Hey folks! Today I’m happy to introduce you to Liv Rancourt and her story The Secret of Obedience!
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I write romance: m/f, m/m, and v/h, where the h is for human and the v is for vampire … or sometimes demon … I lean more towards funny than angst. When I’m not writing I take care of tiny premature babies or teenagers, depending on whether I’m at home or at work. My husband is a soul of patience, my dog’s cuteness is legendary, and we share the homestead with three ferrets. Who steal things. Because they’re brats.
I can be found on-line at all hours of the day and night at my website & blog, on Facebook, or on Twitter. For sneak peeks and previews and other assorted freebies, sign up for my mailing list.
Come find me. We’ll have fun!
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Can a jock find love with a hot little hipster?
Opposites attract, but secrets divide.
Ronnie Durand is a country boy who transfers to the University of Washington after two years at Central. He’ll have to give up playing football, though finishing his education at a major university in Seattle – and being out and proud without having to look over his shoulder – makes the sacrifice worthwhile.
But finding friends at a huge school is tough, especially when the hottest guy Ronnie meets makes him doubt his own sanity.
Sang’s been on his own a long time. He’s only a couple steps away from living on the street, and he’s got dreams so big they don’t leave space for a steady boyfriend. Then he meets Ronnie, who just might be strong enough to break through his barriers….as long as Sang lets him in on one big secret.
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My bike’s parked right in front of the club. “Are we going far?” I ask.
“Four or five blocks.”
I hand him the helmet. “Get on.”
He slides the helmet on, and I help him tighten the buckles. He chitters a laugh, making the moment silly and a little awkward. I straddle the bike, and when he climbs on behind me it turns me on so bad I almost come again. Damn. I want to be stretched out in a bed with Sang, both of us naked, with a box of condoms and a Costco-sized bottle of lube.
With nudges and hand signals, he guides me to a big brick apartment building about a quarter mile away. I park, and he springs off, leaving me with a sharp shiver at the loss of his heat. By the time I get the bike locked up, he’s on the front door phone.
“I need your bed, chica.”
“I’m in it.” The voice is muffled, most likely female, and laughing rather than annoyed.
“Then your couch.”
The phone clicks and goes to dial tone, and the door buzzes. I follow Sang through the lobby, where the dark burgundy carpet could be original to the 1940s. We jog up a couple flights of stairs and down a hall to an open apartment door.
“Go.” He hustles me in, then throws the deadbolt and taps on a closed door to our right. “Thanks, baby.”
An indistinct bleat answers him, likely from the location of the occupied bed. The rest of the apartment is one room with a kitchenette in the corner. It’s dark except for the streetlights outside, but Sang knows where to find candles and a match. We’re quiet, wordless, working with borrowed solitude. Compared with the thrash of the nightclub and the sleazy bathroom stall, I’ll take it.
I dump my jacket and helmet on the dining table. Sang sets two candles on the tiny bookcase, hauls me over to the couch, and pushes me down. I’m laughing, because for a little guy, he’s bossy as hell. Then he straddles me, and I want to kiss him without pissing him off. I drag him close and nuzzle his neck, tasting, testing, planting not-kisses in a hot line down his throat. He sighs, and I take it as permission to keep going.
His pants are stretch leggings, so it doesn’t take much to get them worked down over his hips to free his dick. It’s so elegant, tapered and smooth. I want to suck on it again, to bring him off and make him sputter in Korean or Chinese or whatever language he babbled in last time. If he wanted me to, I’d fuck him, but he’d have to ask. I’m not really much for butt sex. If a guy’s into it, I’ll do what he wants, but my own preference is for hands and mouths, everything slick with spit and lube. I like messy sex. And kissing. I really like kissing.
I stroke him, rubbing my thumb over the head of his dick, and he flops against me like I’ve disconnected his spinal cord. The room smells of smoke and roses, and he’s fumbling at my zipper, those delicate hands all trembling and raw, so I reach in and help. My hand’s big enough to wrap around both of us, the heat of his thrust enough to drive both of us crazy. His lace shirt is tangling in my fingers and around our shafts, so I undo the buttons and shove it off his shoulders. My black silk is already kinda trashed, but he does the same for me, exposing my chest.
Our thrusting goes from eager to urgent to needy, his heavy-lidded gaze trapping me. His climax hits like a rocket, like fireworks going off in a black July sky. I follow, but it’s more of a tease, dragged out, slow and seductive until I can’t breathe and I arch off the couch. Sang crawls up my chest, hanging on, laying open-mouthed kisses over my ear, down my jaw.
If I’m lucky, this night will never end.
“We need to go soon.”
His whisper hits me like a slap.
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Liv Rancourt, thank you for stopping by today!
Love & blessings to all! ❤