Book Spotlight on The Elder Man by Katherine Wyvern #MMRomance #MustRead

Thank you so much for hosting me today with my new release, The Elder Man. This story is very close to my heart, and to my life!

Over two years ago I made a drawing of my favorite model as an antlered forest god.  It sat quietly in my album for almost 12 months, but it kept pushing invisible roots all over my soul, until suddenly last year, this story began to write itself. It was light and sexy and full of humor (poking fun at city people baffled by the countryside is my revenge for how befuddling the city is to me!) but I soon became aware that there was more to it than met the eye.

In fact it became a tapestry of all the things I love most in my life, my barely tamed garden and my woods, my animals, my sculpting and natural building, my simple, off grid lifestyle, and the beauty and antiquity of the Dordogne, the region in SW France where I have been living for almost 10 years. I wanted to give a face to the bone-deep magic that I see and feel in all this. 

My forgotten but still powerful forest god is the form I chose to express all that is wondrous, healing and grounding in my life. 

Or maybe *he* chose me, and did his own thing. My characters notoriously tend to do that. 

I did a number of illustrations, at different times, for this story, and I am delighted that one of them found its way to the cover of the book, thanks to Jay Aheer and Evernight Publishing. You can see them all on my blog, here: https://katherinewyvern.blogspot.com/2020/04/the-art-of-elder-man-coming-tomorrow.html

-:-

BLURB:

Uncovering and divulging  an outlandish conspiracy will put a hard bump into any journalist’s career, and Armin can only blame himself when he’s dispatched from Frankfurt’s skyscrapers into the depths of rural France on the unglamorous job of writing about a cobbing workshop. 

Natural building is messy, dirty and sweaty work, but it has its consolations. For example, Van, the greying but undeniably hot master cobber teaching the workshop. Sure, the man is a hopeless tree-hugger, with embarrassing notions about ancient folklore and religions, but he’s still worth a week-long fling, right?

When Van is revealed in all his majesty and power as a long forgotten forest god, however, the week-long fling might well become entangled with eternity, on the edge between life, death, madness, and immortality.

Find it on Amazon (free sample available)

.

Or (with 25% discount and a hot excerpt) at Evernight Publishing

.

Plus all the usual e-book retailers.

-:-

OFFICIAL TEASER (graphic sex alert):

Armin started undressing there and then and pulling at Van’s clothes.

“Um, can I brush my teeth at least?” asked Van, laughing.

“Nope.”

Van found himself dragged bodily toward the bedroom. He was still wearing his jeans, which were unbuttoned and sliding down to his knees. He couldn’t stop laughing.

“Okay, okay, I’m right here,” he said between kisses. He tried to either shed his trousers or hold them up so as not to fall flat on his face on the hard stone steps, but he didn’t manage to do either because Armin was all over him like an octopus.

They finally stumbled up the corridor and through the bedroom door and into the bed, and Van found himself pinned down with his ankles tangled in his jeans and Armin’s hand in his crotch, inside his boxers, and his head lodged awkwardly between two pillows. 

“Look, honey,” he said, “I’m all yours. But I need to … let me…” He writhed about under Armin’s panting body and finally managed to kick off those damn trousers and then get rid of his underwear.

“Shit, things were easier when we wore nothing but a loincloth and a bit of paint.”

Armin sank his face into his neck, laughing.

“You say these stupid things all the time. Like you are twenty thousand years old or something.”

“Um, well, give or take…”

“Shut up,” said Armin, kissing him deep and long, rubbing the front of his body on Van’s. Armin was buck naked and already hard and ready. 

Goodness me, what have I done to this young man? he thought.

Van had a passing recollection of the day Armin had arrived, so downcast and subdued and almost paralyzed with shyness. He smiled in the dark and arched to meet Armin’s body, feel his cock on his own.

Van knew that if he got another rough ride like yesterday, he’d need painkillers to get through the next day. 

He was on fire to love Armin again, to share everything, every ounce of flesh, to the bone, and if it had not been a workshop week, he’d have let himself be fucked blind again and spend the day in bed tomorrow, come hell or high water. 

But with the last day of the workshop looming, he thought this eager young buck needed to be steered in a different direction. 

Hell, am I really growing old? he thought. He didn’t feel old, least of all with Armin’s quick young body in his arms, but perhaps he was not quite as supple as he used to be. That’s the trouble with a middle-aged human body. Damn this mortal flesh.

 “Would—you—let me…” he whispered in brief bursts between hungry kisses, and he ran a finger deep in the crack of Armin’s butt. The young man arched into his arms, his back quivering. 

“Yes,” he said, half word, half breath, before pushing his tongue into Van’s ear, as if words were not enough to express his longing. 

“You can suit yourself if you like,” Van whispered, lying down flat on his back, inviting Armin to straddle his body.

“Oh, I like, I like a lot,” whispered the young man, smiling and palming Van’s cock to gauge his erection. 

****

Armin

He was quite happy to fuck or be fucked, but he had never done both with the same man. He was amazed and enchanted and almost a little humbled. Jonas had been an absolute bottom, and it was at least two years since Armin had had anything in his ass not made of steel or silicon. 

He fumbled around, switched on a bedside light, and opened that little surprising drawer again. He rolled a condom down Van’s cock and slathered it with lube. 

Armin kissed him and stroked Van hard again and lowered himself by degrees onto his lap, moaning softly as that warm, slippery living glans parted his ring by degrees and then slithered inside his body, such an intimate intrusion that he almost wept with emotion. It was so easy to fuck and be fucked that one could easily forget what an incredible disclosure of love and trust it could be. He took a long breath, and another, pleasure and pain and emotion clashing for an almost unbearable minute. Then the pleasure washed over him in mounting waves at every careful, deepening thrust as he filled himself with Van’s length and his own cock grew stiffer and bounced softly on Van’s stomach. After the crazy hurry and urgency of just a few minutes earlier, he had to pace himself, give his ass time to adjust around the girth of Van’s cock, and move slowly, with infinite tenderness, for himself, and for Van. It was really, really difficult. 

Van seemed quite happy though.

“Oh, honey,” he said, dreamily. He lay quite flat, his arms over his head and a lazy smile on his lips.

He was not so much fucking him as letting Armin take his own pleasure out of him, offering himself to Armin’s need. Armin wondered if he was always so … not submissive exactly, but giving.

He went a little crazy inside as he worked his ass in waves and tight circles on Van’s hard cock, rooted onto his body, spread wide and full inside and hard in front, all at the same time. It was so much pleasure all at once, almost too much, and yet still not enough. He wanted to say something absurd like, Take me hard, please yourself, fuck me like a whore, but he had never gotten the hang of delivering dirty talk with any panache, and the mere thought made him laugh a little. Van stirred and smiled tenderly, caressing his thighs and gently digging his thumbs at the base of his cock, kneading, so that Armin’s erection stiffened and rose a little higher.

“What’s funny?” he asked softly. 

“Nothing,” said Armin, but he was still smiling, delirious with happiness

BUY LINKS:

Find it on Amazon (free sample available)

.

Or (with 25% discount and a hot excerpt) at Evernight Publishing

.

Plus all the usual e-book retailers.

Book Spotlight on Hell's Mercy by Katherine Wyvern #BDSM #FreeRead

Twelve years after Ivory first visited the Black Carnival, Neu Venedig has changed: wilder, crazier, and even more surprising, this new Carnival has even old hands like Lukan staring wide-eyed.

I have bittersweet feelings about this story, which first appeared in an anthology put together for the benefit of Doris O’Connor and her family in the final days of her struggle with cancer. There will always be this great sadness connected to it.

On the other hand, it was great fun to dive back into the world of Cydonia, the Sci/fi series that started my published author career in 2011 (2011? Eight years ago? How did that happen?) with the release of Black Carnival.

It’s a great pleasure to re-release the story, with a new edit and this fabulous cover by Jay Aheer.

I am terrible at short stories, because my world building addiction always brings me to write a bit more, and a bit more, and then the short story becomes a full length novel. I thought it might be easier to write a short story in a pre-existing universe, but, no even so, the world and the characters still managed to do their own thing. Everything changed in the telling. Neu Venedig is a wholly more interesting place now, and I am wondering if it is not time to write a new full length instalment in this series… all this just to say, that this story was a tremendous fun ride for me, quite the surprise, and brings me full circle, in a certain sense, connecting my current Transgender Romance theme, to my debut novel. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

---

Blurb:

Wealthy, charismatic, influential and damn near immortal, Lukan Løvensgård looks like natural Dom material, and in fact he has never, but never submitted to anyone in his long life. But among all the bizarre and fantastic people roaming the far planet of Cydonia, there is one who stole his old, cold heart. 

And her love comes at a price. Complete surrender. 

With her impressive presence and unusual equipment, Helenay is the hottest and trendiest professional Domme in Neu Venedig and she hardly has the time to top for pleasure these days.  But she knows what her old friend Lukan needs, something he never suspected. Release from power.

#transgendererotica #futanari

---

Excerpt:

He knew all her favorite toys by their sting, and the sound they made when they met his flesh.

Helenay slapped the split strap of thick leather hard on his buttocks and then down his thighs, in a neat crisscrossing pattern. She could leave crisscross switch welts as neat as a corset’s lacing if she wanted. At his knees, she stopped, and Lukan breathed deep. The sharp sting of the tawse was pure fire, but it faded quickly enough. Still, his skin was now definitely well primed for the real pain.

He breathed hard.

Hell placed a hand between his buttocks and stroked the edge of his butt plug again and again, sending it to stroke his prostate, over and over, while at the same time, gently pulling on the cord that tied his cock and balls. He groaned, feeling waves of pleasure and the afterglow of pain mingling in his flesh and in his brain, addling him. Soon he would hardly know the difference between the two. He groaned again, not knowing anymore if he had come for the pain she could give, or the pleasure she so often withheld. Sometimes she would give both. Perhaps he would beg for it today.

Yes, he would certainly beg if he had to.

“Turn,” she said, and he let go of the wall, gingerly, because his knees were soft. Her tawse was still in her hand, and from one end of it, on a thin silk cord, hung a long suede tassel. Not quite a flogger, but a vicious enough little thing, when one was standing naked with a swollen glans reaching out, begging to meet that deceptive velvet kiss. He took a deep breath and then gave a sharp gasp when the first soft swish of the tassel hit his engorged cock. The suede was neither rough nor stiff, but his stretched, blood-filled skin exploded in pain at its kiss. The pain was so close on top of the pleasure he had been savoring a moment earlier that he could not quite tell them apart. The almost-gentle, almost-intolerable flogging went on and on, perhaps for only a few seconds, but he was jolting back at each blow, crying out, whimpering. When she stopped and palmed his balls again, he actually screamed, although she did nothing, just held them.

“You are so full of it today,” whispered Hell, seriously.

“It”   was the unbearable tension that mounted inside him between their encounters, as he knew well.

“Why?” she asked.

He shook his head wretchedly. “I don’t know. Help me. Help me, please.”

She sighed, and kissed his forehead for a long moment.

Moments like this, long or short, made his heart stop. Neither he nor she were made for tenderness, really. And yet it materialized, from time to time, out of the blue, unexpected, unexplained, often unacknowledged. Half the time, they almost pretended that it hadn’t happened. A secret they kept, even from themselves.  

---

Less explicit excerpt if preferred :

Three-hundred years after the demise of Earth-that-Was, the Galaxy’s central  government has banned all artificially modified and enhanced humans. Only the remote planet of Cydonia has finally dissociated itself from the ban. The wild revelries of the Black Carnival in the Cydonian capital, Neu Venedig, have now taken an even wilder turn…

On the fifth night of the Carnival, Lukan strolled out of his high walled courtyard, twirling his walking cane in the air and humming Johan Caspar Ferdinand Fischer’s “Praeludium VIII” to himself. He had been playing it on the harpsichord again and again that afternoon, and its slippery, silvery perfection still clung to his inner ear like a haunting voice.

He crossed a little bridge into a narrow calle, then turned right into a slightly wider canal-side, lit by glowing fire-bulbs and the shimmering reflections from the dark water. The place was quiet, and the music hummed on in his head, undisturbed. Even at the height of the festivities, it was almost deserted in this part of Neu Venedig. He had carefully chosen his 16th century palazzo to be well out of the raving crowds.

He skipped from flagstone to flagstone along the edge of the canal, almost like a child, almost like a dancer, following the music that he alone could hear. The long tails of his embroidered coat flapped behind him as if charmed by the inaudible melody. His ghostly shadow flickered in and out of existence as he passed streetlight after streetlight.

It was Carnival, and he was going to Hell.

The Praeludium in his head gave way to an altogether more spirited Rigaudon, and he skipped faster, actually counting, two, three, four—he skipped a larger flagstone—five, six seven. Eight, nine, heaven.

Hopscotch. A forgotten game, like the music was forgotten, like the harpsichord was forgotten, ghosts of a dead world, long, long ago. But he was alive, and he remembered. He had been alive a long time, far longer than his looks suggested.

The night was cold, and he was as taut as a violin string, ready to snap with ache and longing, and something else, too, a sort of mute grief he didn’t want to acknowledge but that haunted him all the time, subtly gnawing at him.

But he was going to Hell, so all would be fine tonight. Soon, he would be all right, freed from that silent sorrow, and released into flaming brilliance.

---

Buy link:

https://www.evernightpublishing.com/hells-mercy-by-katherine-wyvern/

Book spotlight on A Muse to Live For by Katherine Wyvern #historicalromance #transgender #mustread

Hello, and thank you so much for hosting me and my new release, A Muse to Live For.

A Muse to Live For is the third instalment in my loosely interconnected “transgender trilogy”, which includes also Woman as a Foreign Language and Spice & Vanilla. While WaaFL and S&V are very obviously connected (they have two characters in common), the threads connection Spice to Muse are much subtler, so much so that I consider it almost a game with my readers to find them.

Unlike the other two books, which are Contemporary Romance, Muse takes a plunge back into the past and is set in the 1880s.

This is part of why it took me so long to write it (almost a year, on and off). Much as I am familiar with Victorian England from having read so much Dickens, and Conan Doyle, and the Brontë sisters, and a number of other books written or set in that period, whenever one begins to write, one discovers how many details they are still missing. How much did a shave cost? How did you ride a cab? Where would a poor Irish immigrant likely live? How do you wear a bustle dress? How do you fix one if it’s worn?

It became so fascinating to research all these things (and much more) that I spent more time in Victorian London than I had ever intended, and once more, a short story became a novel (story of my life).

The main reason for choosing a period setting however was not the fancy costumes and moody atmosphere, but a desire to write a story about an artist of that amazing period, when the Pre Raphaelites, the Symbolists and the Impressionists were changing the face of art, and to write a transgender character before transgender became a thing, before there were any labels or any sense of belonging to a group.

It is the deepest trip I ever took into the emotions of any two characters, through obsession, depression, love and wonderful fulfilment, and both characters have some autobiographic relevance to me. It’s my favorite story to date.

Blurb:

London, 1884

An artist lives to create. When Nathaniel’s urge to paint died, so did his will to live.

Until the night he meets Gabrielle.

Gabrielle may be just a poor prostitute, but she has the beauty of a Pre-Raphaelite stunner and the otherworldly aura of a fallen angel. She also has a secret. Gabrielle is Gabriel, and when Gabriel’s dark past comes knocking and Gabrielle must abandon her new career as an artist’s model, Nathaniel’s whole world comes crashing down again.

Better to die than living without her love, and the breathtaking creative drive she brought him. But it’s dead easy to die for a woman. Any fool can die for love. To live for it, that takes altogether more courage, doggedness, and imagination.

Be Warned: transgender romance, queer romance, cross-dressing, m/m sex, anal sex, rape

Excerpt:

I am not sure how to touch Nathaniel. I want him to kiss me again, I want him to hold me, I want him to look at me that way he does in his studio, when he watches every line of my body and sees a woman. And at the same time, I wish he would see me for what I am, all that I am, once and for all, so I don’t have to hide anymore.

So I shed my jacket, and the blouse underneath. I shiver a little in the cold when my arms are bared, and he runs his warm palms on my goosebumps, soothing them.

Then I stand to unbutton my skirts and petticoat, and untie my bustle, and I let it all swish down around my knees, and I stand here naked, in my small chemise, and stockings and corset, and my boots.

I am still silk-skinned and woman shaped.

Except for that one thing.

I steal a glance at his face—I can hardly bear to look at his eyes, standing here so naked—thinking he will wince, or frown. Or scream, what do you know. You can never tell, with a sensitive artistic temperament.

But he does none of these things.

Instead he goes to his knees on the floor, like a man about to propose in some play, and with a sort of mute reverence he strokes my thighs and my buttocks, and the back of my knees, through the stockings. When he lays a kiss and then his forehead on the hard of my hip, where the bone pokes sharply under my skin, I put my hands on his crazy hair, and hold him there, and with the barest, lightest touch of his fingertips he caresses the front of my corset, on my belly, and then down, down.

And to my acute embarrassment, the damn thing shivers to his touch, stiffening, rising.

Well. He has certainly seen me, now. He really has.

He is not screaming.

I pull him to his feet and I step out of my puddled skirts, and gently I undress him. Jacket and shirt and trousers and drawers, socks, everything.

He is as tall as I am, which I had never noticed, because he always stands with his head bent and his shoulders slumped. He’s not muscular, but there is no fat on him either. He has well-built bones under his lumpy clothes—he badly needs a good tailor—and he would be rather handsome if he held himself straight, with his chin up, and didn’t look so much at odds with himself. He’s pale, but not as pale as I am, and there is just the merest spray of hair on his chest.

I caress his skin all over as I undress him, and he looks transfixed, as if it had never occurred to him that it takes two to dance this dance. Perhaps he thought I’d make him spend the night on his knees adoring me.

The heat of his skin is like a deep current, and it draws me to him.

We stand here mute, the only sounds the drumming of the rain and the swish of falling clothes, and gently kissing lips.

When I push him to lie on the bed, I have a moment of dread that he might want to do that to me. I cannot have it. I will not be taken that way ever again.

I’ll make my living giving blowjobs for the rest of my days, I guess.

But I am not afraid of him. I do not believe he’d be capable of hurting a fly, let alone me.

“So, do you fancy that blowjob, finally?” I whisper in his ear, smiling, but he holds me close, too close for me to slide down along his body.

“I love you,” he whispers, his lips on my ear, so that words are made into a caress, “I love you, I love you.”

“Hush,” I whisper back, bearing down on him, grinding my cock on his. “Don’t say such things. It cannot be. It can’t.”

“This night, this once, please, let me say it. I love you, I love you, I love you.” His body rises to meet mine, and I feel those tears spilling now, with joy, and grief, and pity. Pity for him, for me, for both of us, lost in this narrow garret under the drumming rain, orphans in this storm, desperately naked in this terrible iron city.

“Only this once, then,” I whisper. “Tomorrow, you must forget.”

And before he can answer or kiss me again, I slip out of his arms, and down, along his chest and belly, so he cannot see me cry.

I have pleasured so many men this way, but never one I loved, and maybe it’s the same thing, and yet it’s something altogether different. He’s all silk and warmth and heaving life and fire pulsing, and his flesh matters to mine, so that my whole body loves his.

“You—don’t—have—to do this,” he whispers at first, but then he surrenders finally, and lets the pleasure take him.

I told him, the first time we met, that I’d do him for free. Who would have guessed, then, that I would end up doing him for love?

And I don’t know if he’s a virgin—but he is indeed quick. His cock grows even tauter on my tongue, and he breathes in short, hard gasps a few times. When his body arches and heaves and his hand fumbles at my cheek, I hold him, and hold him, and hold him… He comes with a broken moan, hotly. I swallow it all.

On the street I never do. But here, now, with him, I could not bring myself to spit.

Find A Muse to Live For at Evernight:

 https://www.evernightpublishing.com/a-muse-to-live-for-by-katherine-wyvern/

Or on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07NPXLQNH/ref=sr_1_fkmrnull_1?keywords=A+Muse+to+Live+for+wyvern&qid=1550136673&s=gateway&sr=8-1-fkmrnull

BIO:

I have entered that age when looking at beautiful male models in their prime makes me a cougar, ahem. 

Almost all my heroines are short: that’s because I look at the world from hobbit level. Being so small I am three times more concentrated (read: obsessive) than anybody I know. I am exhaustingly creative in writing, arts, crafts... Sometimes my brain gets friction burns from hurtling at such speed from one universe to the next.

I love animals, plants, and occasionally even people. 

Like the Highlander I come from a lot of different places. I was born in Italy but lived here and there and consider myself simply and deeply European. I love Europe passionately, its antiquity, its diversity, its quirkiness. All my books are set in Europe, or alternate versions of it. 

I have been writing since I can remember.

LINKS:

Katherine’s Blog:

https://katherinewyvern.blogspot.fr/

Katherine’s Website:

http://meetingivory.wixsite.com/katherinewyvern

Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/katherinewyvern

Facebook Author/artist Group:

https://www.facebook.com/groups/884796268383313/?ref=bookmarks

Twitter:

https://twitter.com/KatherineWyvern

Or follow her on Instagram @katherinewyvern

Book Spotlight on In the Eye of the Wind by Katherine Wyvern #mmromance #fantasy @KatherineWyvern @evernightpub

Dear Elyzabeth, thank you very much for hosting me and my latest creature!

In the Eye of the Wind is a spin off from my 2014 novel Spellbreakers, which is set in a vaguely Europe-like fantasy world. Spellbreakers was the journey of a human girl, Leal, who travelled north to live with elvers (a vaguely elvish race). In the Eye of the Wind is the tale of an elver boy, Rikko’, who travels south to live with humans. 

It is always a bit of a question mark when writing fantasy how to incorporate magic into the tale. Is there magic? How much magic? How widespread? How mysterious to the inhabitants of this universe? Personally I always liked stories where magic is something wondrous and not necessarily available to the main characters, and while Rikko’ comes from the still magical north (and carries more than a little magic within himself, not quite by choice), his Escarran counterpart in the story comes from a place where magic is only a legend. Gael is in fact a scientist, in his own way, and it was intriguing to put these two different views of the world side by side, and watch them coming to terms with each other.

Blurb:

Born in the northern wastes of Kaleva in the middle of a devastating war between light and darkness, Rikko’ has found his way south to the warm shores of the Circled Sea, the first elver to ever turn pirate.

Forbidden by the rules of the Andalouan court to pursue such an ungentlemanly career, Gael can only dream of ever becoming a doctor, and his medical studies remain unfinished until his aunt the Queen sends him on a covert mission to the pirate city of Beyas’kahl.

And here, after one night with Rikko’, all his loyalties are put to the test.

Queen Amata has reigned for three decades, and she always used her men cunningly. But even the best player can miscalculate, and her blunder places Gael first in slavery, then in a naval battle, and finally, worst of all, face to face with Rikko’s darkest and deadliest side.

From such darkness, is there any coming back? Is there any hope of love for Gael, or redemption for Rikko’?

Excerpt:

“Come, Puna, sweetie,” he said, plucking the lemur off Gael’s shoulder with one hand. He placed her on his chest of drawers, on a pile of freshly laundered clothes, her favorite bedding in the world, after himself. She grumbled a little but soon settled down. “And as for you, my boy, you come here to me,” he whispered, drawing Gael to the edge of his bed, where they both tumbled down together, kissing.

Gael was still frantically pecking at him, with those tight-lipped clueless kisses that drove Rikko’ to distraction. He let himself be kissed like that for some minutes—it was so ridiculously lovable.

Ah, it is a pity to teach him anything, he thought. I wish I could keep him like this forever. He knows nothing, except that he has this need…

But you can’t have your cake and eat it, I suppose.

“Wait, sweet, wait,” he whispered finally, and laid Gael on his back, pinning his body down with his folded leg as he lay beside him, and took his cheek in his palm. He put his mouth to Gael’s mouth, and gently, slowly, savoring every minute instant of it, he ran the tip of his tongue along the seam of those tightly closed lips, lightly at first, then harder, until the lips finally parted, like two halves of a plum, and Gael gasped in surprise and then lust. His body arched in desire when Rikko’s tongue met his, and he groaned with hunger, welcoming the new intimacy of that tongue-to-tongue kiss with an adoring fierceness that had Rikko’ near to tears with emotion. He groaned again, hugging Rikko’ closer, sinking his fingers in his hair, touching his face and neck and ears, pursuing his mouth when Rikko’ pulled back to breathe, licking Rikko’s lips.

Rikko’ had never met any grown man (Gael was young, sure, but not a child—Rikko’ despised child lovers, and never, ever went close to the little creatures himself) both so inexperienced, so shy, and yet so wholeheartedly passionate. It was enchanting, and utterly enflaming. He laughed softly and pulled back from the kisses. This was just too much. He could not wait any longer. He needed to touch this boy properly all over; he had to have his cock in his mouth, and maybe, if Gael was so inclined, inside that beautiful, taut little butt.

“Too many clothes,” he said, in Gael’s ear. He kicked off his flip-flops, and realized, with a bit of a shock, that he was still wearing his dagger, stuck in his sash, and his sword belt. He had forgotten all about them. He crossed the room to lay both weapons on his chest of drawers and untied his sash, and felt Gael’s hands on his hips.

“C—can I? Sir? Please?” whispered the boy, and Rikko’ smiled as Gael, with almost religious awe, unwound the length of silk from around his waist and hips and let it fall to the floor around his feet.

Rikko’ stepped out of the puddled folds and murmured, “You too.”

He finished undressing in a few seconds. He never wore a lot. It just got in the way.

Gael took off his clothes, and Rikko’ watched him from the bed, waiting. Under those strangely unattractive breeches and shirt, he was every bit as delicious as Rikko’ had always known he would be, not particularly muscular, but sleek and quick, and just a little awkward, like a young animal, full-grown but still uncertain of his body.

Rikko’ pulled him close, pressing that lithe soft form against his own, and their cocks met halfway, both hard and quite ready, so that they had to be pulled up against their bellies for them to embrace. Rikko’ smiled and palmed Gael’s butt, and kissed him, deep and long, and then put a hand between them and took the boy’s member in his fingers just for a bit of a feel, a bit of foreplay.

He tugged at the lovely taut cock once.

Gael gave a sort of astonished yelp, tensed all over, and then moaned wildly against Rikko’s shoulder, oh, oh, ooh, and suddenly Rikko’ found himself awash in hot, splashing, dripping jets of sperm, all down his belly, lap, and leg, a veritable, goddamn, bleeding flood of it.

He let go, dumbfounded, and then burst into laughter.

“Wh—well, I’ll be … what the…” he began, but, really, he could only laugh. I just barely touched him!

“Damn it, doctor, our ship sprung a leak,” he said finally, still laughing. “I’m drowned!”

“Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods,” said Gael, absolutely frantic, “oh gods, sir, I am so sorry!” He jumped out of bed, fumbling around. “I’ll find my handkerchief, sir, I’ll mop it up this minute…”

Rikko’ laughed even harder and stretched out to pull him back in bed.

“Stop that. Leave it. Leave it, damn it! It’s all right. I’m joking. It’s all right! It’s all good! Stuff’s good for the skin, it is known. Leave it.” He couldn’t stop laughing.

Visit In the Eye of the Wind’s web page with maps and an exclusive excerpt:

http://meetingivory.wixsite.com/katherinewyvern/in-the-eye-of-the-wind

Amazon (free sample): https://www.amazon.com/Eye-Wind-Katherine-Wyvern-ebook/dp/B07MWFND8Z/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=in+the+eye+of+the+wind+wyvern&qid=1547809523&sr=8-1-spell

Evernight (sexy ecerpt): https://www.evernightpublishing.com/in-the-eye-of-the-wind-by-katherine-wyvern/

BIO:

I have entered that age when looking at beautiful male models in their prime makes me a cougar, ahem.

Almost all my heroines are short: that’s because I look at the world from hobbit level. Being so small I am three times more concentrated (read: obsessive) than anybody I know. I am exhaustingly creative in writing, arts, crafts... Sometimes my brain gets friction burns from hurtling at such speed from one universe to the next.

I love animals, plants, and occasionally even people.

Like the Highlander I come from a lot of different places. I was born in Italy but lived here and there and consider myself simply and deeply European. I love Europe passionately, its antiquity, its diversity, its quirkiness. All my books are set in Europe, or alternate versions of it.

I have been writing since I can remember.

LINKS:

Katherine’s Blog: https://katherinewyvern.blogspot.fr/

Katherine’s Website: http://meetingivory.wixsite.com/katherinewyvern

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/katherinewyvern

Twitter: https://twitter.com/KatherineWyvern

Or follow her on Instagram @katherinewyvern