There’s something magnetic—damn near electric—about the intersection of sex and religion. Maybe it’s the guilt. Maybe it’s the shame. Or maybe it’s the undeniable fact that these two forces have shaped the way we see ourselves, our bodies, and our desires more than almost anything else in human history.
As a romance author, I didn’t originally set out to write a book that dove headfirst into the tension between spiritual devotion and sexual liberation. But Preacher Man had other ideas.
The story started with a single image in my mind: a lonely preacher, newly arrived in a small town, desperately trying to keep his faith together… right as he falls hard for a rugged, emotionally wrecked local man. That preacher—Ethan—wasn’t just fighting attraction. He was fighting the entire worldview he’d built his life around. And that’s when I realized: this wasn’t just a romance. This was about identity, shame, salvation, and how sex can sometimes feel like a kind of prayer.
Spoiler alert: things get hot. And holy. And sometimes both at once.
Why Sex and Religion Just Work in Fiction
From The Scarlet Letter to Madonna’s “Like a Prayer,” we’ve been exploring this tension for centuries. It’s not new. It’s not niche. It taps into something primal.
They’re both about longing. Religion teaches us to yearn—for purpose, for purity, for connection to something greater. Sex teaches us to yearn—for touch, for intimacy, for release. Put those two together, and you’ve got emotional TNT. In Preacher Man, Ethan’s desire for Jake isn’t just about lust—it’s about being seen. Being wanted. Being loved outside the bounds of rules and rituals. And that’s powerful stuff.
They both come with rules—and breaking them makes for damn good drama. Forbidden desire is catnip for readers. And when you toss in the weight of spiritual consequence? Baby, you’re cooking with gas. Jake, the love interest in Preacher Man, isn’t just sexy—he’s the embodiment of everything Ethan was taught to avoid. He smokes, he swears, he questions everything. And yet, he’s the first person who shows Ethan what love without conditions really looks like.
They both deal with transformation. Whether it’s a spiritual awakening or an orgasmic one (or, hell, both at once), religion and sex are about becoming someone new. Shedding shame. Stepping into your truth. Preacher Man is ultimately a redemption story—but not in the evangelical sense. It’s about Ethan finding freedom by stepping away from the expectations placed on him and into a life that finally feels like his own.
Art That Walks This Line
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t inspired by other artists who’ve danced on this razor’s edge.
Madonna practically wrote the pop culture bible on sex and religion. From “Like a Virgin” to “Like a Prayer,” she’s constantly blurred the lines between sacred and sensual, iconography and intimacy. Her work doesn’t just shock—it asks why we’re shocked in the first place.
Fleabag, Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s genre-busting masterpiece, gave us the “hot priest” and then ripped our hearts out with that final kneel. It wasn’t just about lust—it was about being spiritually undone by human connection.
Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Jesus Christ Superstar brought rock-star swagger to the story of Christ, fusing performance with passion and questioning the line between divinity and humanity.
And let’s not forget Tori Amos, whose songs often wrap erotic imagery in religious metaphor, asking listeners to sit with their contradictions instead of erase them.
Writing Preacher Man: A Personal Reckoning
I’m not a preacher. I’m not even religious anymore. But I was. And like a lot of queer folks, I spent years wrestling with the parts of me that didn’t fit into the box I was handed as a child.
So writing Preacher Man wasn’t just about telling a hot story (though, trust me, the heat is there). It was about telling the truth. About how desire can be healing. How love can be sacred. How the parts of ourselves we were taught to be ashamed of might just be the holiest parts of all.
And yeah… it was also about writing a love story so swoony and redemptive it made me cry a little when I typed “The End.”
Final Thoughts: Sex and the Sacred
If you’re a writer wondering whether it’s “okay” to mix sex and religion in your story, let me say this:
Do it.
Not just because it’s hot (it is), but because it’s real. Because so many of us live at that crossroads—where devotion meets desire, where we ache for both connection and freedom.
And storytelling? That’s where we get to rewrite the rules. That’s where we get to say: I am worthy. I am holy. I am enough.
Even if I moaned while saying it.
Preacher Man is the first book in the Divine Temptations series, and it’s available exclusively in my direct bookstore, Cruz Publishing, for the rest of June for only 2.99! When I publish the book to the other stores (Amazon, Apple, Kobo, etc) the price goes up to 3.99. Purchase your copy today at Cruz Publishing.
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.
Tina Farmer is a trans woman currently incarcerated in one of the most notorious prisons in the country—Blackwood Correctional Facility, also known by inmates as “Sodom.” Her crime was nonviolent, and she should have served time in a minimum-security facility. But a hard-right judge had other plans, and Tina’s been living a nightmare ever since. Now she’s about to be shipped off to a private prison in El Salvador—La Aguja Negra, a place inmates call “The Black Needle.” This is her story, in her own words. The following interview was conducted via a monitored correspondence system and edited for clarity and length.
Q: Tina, can you share why you ended up in prison?
TINA: I wrote a check I couldn’t cover. $1,287.32, to be exact. It was for my rent and some groceries. I was two months behind, my power was about to be shut off, and I had nothing left. No family to ask, no church that would help me, no programs that didn’t come with strings. It wasn’t some big scam. It was survival. I pled guilty, expecting probation. Even the prosecutor was fine with that.
But then I met Judge Vickerman. He took one look at me—lip gloss, earrings, blouse—and decided I was “deluded.” He said I was “mocking the court” and told me right there in open court that he was going to “make a man out of me.” I wasn’t sentenced for my crime. I was sentenced for being trans.
Q: You were sent to Blackwood—nicknamed Sodom. What was it like arriving there as a trans woman?
TINA: Hell. It’s like being dropped into a pit where your very existence is offensive. The guards saw me as less than human. Some of them—like Officer Langley—made it a game to see how far they could push me before I’d snap. Strip searches weren’t about security. They were about humiliation. Mercer, the warden, pretended to be neutral, but that man has blood on his hands. He told me to my face that hormones weren’t a medical necessity. As if it was just about pills. As if watching your body slowly revert, becoming more masculine each month, isn’t a kind of psychological torture.
Q: Did you ever feel safe inside? Even for a moment?
TINA: Only when Ghost was alive. He was… complicated. When we first met, he made it clear the price of protection. I said yes because I had to. But something shifted between us. He stopped taking. We started talking. He told me about his life before all this—he had a daughter, once. He showed me a picture he kept hidden in a hollowed-out book. She had his eyes.
Ghost was brutal to everyone else. But not with me. He looked out for me. And in here, that’s not nothing. It’s love, even if it’s bruised and bloodstained.
Q: What happened to him?
TINA: He got stabbed in the cafeteria. They said it was a fight over cornbread, which is bullshit. He barely got nicked. But he was gone within a day. They said it was an infection. I say it was something else—maybe poison, maybe something injected when he was unconscious. He knew things about the cartels working inside Blackwood. He told me once that Mercer was in deep with them. That some of the guards were making more off the books than they were on payroll. When Ghost started asking questions, he died. That’s how it works in here. Silence is safer than truth.
Q: And now you’re being transferred. Why?
TINA: They say it’s to ease overcrowding. Mercer signed a deal to send 60 of us to La Aguja Negra in El Salvador. But let’s be real: I’m being disappeared. They’re sending the people they see as problems—troublemakers, snitches, people like me. La Aguja Negra isn’t a prison, it’s a graveyard. No oversight. No medicine. No escape. Once you’re there, you vanish.
I’ve filed every appeal I could. I wrote to the governor. I wrote to the ACLU, the Transgender Law Center, even the UN Human Rights Commission. No response. I’ve been told in not so many words that “some people aren’t worth the trouble.” I know what that means.
Q: What do you want people to understand about what’s happening to you?
TINA: That this isn’t about one trans woman and one prison. This is about a system that’s fine sacrificing the most vulnerable so the powerful can stay comfortable. I didn’t hurt anyone. I was trying to live. And for that, I’m being thrown into a foreign prison where I might not even last a week.
But I’m still here. I’m still Tina. They’ve tried to take that from me—my name, my body, my hope—but I’m still here. And if you’re reading this, maybe I’m not alone.
Q: Final question. What gives you hope, if anything?
TINA: Some nights, I still hear Ghost in my dreams. He used to say, “Don’t let them write your ending.” That sticks with me. Maybe I can’t stop what’s happening to me, but I can leave this behind. I can tell my truth. And maybe someone out there will hear it, and do something. Maybe not for me. But for the next girl like me.
If Tina’s story moved you, please share it. Organizations like the Transgender Law Center, Lambda Legal, and Black & Pink are doing the work to protect incarcerated LGBTQ+ people. They need your support.Tina Farmer is scheduled for transfer to La Aguja Negra on April 23rd. She may not survive. But her story doesn’t have to die with her.
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.
Interviewer: Austin, thank you for taking the time to talk to me today. Not everyone gets the chance to hear directly from an inmate at Blackwood Prison—especially one with your background.
Austin Page: (chuckles) My pleasure. Not much else to do in here besides read, write, and, well… think. A lot of thinking.
Interviewer: Let’s start with the obvious. You were a professor before you ended up here. That’s quite a leap. Can you tell us how you landed in prison?
Austin Page: (smiling) Now, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Let’s just say… love makes you do things you never thought you would.
Interviewer: That’s a bit vague.
Austin Page: (shrugs) Some things are better left unsaid. But I will say this—when you love someone the way I do, the rest of the world fades away. Consequences, reason, even fear. None of it matters.
Interviewer: You’re talking about Mario Cruz.
Austin Page: Of course I am. (soft laugh) Who else? Mario is—he’s the kind of man who shouldn’t need saving, but if he ever did, I’d throw myself into the fire without a second thought. He’s hard, rough around the edges, but there’s something in him… something raw and real. He doesn’t lie. He doesn’t pretend. He’s the first person I’ve ever met who sees me—not just as some soft-spoken professor, but as a man willing to fight for what I love. And I do. Every day.
Interviewer: What was it about Mario that drew you to him?
Austin Page: (smirks) Is ‘everything’ an acceptable answer? Look, I know what people think. That I’m some naive fool with a penchant for bad boys, that I threw my life away for someone who wouldn’t do the same for me. But they don’t know him. Not like I do. Mario doesn’t say much, but when he looks at me—really looks at me—I know I belong to him. And he belongs to me.
Interviewer: That sounds… intense.
Austin Page: Love is intense. If it isn’t, what’s the point?
Interviewer: So, to clarify—you didn’t end up in prison because of Mario?
Austin Page: (pauses) I ended up here because of my choices. And I’d make them again. No regrets.
Interviewer: But what were those choices, exactly?
Austin Page: (grins) You ask a lot of questions, you know that?
Interviewer: It’s kind of my job.
Austin Page: (leans forward) And mine is to keep a few secrets.
Interviewer: Fair enough. Final question—if you could go back, would you change anything?
Austin Page: (softly) No. Because in the end, every road, every decision, every damn mistake led me to him. And that? That’s worth everything.
Interviewer: Thank you, Austin.
Austin Page: Anytime. Just don’t expect all the answers.
The first episode of the Prisoners Of Sodom serial is now available for purchase exclusively at the Cruz Publishing bookstore. It will soon be available on other online bookstores.
Books are in my blood—always have been. My grandmother was a librarian, my father was a printer and publisher, and my uncle was a pulp fiction fanatic who had boxes upon boxes of wonderfully trashy, over-the-top novels. Growing up, I was surrounded by the printed word, from my dad’s love of Louis L’Amour, Isaac Asimov, and classic sci-fi to the stacks of dime-store paperbacks my uncle hoarded like hidden treasure.
As for me? I grew up on literary greats like Gore Vidal and William Burroughs, devouring books that were praised for their sharp wit, biting social commentary, and bold storytelling. But I had a secret—I loved trashy books. The kind of lurid, scandalous, melodramatic pulp fiction that made respectable readers clutch their pearls. I couldn’t get enough of the exaggerated drama, the hard-boiled prose, and the wildly sensational covers that practically screamed “FORBIDDEN PLEASURES WITHIN.”
And now, for the first time, I’m writing my own gay pulp fiction series—Prisoners of Sodom. It’s gritty, sexy, unapologetically bold, and dripping with all the things I love about classic pulp: scandal, passion, betrayal, and a setting so intense it becomes a character in itself. I can’t wait for everyone to read it.
What is Pulp Fiction? And Why Mine is Unapologetically Gay and Scandalous
Pulp fiction was the beating heart of mid-20th-century popular literature—cheap, fast, and bursting at the seams with sex, violence, and high-stakes drama. Named for the low-quality wood pulp paper they were printed on, these books were mass-produced entertainment, the kind of stories you could devour in an afternoon and still feel the lingering sting of their boldness long after. They spanned genres—crime, sci-fi, westerns, horror—but the best of them had one thing in common: they didn’t hold back.
Pulp books weren’t afraid to be too much. They were gritty, exaggerated, full of morally ambiguous antiheroes and shocking twists. And the covers? Pure art. Think hand-painted illustrations of brooding detectives, femme fatales, scandalous affairs, and danger lurking in every shadow. These books were meant to grab your attention and never let go.
But classic pulp fiction had one glaring flaw—it was overwhelmingly straight. Sure, there were coded queer characters, villains dripping with barely veiled homoerotic subtext, and a handful of rare underground gems that dared to put queerness front and center. But mainstream pulp, for all its sensationalism, never truly embraced the raw, unapologetic gayness it deserved.
That’s where Prisoners of Sodom comes in. My take on pulp fiction is everything the classics were—gritty, melodramatic, scandalous—but with an unabashedly queer lens. This series is full of desperate men, dangerous temptations, and forbidden desires trapped behind prison bars. It’s pulp the way I’ve always wanted it—lurid, sweaty, and unapologetically gay.
Why Prisoners of Sodom is More Like a TV Series Than a Novel
I’m a huge fan of serialized television—the kind of shows that sink their hooks into you and won’t let go. Recently, I binged Orange Is the New Black and loved its sprawling, character-driven storytelling. I also attempted to watch OZ, but—yeah, no. That show was intense. Too intense for me. But what both of those shows got right was their ability to create a living, breathing world full of complicated, flawed characters whose lives constantly intersect in unexpected ways.
That’s exactly what I want to capture with Prisoners of Sodom. This isn’t just a single novel—it’s an experience, a long-running project I plan to write for a long time to come. There’s simply too much going on to cram it all into one book. The power struggles, the betrayals, the alliances, the raw, desperate need for love in an environment that crushes hope—it all demands room to breathe. So, rather than trying to fit it into a traditional novel structure, I’m approaching it like a TV series, with multiple “episodes” that build on each other, each packed with tension, drama, and of course, plenty of heat.
To do this story justice, I’m writing in third person, which lets me step inside the minds of more than just my two main characters. There are so many moving pieces, so many lives entwined, that limiting myself to a single perspective just wouldn’t work. But romance readers, don’t worry—at its core, Prisoners of Sodom is still a love story. Mario and Austin’s relationship remains the beating heart of the series, even as the world around them threatens to tear them apart.
So if you love steamy, character-driven drama with twists, betrayals, and passion that burns white-hot, picture Prisoners of Sodom as the kind of TV show you can’t stop watching. Only this time, it’s in book form—and unapologetically gay as hell.
I stared at Hugh for a long moment, the weight of his question settling between us like an anchor. Then, with a clipped tone, I answered, “No.”
“Then why is he still your agent?” Hugh narrowed his eyes. His voice was calm but pointed, his eyes sharp with curiosity. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you can’t stand the man.”
I exhaled heavily, pressing my fingers against my temple before shutting my eyes briefly. The past felt like a tangled thread in my mind, one I had no desire to unravel, but since we were stuck in this motel room, I felt like I didn’t have a choice but to answer. When I opened my eyes again, I let out a resigned sigh and began.
“When I sold my first book, Marcus was the obvious choice to be my agent. Or at least, that’s what everyone told me. He was already wildly successful—representing some of the biggest names in literary fiction. I was no one. Just a kid who had poured his cynicism and heartbreak into a novel, hoping someone might take notice. And somehow, he did. It shocked me. I couldn’t understand why someone at his level would even bother with me.”
I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the familiar prickle of old shame crawling up my spine. “A few weeks after he signed me, he hit on me. I, well, didn’t say no.”
Hugh’s expression didn’t change, but I could tell he was listening carefully. I forced myself to keep going. “Marcus was attractive enough, I guess, but that wasn’t really the point. He was powerful. He could take my career and catapult it to heights I never imagined. So I went along with it. We started dating, and then—” I swallowed hard. “Then it became something more.”
Hugh shifted slightly, the movement small but perceptible. His voice was quieter when he asked, “Were you ever in love with him?”
I grimaced, the question landing like a blow to the ribs. My jaw tightened, and I looked away. A muscle in my cheek twitched as I forced out the words, low and unconvincing. “Yes, I think?”
I let out a harsh laugh, the sound grating against my own ears. “I don’t know. Maybe I convinced myself I was, because it made the whole thing easier to swallow. The truth is, I was using him. And he was using me right back.”
Hugh’s gaze remained steady, his expression unreadable. “So what changed?”
I felt my shoulders sag, the weight of the past bearing down on me. “I did. Or at least, I tried to. After my fifth book hit the bestseller list, I felt like I had some leverage. Like maybe I didn’t need Marcus as much as I thought I did. So I ended things.”
“And he didn’t take it well.” It wasn’t a question.
I shook my head, a bitter smile twisting my lips. “No, he didn’t. He made it clear he could destroy my career just as easily as he’d built it up. Said he’d blacklist me with every publisher in the industry if I didn’t toe the line.”
Hugh’s brow furrowed, a flicker of anger passing over his features. “So you stayed with him.”
“Not like that,” I clarified quickly. “But I kept him on as my agent, yeah. I didn’t have a choice. He had all the power, and he knew it.”
I suddenly felt exhausted. “And now, here I am. Still tied to him, even after everything. It’s pathetic.”
Hugh was silent for a long moment, his eyes searching my face. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but firm. “It’s not pathetic. It’s survival. You did what you had to do.”
I met his gaze, something in my chest loosening at the understanding I saw there. “Maybe. But it doesn’t feel like living.”
Hugh leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “So change it. You’re not that struggling writer anymore, and you’re not alone. You have options.”
I huffed out a breath, shaking my head. “It’s not that simple.”
“No,” Hugh agreed, “but it’s not impossible either. You just have to decide what you want, and then fight like hell for it.”
I stared at him, my mind spinning with the possibilities. Could I really do it? Could I break free from Marcus, once and for all? The thought was terrifying, but also strangely exhilarating.
“I don’t know if I’m strong enough,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.
Hugh’s hand reached out, his fingers brushing against mine. “You are. And if you ever doubt it, just remember – you’ve got me in your corner.”
I looked down at our hands, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. For the first time in a long time, I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe Hugh was right. Maybe I could change my story, after all.
Hugh’s hand slid fully into mine, our fingers intertwining. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down my spine, and I found myself unable to look away from the sight of our joined hands. My pulse quickened, a fluttering sensation taking root in my stomach.
Hugh leaned in closer, his breath warm against my cheek as he whispered, “Donovan, there’s something I need to tell you.”
I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. The air between us felt charged, electric with a tension that had been building since the moment we’d met. I forced myself to meet his gaze, my voice barely audible as I asked, “What is it?”
Hugh’s eyes searched mine, a mix of vulnerability and determination swirling in their depths. “I… I have feelings for you, Donovan. Genuine feelings. The kind that keep me up at night, wondering what it would be like to hold you, to kiss you, to be with you in every way possible.”
My breath caught in my throat, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it. I’d suspected, hoped even, that there was something more between us than just our working together. But to hear him say it out loud, to have him confirm what I had been too afraid to acknowledge… it was overwhelming.
I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead, I squeezed his hand tighter, hoping the gesture would convey everything I couldn’t say.
Hugh’s lips curved into a small smile, his thumb brushing gently across my knuckles. “I know this is complicated. I know you’re still dealing with the fallout from Marcus, and the last thing I want to do is pressure you or make things harder for you. But I couldn’t keep pretending that what I feel for you isn’t real.”
I nodded slowly, my mind racing with a thousand thoughts and emotions. Part of me wanted to pull away, to run from the intensity of what was happening between us. But a bigger part of me, the part that had been drawn to Hugh from the very beginning, wanted to lean in, to close the distance between us and see where this could go.
“Hugh, I…” I started, my voice trembling slightly. “Don’t think for one second I don’t have feelings for you too. But I wonder if it’s right to pursue anything with you.”
Hugh’s eyebrows drew together. “Why?”
I took a deep breath, trying to steady the pounding of my heart. “Because, Hugh… I’m your boss. And after everything that happened with Marcus, the last thing I want is to repeat the same mistakes. To let a power imbalance cloud my judgment, or worse, to make you feel you don’t have a choice.”
Hugh’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. But then his expression softened, and he reached up to cup my cheek with his free hand. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, and I found myself leaning into it despite my reservations.
“Donovan,” he murmured, “You’re nothing like Marcus. You would never abuse your position or take advantage of me. I know that with every fiber of my being.”
I wanted to believe him. God, how I wanted to believe him. But the scars from my past ran deep, and I couldn’t shake the fear that history might repeat itself.
“How can you be so sure?” I whispered, my voice cracking slightly. “How do you know I won’t hurt you, even if I don’t mean to?”
Hugh’s thumb brushed lightly across my cheekbone, tracing the line of my jaw. “Because I know you, Donovan. And you’d never hurt me on purpose.”
Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. “I’m scared, Hugh,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “Scared of messing this up, of losing you, of getting hurt again. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to take that risk.”
Hugh’s hand slid from my cheek to the back of my neck, his fingers threading gently through my hair. “You don’t have to be strong enough on your own, Donovan. We can be strong together. We can take this one day at a time, figure it out as we go. All I know is that I want to be with you in whatever way you’ll have me.”
I stared at him, my heart swelling with fear and longing. Every instinct I had was telling me to pull away, to protect myself from the potential heartbreak that loomed on the horizon. But as I looked into Hugh’s eyes, I saw a future there that I couldn’t ignore.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, my decision crystallized in my mind. Slowly, I leaned forward, closing the remaining distance between us until our foreheads were touching, our noses brushing lightly against each other.
“I want this, Hugh,” I breathed, my voice trembling but certain. “I want you. I’m terrified, but I’m also tired of letting my fear control me. I’m tired of living half a life, always holding back, always wondering what could have been.”
Hugh’s eyes shimmered with emotion. “Then let’s be brave together,” he murmured, his lips hovering just a hairsbreadth from mine. “Let’s take the leap and see where we land.”
And with that, he closed the gap between us, his lips meeting mine in a kiss that was both gentle and searing. I melted into him, my hands coming up to tangle in his hair as his arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us.
In that moment, everything else fell away – the doubts, the fears, the ghosts of my past that had haunted me for so long. All that mattered was Hugh, and the way he made me feel alive in a way I hadn’t been in years.
As we broke apart, breathless and flushed, I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face. Hugh mirrored my expression, his eyes sparkling with a mix of joy and wonder.
“That was…” he started, his voice low and slightly hoarse.
“Amazing,” I finished for him, my heart still racing in my chest. “Absolutely amazing.”
Hugh grinned, his hand sliding up to cup my cheek again. “I was going to say life-changing, but amazing works, too.” He leaned in, capturing my lips once more in a kiss that quickly turned heated. I parted my lips, inviting his tongue deeper inside me as my hands roamed over his back and shoulders, feeling the lean muscles beneath his shirt.
Without breaking the kiss, Hugh gently pushed me back onto the bed, his body covering mine as his weight settled between my thighs. I gasped at the contact, my hips arching up instinctively to meet his. Hugh groaned softly into my mouth, one hand sliding down my side to grip my hip.
“Donovan,” he breathed against my lips, his voice rough with desire. “Tell me you want this. Tell me it’s okay.”
Making It Real is the first full-length novel in the Making It Series. It’s available exclusively at my personal bookstore Cruz Publishing for the next week. To read it now, check out my bookstore!
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 