
“No.”
The word came from Deacon.
I turned toward him, surprised by the sharp edge in his tone.
“You never change,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You never gave a damn about this place. Benjamin, you’re lucky to have it, and you can’t even see that.”
A prickle of irritation worked its way up my spine.
“That’s not fair,” I said, leveling him with a look. “It’s easy for you to say that. You stayed.”
“Yeah,” Deacon said, eyes flashing. “I did.”
The weight of what he wasn’t saying settled between us.
I left home and never looked back.
Until now.
I sighed, trying to smooth things over. “Look, I didn’t mean—”
“Enough of that,” Mom interrupted, waving a hand as if physically dismissing the tension. “I asked you here to talk about solutions, not start up old arguments.”
Deacon exhaled through his nose, but kept quiet.
Mom turned to him, a hopeful smile on her face. “Deacon, I’d like to hire you to work on the estate. We can start with the barn—it needs more work than anything.”
Deacon’s posture relaxed slightly, his gaze shifting toward the exposed beams above us.
She continued, “And another thing—what about all that old farm equipment we don’t use? I was thinking we could sell some of it.”
Deacon finally turned, his eyes scanning the far corner of the barn. My gaze followed his, landing on a hulking piece of rust-covered machinery. I didn’t know what it was, but I could tell by the look on his face that he did.
Slowly, he faced Mom again, and for the first time since we’d walked in, he smiled.
A genuine smile.
Soft. Familiar. The kind that made my stomach tighten for reasons I didn’t want to think about.
Instead of answering immediately, he walked over to the piece of equipment, running a hand along the corroded metal. Then he turned back to Mom.
“How about this?” he said. “Instead of paying me money, I’ll work in exchange for some of this old equipment.”
Mom’s face lit up. “That’s a fine idea! Lord knows we don’t need half the things stored in this barn.”
“Deal,” Deacon said, giving her a small nod.
Mother clasped her hands together, positively beaming. “Oh, Deacon, this is just wonderful! With your help, we’ll have this place looking like it should again.”
Deacon gave her a small nod, but his expression was careful, guarded. His fingers trailed along the rusted edge of the old farm equipment, his focus seemingly on anything but me.
Then Mother turned in my direction, her keen eyes narrowing.
“And you,” she said, pointing a manicured finger in my direction. “You’re going to help.”
I blinked. “What?”
“You heard me, Benji. Deacon can’t do all this by himself.”
Deacon shifted beside me. I caught the way his throat worked as he swallowed, a fresh blush creeping up his neck. He hesitated before muttering, “Let Benjamin handle the business side of things. I can take care of—”
“Oh, nonsense,” Mother interrupted, waving off his protest. “Benji needs to get his hands dirty again. He needs to understand how lucky he is to have this place.”
I exhaled through my nose, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “Mom—”
She wasn’t finished. “And besides, I remember how happy you boys used to be, working out here together.”
My stomach twisted at that.
She stepped away from us, walking toward the hulking old tractor in the corner. It was ancient, covered in dust and rust, but I could still picture it as it once was—faded red, chugging along the fields under the hot Virginia sun.
Mother ran her fingers over the worn metal, then turned back with a smile. “I’ll never forget the sight of you two on this thing. Deacon, bush hogging the pastures, Benji perched behind you, hanging on for dear life.” She laughed, a soft, nostalgic sound. “You two had the best time, always laughing.”
Deacon’s shoulders tensed, and for the briefest moment, something flickered in his expression—something tight and unreadable.
I swallowed, suddenly too aware of how still the barn had become. The only sounds were the faint creak of the rafters and the distant chirping of cicadas.
Then, just as quickly as it came, whatever crossed Deacon’s mind disappeared behind a careful mask. His lips twitched into a small, tight smile.
“I’ll do whatever you want, Miss Maggie.”
A strange feeling settled in my chest—something close to relief.
Deacon grabbed his shirt from where it had been hanging, shaking out the fabric before pulling it over his head. The sweat on his skin made it cling to his torso for a moment, outlining the shape of him before he tugged it into place.
I should’ve looked away.
But I didn’t.
“Benji?” Mother’s voice jolted me from my thoughts. “Are you going to pitch in too?”
Making It Real publishes on February 26, 2025. It is available for a discounted preorder price of 2.99 for the ebook, and on release day the price goes up to 3.99, so lock in the lower price now by preordering the book from your favorite online retailer. It’s available on Amazon, Apple Books, Google Play, Kobo, Nook, and Smashwords.
Today, we’re sitting down with Benjamin Kensington, a man whose life has been a whirlwind of ambition, love, and self-discovery. From the bustling financial world of New York City to the crumbling halls of his family estate in Montpelier, Virginia, Benjamin’s story is one of transformation, redemption, and wrestling with his own identity.
Interviewer: Benjamin, thank you for joining us today. Let’s start with your return to Montpelier. What’s it like being back at Kensington House after all these years?
Benjamin: It’s… complicated, to say the least. Kensington House is home, but it’s also a reminder of everything I wanted to escape. Coming back has stirred up emotions I thought I’d buried—nostalgia, guilt, pride… and a lot of regret. The house is in shambles, which, in some ways, feels like a metaphor for my life right now.
Interviewer: That’s an interesting comparison. The estate represents your family’s legacy, but it sounds like it also weighs heavily on you. What does Kensington House mean to you?
Benjamin: Growing up, it was a symbol of privilege, but also of obligation. My mother always emphasized the importance of preserving the estate and our family’s name. But I was young, restless, and ambitious. I didn’t want to spend my life fixing old staircases and hosting charity tours. Now, I see the house differently. It’s more than bricks and mortar—it’s history, memories, and potential. Saving it feels less like a burden and more like an opportunity to redeem myself.
Interviewer: Speaking of redemption, your return has also brought you face-to-face with Deacon. How has it been seeing him again after all this time?
Benjamin: (Pauses) Seeing Deacon has been… difficult and wonderful all at once. He’s everything I remember—steadfast, kind, and frustratingly grounded. I know I hurt him when I left, and I regret it every day. He represents a life I could’ve had if I’d made different choices. Being around him again reminds me of what I’ve lost, but also what I might still have, if I’m lucky.
Interviewer: It sounds like Deacon has had a profound impact on you. What do you think is the biggest obstacle between the two of you now?
Benjamin: Trust. I broke it when I chose my career over him, and I can’t blame him for being wary now. I’ve spent so much of my life chasing status and wealth, and I think Deacon sees me as someone who only cares about the surface of things. Proving to him—and to myself—that I’m capable of more is the hardest challenge I’ve ever faced.
Interviewer: Shifting gears a bit, let’s talk about your career. You’ve mentioned how important ambition was to you in the past. Do you still see yourself returning to the world of finance?
Benjamin: Ambition has always been a driving force for me, but I’ve started questioning what that word really means. Does it mean climbing the corporate ladder, or does it mean building something meaningful that lasts? For now, I’m focused on restoring Kensington House. Whether that means turning it into a wedding venue, a museum, or something else entirely, I’m determined to make it a success.
Interviewer: That’s a big shift from the fast-paced world of New York City. How has your time back in Montpelier changed your perspective?
Benjamin: It’s been humbling, honestly. In New York, everything was about appearances—how much you made, what you wore, who you knew. Here, none of that matters. What matters is community, relationships, and legacy. I’ve had to confront parts of myself I didn’t like very much. It’s been uncomfortable, but also necessary.
Interviewer: You’ve mentioned legacy a few times now. What does it mean to you, and how does it play into your current journey?
Benjamin: Legacy used to mean power and prestige—carrying on the Kensington name in a way that turned heads. Now, it’s more about connection. It’s about honoring the people who came before me, like my mother, and creating something worthwhile for the future. Restoring Kensington House isn’t just about the building; it’s about proving to myself and others that I can leave something good behind.
Interviewer: It sounds like you’re on a path of transformation. If you could go back in time and tell your younger self one thing, what would it be?
Benjamin: I’d tell him to slow down. To stop chasing things that only look good on paper and pay more attention to the people who truly matter. Ambition isn’t inherently bad, but when it blinds you to love and authenticity, it can destroy you.
Interviewer: That’s beautifully said. Last question—what do you hope for your future?
Benjamin: I hope to find balance. I want to build a life that honors both my ambition and my heart. Whether that means rebuilding Kensington House, rekindling my relationship with Deacon, or simply finding peace with myself, I just want to be proud of the man I’ve become.
Interviewer: Thank you, Benjamin. Your honesty and vulnerability are inspiring. We wish you the best as you navigate this new chapter of your life.
Benjamin: Thank you. It’s not easy, but I’m learning that the hardest paths are often the most rewarding.
Making It Real publishes on February 26, 2025. It’s available on Amazon, Apple Books, Google Play, Kobo, Nook, and Smashwords. Preorder your copy today for the low price of 2.99. On the day it publishes the price goes up to 3.99, so reserve your copy today and save!
Ian O. Lewis and Luke Jameson 