Vampire Truelock’s job for the last several hundred years has been protecting the President of Archer Industries, a family-run company that has done very well for itself. Since the current patriarch, Desmond Archer, is getting ready to officially retire from the company that more or less runs itself, he sends True on a mission to protect his estranged grandson Lane. Lane’s mother stopped speaking to her father Desmond when Lane was only a few years old and has told her son that his grandparents are all dead. He has no idea that he’s even an heir to a fortune. So when a handsome stranger steps in and saves him from bodily hard just when he needs it, he’s both grateful and a little suspicious. That suspicion only grows when bad things continue to happen to him, all seeming to stem from True’s arrival and his claim that he’s been sent by Lane’s grandfather to protect him. The fact that there’s insane chemistry between Lane and True doesn’t help either of them untangle the mystery regarding the danger’s source. Can they find the answers before Lane’s unknown enemies manage to do him permanent damage?
..Lane grabbed the stack of bills off the table and ran before the big muscle-bound asshole that wanted to either turn him inside out with his fist or transform him into a zombie—it was so hard to tell with the Eastern European types—got back from his trip to the bathroom. It was Lane’s own damn fault, thinking he could get what he needed from a stranger and that he could earn a little cash at the same time. But what was a boy with a bit of a pain kink to do?
Lane went straight for the nightclub proper, moving into the midst of the packed dance floor before heading for the exit. If he was lucky, he’d be out the and into the open air in a second.
Lane pushed faster, using the fact that he wasn’t the biggest guy on earth to his advantage and blending in with the crowd as he zoomed toward the door.
“No Sergei, I don’t want to become intimate with your fist or your lab-OR-atory or anything else. I was in this for the cash.” Lord.
Lane made it out the door, but Sergei was right behind him, and one great big paw grabbed the back of Lane’s shirt, bringing him up short. Boom. Caught. Damn.
“What the fuck, man? Watch the shirt! It’s an Armani!” Knockoff, but what tall, blond and terrifying didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Sergei shook him like Sergei was a cat with a new toy. “What’s your hurry? You did not have permission to leave yet. We did not even get started properly.”
“I suggest you let him go.” The voice came out of the crowd, and suddenly a tall guy stood there, looming over them. Blonder than the Russian hood—in fact his short, mussed hair was definitely white—the guy wore sunglasses. At night. How affectatious. He was bigger than Sergei, too. Maybe not as muscle bound, but taller, and his limbs spoke of strength. Lane ignored the part of himself that began drooling and the little voice that said it bet this guy would know exactly how to press each and every one of his buttons.
“He doesn’t belong to you,” The new guy told Sergei.
“I don’t belong to anyone! Dammit! Let me out of here!”
Sergei tugged him closer, putting him right between the two big guys. And while being the middle of a muscle sandwich might seem like a fantasy, in this particular situation, he wasn’t feeling the love.
Sergei’s move didn’t seem to faze the new guy at all. The new guy grabbed Sergei’s hands and twisted them, hard. Lane could hear the bones breaking, and Sergei screamed.
Just like that, Lane was free. He took off like a jackrabbit, zipping out the door and into the darkness. He was a little dazed by the crowds and the neon lights. A little dizzied by it in fact. Weird.
Lane thought he could hear footsteps following him, matching his stride. There was no way it was Sergei, not with those broken hands. He risked a glance to the right, and there was the white-haired guy, keeping up easily. How was that possible? And why?…
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Often referred to as “Space Cowboy” and “Gangsta of Love” while still striving for the moniker of “Maurice,” Sean Michael spends his days surfing, smutting, organizing his immense gourd collection and fantasizing about one day retiring on a small secluded island peopled entirely by horseshoe crabs. While collecting vast amounts of vintage gay pulp novels and mood rings, Sean whiles away the hours between dropping the f-bomb and pursuing the Kama Sutra by channeling the long-lost spirit of John Wayne and singing along with the soundtrack to Chicago.
A long-time writer of complicated haiku, Sean is currently attempting to learn the advanced arts of plate-spinning and soap-carving sex toys.
Barring any of that? He’ll stick with writing his stories, thanks, and rubbing pretty bodies together to see if they spark.
To learn more about Sean, please visit: www.seanmichaelwrites.com.