Spend the weekend with Cary and Rhys!!!
The latest release from Susan MacNicol is available now
“Susan MacNicol’s Best book so far…in my opinion” FIFI – (an Amazon reviewer)
“A heart-breaking, heart-warming story and everything in between” – Jes –(an Amazon reviewer)
“Amazing and haunting” -author Louisa Mae
For aerialist, Cary Stilwell, aside from performing forty feet in the air, life holds little comfort until he meets Rhys McIntyre, who punctures all of Cary's defenses.
PIERCING THE NIGHT
Cary Stilwell has been existing since he was ten years old, and each year it gets harder to find meaning in his bleak life. The only exception - his work. As a top-billed aerialist in a popular travelling circus, he enjoys accolades and applause, but little else. When notable photographer, Rhys McIntyre, joins the circus to catalogue its inner workings, Cary fights the attraction that hits him from the moment they meet. But a kind soul wrapped in a beautiful body has a way of battering all the walls Cary has built around his cold, dark heart.
Rhys McIntyre is on his third iteration of reinventing himself. Once a hotdog financier, he embraced his passion for photography and became an eminent war photo journalist. Until one too many bullets lodged in his body, and he gave up the front lines for the softer side of chronicling life. When he accepts the assignment to record life in a circus, the last thing he expects is to find the man crush of his dreams. Except Cary Stilwell is a cold, tortured man who seems incapable of any warm emotion, never mind love. But Rhys is known for his persistence, and this time the pay-off might be more than he could have ever imagined.
Smashwords : smashwords.com/books/view/794450
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Amazon US : amazon.com/dp/B079Z3Z8GG
Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/2uR4gL4
Read more at :https://bit.ly/2opwlSX
Fifteen minutes later I was gaping in awe, sitting on the cool ground hidden in the folds of the tent, watching Air Dancer practise on high.
Suspended forty feet in the air, his lithe body taut with tension, silk wrapped around his naked forearms, he performed a slow spiral. He’d pirouette on the silk, wrap it around his body, then fall, only to climb up again, and do it all again.
I’d watched YouTube videos of him, but they were taken from far away and lacked detail. Seeing it up close and personal was breath taking. I’d taken shots from different angles, trying to capture the beauty and sensuality of the man on camera.
Cary Stilwell was magnificent. He was an artist, an athlete, a performer, and a study in silk and skin. I had an uncomfortable half boner watching his toned and muscled body curl into the silk. He was, without doubt, the sexiest, most graceful and intriguing figure I’d ever encountered. Even from here, the sheen of sweat on his naked upper body was something I wanted to taste.
“Down, boy,” I chastised my cock. “He’s off limits that way, remember?”
I gasped in fear as he worked the silk, wrapping it around his body as he twirled around, lower and lower, faster and faster, ending up only a few feet from the ground. I managed a few more pictures before he landed like a cat on the sand and let out a low growl as he rubbed his upper left thigh and swore. I remained a voyeur, hidden in the shadows of the tent, clutching my camera.
Cary slid his hands over his leg, winced then turned and did the same to his arm. I saw the red mark running the stretch of his forearm. I wondered if it was a burn from sliding down the silk.
His harsh voice rang out over the emptiness of the circled arena separating us. “I know you’re there, so you may as well come on out.”
“Wait a minute. Why are you here sleeping with me?” Apprehension slid up my spine like a snail. “Did we, did you—” My hands performed a frantic dance in front of my face as I tried to find the words.
I reached for my thighs; my sweatpants were still on, he hadn’t removed them.
Rhys stilled my hands with his. They were strong and warm to the touch. “Relax, Cary. I came in to check on you, to make sure you hadn’t face-planted in vomit and choked to death.”
I grimaced at that unsavoury picture. He laughed.
“I took my shoes off, sat on the bed to watch you—not in a stalkerish way—” he clarified, “and I must have fallen asleep. Why, did I wake you?”
“Does a volcano erupting disturb the peace when it blows? Yeah, you woke me up with your snoring.”
Rhys looked sheepish. “Sorry. I know I snore sometimes, it’s why blokes don’t like sleeping over.”
“It must be like sleeping next to a slumbering Yeti,” I muttered, but then smiled to take the sting out of my words. The man had held my hair while I was sick. Watched while I’d brushed the sour taste out of my mouth before he bundled me into bed.
He grinned and stuck out his tongue at me. A pink, wet tongue that had me thinking thoughts I had no right to think.
“Yetis are warm, and furry, and cuddly,” he murmured, reaching out a hand to caress my jaw. My heart beat faster, his touch mesmerising. My groin warmed, and I pulled the duvet over my lap. “They’re also known to be protective and not stop when they want something. They can be very—possessive.” The air in the room grew thicker and our breathing got deeper and ragged. The dryness in my throat reached Sahara-desert level.