Posts Tagged ‘work in progress’

Close to halfway through Sleeping with Danger…Rory and Alex encounter mystery piled upon mystery, signs of violence and tenderness too, while searching for traces of a missing man. Both of them are profoundly affected by their discoveries. In this passage, anger and sorrow come to  the surface, even as they explode in passion.

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Their kiss was savage. Alex seized his lower lip and bit, hard, while gripping his hair at the scalp. Surprised, Rory grabbed his wrists; but his lover, wild and struggling, would not let go. Dropping to his knees, he sank onto the sleeping bag, bringing Alex down with him.

You want blood, lad? I’ll give you blood.

Seizing his upper arms, he forced the struggling man onto his stomach and sat on him. Panting and cursing, he leaned over Alex’s back and sank his teeth into the muscle mass over his shoulder blade while holding the straining butt cheeks in the vise of his thighs.

He moaned with the pleasure of the coppery tang in his mouth and the guttural shout from the one underneath him, astonished at the weight of his erection, loving the fierce tight urgency of his own balls, ready to explode all over the man’s goddamn back.

“I swear my cock will rip your ass in two, Alex. Stop fighting me.”

Alex’s buttocks stopped bucking. Off guard, he leaned down to tongue the asshole. Alex exploded in a cyclone of cursing, rearing, trying to roll over, failing, cursing more.

Chíngate! Fuck you, leave me alone!” He was sobbing, shouting, feral in his anger…so irresistible Rory almost shot cum before his cock could find a hot home inside his ass.

And when he found the hole, he rammed. Hard. Relentless, angry now too, he laughed and wept at the same time.

“Fuck you too, corazón, you bastard, you fucking hot-ass, fuck you all the way to your goddamn tailbone.”

They both came in a hoarse, wordless torrent of bloody spit and cum.

After a very long time, he heard Alex mutter, “Your father will kill us both when he sees this sleeping bag.”

“I love you too, Alejo. Get some sleep.”

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thistles 3

Don’t miss the first three Nevada Highlander novels!

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(Chapter 5, continued… The links below will lead you to the first four-plus chapters.)

As soon as he and Rory shut the bedroom door to the outside world, the reality hit him. He was going to the Highlands. Not just in a few weeks or days—but tomorrow. Before crack of dawn tomorrow. He half-listened to the splash of Rory’s long piss in the bathroom twenty feet away while his heart pounded a fast beat, a kettledrum rattling in his rib cage.

When Rory walked back into the bedroom, his Levi’s fly gaping open, Alex was still rooted to the spot, his back against the door, trying to sort it all out in his mind.

“What shall we take? When will we leave? Fuck, Rory, I feel twelve years old again.”

The Scot closed the gap between them in six strides, pinning back his hands and licking his mouth. “That sounds good, lad.”


“What you said. Fuck Rory.”

He had no intention of putting off a good resounding fuck. And tonight by god he would be the fucker. He’d been horny all day, since he’d squatted with his back to another door, listening to the call of seabirds, thinking about Rory’s talented mouth, pulling his own prick.

Memory—and interruption— are powerful stimulants.

jeans off clouds

He let Rory unfasten his button and unzip the loose Levi’s while they took turns sucking each other’s tongue and cheeks and earlobes.

“Tub,” he managed to gasp.

“Bicycle seats are sexy, Alejo.”

“For you maybe.” He untangled his hands and grinned at Rory. “Put me in the tub and at least wash my balls first.”

“Och, I can do that with my spit.”

“And I’ll never say never. After a bath.”

A few minutes later he was reclining in Rory’s massive marble tub, legs spread, letting his dedicated lover lather his cock and balls, trying to hold back a long moan.

“Good, love?”

“Very good, Rory. Too good. Trade places with me.”

“Och, I owe you from this morning…”

“Since when do we keep score?”

Using the edges of the tub, he hauled himself out of the soapy water and stood looking down at his kneeling companion. “Lie back, Rory. And face me. Now.”

He could not explain a sudden need to take this dominant man, make him shout until he was hoarse.

“Is that an order, Alejo?”

Si, cabrón.”

Rory’s mustache lifted over an evil smile. “Gang warily.”

gang warily

The Drummond Clan cry, the one Rory had directed to be engraved on their rings. Go carefully.

“Raise your legs to my shoulders, love. And I promise I’ll go, and come warily too.”

They rarely fucked in the missionary position—mainly because Rory was usually too impatient to turn him on his ass instead of his belly. Also because the big guy invariably struggled for dominant position.

But tonight Alex was a beast. He was willing to crack the goddamn marble tub to get his way.

“A highland fuck, Rory. Legs up. A ride to the peak.”

He saw the smolder in the man’s sea-green eyes, knew him well enough to sense the moment of surrender.

in tub

He knelt between Rory’s raised thighs and leaned into his mouth. His prick knew the way well enough, below the swollen testes, past the taint, into the cumberland gap, up the trail of tears…

He timed his tongue-sucks with his measured thrusts. Once or twice he pulled away from the open mouth to watch the face, the way his partner’s glazed-over eyes rolled back…loving the slack of his jaw, the grunts of desire, the chipped-flint of his nipples.

When he could not hold back, when Rory’s tunnel began to buck and shiver and jump, when he heard the guttural bellow of his lover’s release, he came in a cascade of hot need.


He was satisfied on one level. But lying in the dark next to his bed mate, Alex felt a hunger for more.



“What is a spittal?”

“Och, lad. ’Tis hospital with the hos removed.”


Rory sighed and rolled onto his side.  Tracing his mouth with one finger, he spoke in sleep-blurred syllables.

“Long time ago. Hundreds of years. In the Cairngorms, Alejo, the wolves…the human predators too…the highlanders built spittals, places for healing.”

“So Gleann Cu is a spittal?”

“Aye, once. Now just a hamlet. The word cù means whelp, Alex. Or better, it means wolf. Back when the worst killers wore claws instead of the king’s colors.”

Rory collapsed back onto the soft bed, ready to resume his slumber. Five-thirty in the morning would clamor soon. They planned to leave a little before daybreak, half after seven, hit the road before traffic built up. There was still a lot to do before then, including sleep. Alex knew that, but he was too keyed up to succumb to dreams. He had enough real-life fantasies he could ride, hard, into the coming dawn.


flourish red

The first four and a half chapters of this work in progress are on another blog. Start here…and follow the pages titles listed on the right side panel.




castle stalker, appin, argyll & bute

Castle Stalker…one of the best-preserved medieval tower-houses to survive in western Scotland. In the current story we’ll see another tower-house, the one owned by Clan Drummond.

And a reminder: The Nevada Highlander series is on sale only at Smashwords, half price throughout July. Follow this link

Smashwords http://bit.ly/1s3cf1q (epub format)

The Amazon Kindle page (not discounted) is here:


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Let me start by introducing Alex Dominguez and Rory Drummond by way of a couple of images. They’ll form in your imagination soon enough, I hope, as you read the opening words of Sleeping with Danger (all new, Nevada Highlander 4).

alex promo correx

rory promo SWD correx

~~~Chapter 1~~~
In the Arms of the North Sea

Montrose Promontory
Angus, Scotland
Friday, April 5, 2014

Alex slowed his mountain bike to a wobbly roll and finally braked to a complete stop. The worn leather seat jutted from his groin like a tired but still serviceable cock. He grinned down at it, thinking about this morning with Rory, and shifted his gaze to the shimmer and blur of blue where the waters of Montrose Harbor met the vast canopy of sky.

“Suck my balls, Alejo.”

He’d awakened to the musky smell and velvet fist of his lover’s sac thrust in his face. Still full of sleep, abruptly aroused, he’d groped for Rory’s ass cheeks and opened his mouth, letting the testicles invade the inside of his cheeks. Slobbering and spitting, he let them slide out, then sucked them inside again while his fingers found his lover’s asshole.

“Rory…let mmph…”

“Quiet, lad. Now the cock.”

A week ago, Spring had hit Scotland’s east coast in a rush of temperate days and cloudless skies. From what Alex read on the net and heard in the conversations around him, the only place in Scotland still ass-numbing cold was the only place he’d rather be—in the Highlands. In the highest and probably most beautiful spot in his adopted country. In the Cairngorms.

Almost six months ago, following Rory, he’d left his beloved Snake Range in Nevada’s high desert. Not that he’d spent a lot of time there since he was a kid. But those stark glacial peaks had a grip on his psyche that he now recognized. Only now, after leaving them far behind.

Using the pedal as a fulcrum, he jumped from the bike and flicked the kickstand, letting it sit like a good dog on the side of the narrow path while he ambled to the steep roadside and lost himself, as usual, in a flood of raw beauty.

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These are actual pictures of Montrose Promontory with its iconic lighthouse, built back in the 1800s and saving ships from the arms of the North Sea ever since.

Montrose promontory lay before him like a thumb jutting into the North Sea, its tip punctuated by the lighthouse. Using the rocks as footholds, he walked a ways down the bluff, closer to the sea. Now, at low tide, Alex turned his gaze from the land and looked down at the foaming tide pools left by retreating waves. His eyes followed the seabirds sweeping in for their prize, shellfish left every twelve hours by the ocean’s circadian promise.

He stood erect, letting the wind buffet him, thinking about the odd fact of a Nevada highlander embracing the Scurdie Ness headland on Scotland’s eastern shore, five thousand miles from home. Correction: what used to be his home.

His mind flicked over the past few weeks, how a tide pool like one of these had led to a killer and his own near demise. And Rory… He’d put his own fiancé in a dangerous trap then, and on other occasions too.

Por diós. My fault, for being a cop. Anything and everything’s a clue. Every face might hide a criminal.

He wondered for the millionth time whether he was doing the right thing. Two months ago he’d agreed to marry the man he adored. But would marriage put Rory in the crosshairs again…and again, and again? Would the tough Scot end up being another victim of his lover’s relentless cop-heart?

The Scurdie Ness Mess. That’s what the local online newspapers called it. He and Rory had escaped with no more than a few scars—Rory on his muscled chest, where he’d crawled like a snake for a kilometer. And Alex? There was still a dull ache in his fingers and on his kneecaps too, still swollen and stiff from—

“Yo! Alex, right?”

His thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice behind him. As much as he craved solitude, he liked the man who’d spoken his name, and he turned with a smile. The bony youngish man had taken the incline like a pro. Hell, Alex hadn’t even heard his approach. Or I’m getting old before my time…

“Good to see you, Peter James. Or James Peter. Were you named after two favorite uncles?” He stretched out his hand and let the other man pump it.

“Hilarious. The kids in school had a blast with ‘Peter,’ but I outgrew them, and Nebraska too. How’ve you been, Alex? I haven’t seen you since—”

“Since the mess. Um, the Scurdie Ness case. Did I ever thank you for your role in tracking down a killer, Peter? I owe you a big one.”

Peter shook his head, letting a hank of straight brown hair fall across his lively eyes. “Fuck that, Alex. All I did was show you my photo files.”

The tall, lanky midwesterner had an infectious grin, and an easy way about himself that Alex liked.

“That was huge. Your photos cracked the case.”

Peter, thumbing back the fugitive lock with a bony thumb, laughed out loud. “Yeah, because you looked past the crap into the facts.”

“Anyway, Peter, how come you’re away from the Reserve this morning?”

The photographer, not paid by the Montrose Basin Wildlife Reserve, was actually their best wildographer, a term he’d learned from Peter himself. Alex had seen his work. The man could make his feathered subjects fly off the page. 

yellow-browed warbler

This photo of a yellow-browed warbler was taken in Scotland, photographer unknown.

“Day off, kinda. I should be home sleeping in, or sucking up java, or working on my computer files. But the warm weather and all… I thought today would be a good time to shoot some stuff for myself.”

Alex had already noticed a compact leather case slung over his shoulder with a long strap and figured it was a digital camera. Peter lived in a dump, but his equipment was top-notch.

“What about you, Alex? Here on police business, or…?”

“I come out here maybe three days out of seven. Four at the most. No set days. A Special Constable is not so special, Peter. But at least they let me set my own schedule.”

“And pay you a little more than I get paid—bird shit.”

They both cracked up. It was true. Peter worked for the love of wildlife, the hope that someday his tagline on the web would attract more than fleeting praise. And Alex was a former Nevada State Trooper, new to Scotland, who’d pretty much lucked into this rent-a-cop gig on the promontory. The money he got was minuscule, barely enough to cover the non-rent on his non-home. The thought made his mouth twitch a little, and he turned his head, pretending to gaze out at the harbor.

“Not trying to be too personal Alex. But I was wondering if you and Rory, um, if you guys have set a date.”

He turned his head and allowed his eyes to smile along with his mouth. “Paperwork. We’re drowning in paperwork. Just because the Parliament said it was okay to have same-sex marriages, that doesn’t mean Scotland is ready for us. They seem to have their heads up their asses. We have to register, then wait. Then fill out more forms, and wait some more. Hell, Peter, we’ve gotten word that no marriages at all will be granted until the end of the year.”

“Ouch. Because they’re stalling? Or because they just don’t know how to handle the rush?”

He grinned. This guy was straight, but he was cool. 

They stood in silence for awhile, soaking up the rare morning sun, allowing the salt wind to lift their hair in cartwheels and somersaults.

“Alex? Everything okay?”

“Absolutely, my friend. I was just thinking… One of these nights, I’d like you  to come over to the—to Castle Drummond for dinner. You’ll like Rory’s parents. And I promise to keep Thistle from devouring your shirt tail. Or worse. How ’bout it?”

“Damn. I’d love that. It’ll be good to see Rory again. I liked your wolfhound too. She’s a beauty.”

Hoping he wasn’t being too obvious about the brush-off, he offered his hand again. “Then I’ll give you a call after I check with Rory. Howzat?”

“Can I bring my girlfriend? Well, kind of. She’s a girl, and we’re friends…”

“I’m looking forward to it, Peter.” He meant it. But he had a job to do right now, and stuff he needed to sort out in his head before Rory’s sexy taunts sent him into helpless laughter and his strong arms pulled him again into a frenzy of lust. 

Alex walked ten feet up the embankment and rescued his bike, which had managed to stand upright in the stiff wind. Turning to wave at Peter, he smiled back at the man’s open grin and wave of farewell. He mounted Old Paint—his fond nickname for the cheap refurbished bike—and pedaled up the promontory toward “his” lighthouse.

Damn right Scurdie Ness was his lighthouse, the iron nautilus where he’d managed to trap a determined killer. The famous beacon was part of his beat, actually, a destination for tourists and so a possible target for vandals as well as sight-seers. It loomed ahead of him as he rose and bent forward on the mountain bike, trying to keep the salty sting out of his eyes. 

It was not lost on Alex, that the places he responded to most deeply were high ones. His mountain, Mariah. His lighthouse, the Scurdie Ness. And his personal aerie, Hunter’s Point—not so much high as aloof. Secluded.  He was still amused that he’d thought of Rory as a highlander, when in fact he was a flatlander from Arbroath. The real highlander was Alex Dominguez.

Again he thought of the Cairngorms, Scotland’s answer to his old turf.  As much as he and  his lover had day-tripped in the Scot’s vehicle of the moment, they were holding off a trip to those mountains. Alex thought he needed a good three days just to take it all in—half a week, three whole days in a row that he reckoned his Special Constable job would not allow.

Rory had teased the shit out of him. “Alejo, they don’t even pay you. You have every right to tell Finley she can stick it in her wrinkled—um, she can afford to be without you for two or three days. Och, am I going to marry an old lady, or a real cop?”

But Alex had a work ethic, a dedication to duty he couldn’t seem to shrug off. Even if the “duty” of the moment was helping a poor fisherman prepare smokies, or keeping this road clear of possible trouble-makers…both for pennies a day…once he’d made a promise, it was fossilized in granite, an ancient bristlecone at the treeline of Mt. Mariah.

His smile bit into the wind, and he tried to concentrate on the present. The lighthouse, looming in front of him, and his marriage too…

bike butt

The “special” in Special Constable. No, not Alex’s duty uniform.


green thumbtackDon’t stop now! A bit from chapter 2 is on this blog, here: https://bit.ly/2MJfmGT

And eight first-draft chapters (roughly one-third of the novel) are printed starting here:


I almost forgot the cardinal rule of blogging: leave em with a link! Here’s the book that precedes this one, a promo I ran on Facebook today:

The brass balls have become more vulnerable as Rory’s association with Alex proves unsafe at any speed. This is the third NEVADA HIGHLANDER title.

 Sexy and explosive! HUNTER’S POINT: A Scot, a cop, and a killer…at a point of no return.

 As Scotland is about to pass a same-sex marriage bill, two headstrong men have their own problems to solve: a case of murder, a coming to terms with a troubled past, and a possible long-term commitment to each other, even in the face of a third man who apparently would love to end their torrid affair.

 Rory and Alex follow murder clues from the lighthouse complex on Montrose Promontory to one of Scotland’s most prestigious prep schools … while a killer, not content with one victim, waits in a place none would suspect.

hp cosmic promo

~ What? You haven’t started the Nevada Highlander series? 😉

#gay #erotic #romance #action- #adventure




SLEEPING WITH DANGER—this one, now published!

All four novels on O’Quinn’s kindle series page:


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