Launch Day! Pumping Iron & a Special Sale

Pumping Iron (A Bad Boyfriends Novel), Book 2

Pumping-Iron-200-300What does it take to bring a slow simmer to a rolling boil?

Sean Rourke’s career missteps have him hiding in plain sight as a Bad Boyfriends A-list escort, hoping to dodge the bullet from a few career missteps.

Mike Douglas’ financial backing and very special negotiating skills have him partnering not-so-silently at Bad Boyfriends, as well as running a training center for athletes and gym rats.

Eying each other at a distance is all they’ve allowed themselves until a joint special project at a seaside retreat in the Hamptons, entertaining a wily Boston attorney, shows them exactly how well they fit together, in more ways than simply business as usual.

Available from ARe/OmniLit (PDF, Epub, Mobi formats) Specially priced at $2.39

Also on sale for a limited time: Book 1, CURLING IRON (A Bad Boyfriends Novella), a steal at 99c!

100000711488596pizapw1407684797EXCERPT from Pumping Iron:

Sequestered at a beach house in the Hamptons, charged with keeping Lovett Junior occupied while his law firm does damage control over Junior’s peccadillos, Mike and Sean are dancing around their attraction for each other. Mike suggests a run – that’s the stick, but there’s a carrot involved also.

He sank to his knees, still blowing hard. By my guesstimate, we’d gone two miles and change. Ten was usually a warmup for me, but then I was fit, Sean wasn’t. At least not for that.

I needed to look at the bigger picture: Sean naked, on my bed, his cock at full salute, a come hither expression on his face, eyes at half mast, touching himself, fondling his balls, a finger nudging the gully, thighs inching apart…

Sean blew that fantasy clear out of the sky, dumping me into a brand new one with, “I’ll give you the best blow job of your life if you stop and let me die right here.”

“Tempting. But one question. Is that before or after?”

“Wha—?” He grimaced and ducked his head, his shoulders shaking.

I offered a hand to pull him up, but he surprised me and yanked hard enough I got caught off balance and sank to my knees in front of him. Now we were both sucking air, our chests heaving, and it had nothing to do with exertion, not that kind.

Behind me the sky was lightening enough it reflected in the deep brown pools that were his eyes, the irises wide and soft and so sexy I leaned in for a closer look, hungering for a taste of his mouth and skin salty slick with sweat and sea air.

He had my wrist, pinching down hard, his thumb rubbing along the underside … not rubbing, shoving, shoving the blood back, back toward my cock, and it hurt in a way that I never wanted it to stop. I couldn’t take my eyes off it, off him digging into the skin, thin now under the assault of a blunt nail. It was angry, harsh how he did it, so harsh I at first didn’t feel the touch, a caress on my cheek, following the line to my jaw and tilting my head.

I wanted to look down, I wanted to see how much pain and pleasure he could control, but that feather touch drained me of everything but wanting him, right there, right on that beach with the grey shadows retreating toward the dunes, exposing us, exposing me to his power.

Oblivious to everything but the craving for his taste, I surrendered as he took my mouth, tracing it with his tongue, probing. My hand hung helpless, useless, in a vise grip that numbed sensation and replaced it with such intense focus on my cock and my mouth, there was nothing left but him sweeping inside, crushing and bruising as he invaded my senses.

The first sharp nip released an intense flood of copper-iron. Sean swished it away, then assaulted the bruise with another and another until he withdrew, leaving me passive, struggling for air.

I murmured, “Sean?”

He stood. I couldn’t. Not yet.

Whispering, “We have company,” Sean nodded in the direction of the dunes behind us.

Holding out a hand, he helped me up. We locked gazes, his almost a challenge. Then with a rueful grin, he said, “I have sand in my shorts.”

I looked down, leering. “Looks like a sand dune to me. You might want to do something about that.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“A contest.”

I was going to make him pay in spades for turning me into a quivering blob of jelly, right there in the open, lancing my heart with that fucking display of dominance. Reaching over to hook a forefinger in the waistband of his bathing suit, I tugged him closer and laid out the terms, keeping them clean and simple.

“First one back gets to top.”

He growled, “Bite me,” and took off like a shot, with me a few steps behind.

 Coming soon to Kindle, Nook, Scribd, Apple and other fine eBook retailers

About Nya Rawlyns

Nya Rawlyns doesn’t write typical romance. She writes emotion as a contact sport, rough and often raw. It need not be pleasant, heart-warming or forever after. What she seeks is what lies beneath—a dance of extremes, the intersect of need and desire, and the compromises we make when pain and pleasure become indistinguishable. ***** She has lived in the country and on a sailboat on the Chesapeake Bay, earned more than 1000 miles in competitive trail and endurance racing, taught Political Science to unwilling freshmen, and found an avocation in materials science. ***** When she isn’t tending to her garden or the horses, the cats, or three pervert parakeets, she can be found day dreaming and listening to the voices in her head.
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