The Way You Say by Dar Mavison is now available at Dreamspinner Press in paperback or  Ebook.

Australian adventurer Adam Yager arrives in Athens for a conference and meets a colleague from the past: Dmitri Pryce, a brilliant archaeologist, a charming individual, and a beautiful man. Adam has never found a man beautiful before, not like this, and between remembrances of the dig in Tanzania four years ago and talk of more recent work, Adam does his best to keep his arousal hidden… until he blurts out his admiration for the way Dmitri says the word “ass.” And once Adam’s said it out loud, it’s too late to take it back.

Dmitri remembers lusting after Adam four years ago with painful clarity, but he made himself get over his crush and accept Adam’s friendship at face value. Now, as a documentary of the dig they both worked on is about to be released to the public, Adam clearly wants more, but Dmitri believes their opportunity to have passed. Except Adam is unwilling to miss this once in a lifetime chance to really get to know Dmitri and explore the passion they both feel.

Read an excerpt here…  …Dmitri’s lips moved so well when he talked, Adam thought. It was no wonder he’d been chosen to star in the documentary. He would make archaeology interesting to the most dispassionate viewer. Adam couldn’t wait to see the finished movie, to see Dmitri bigger than life on the screen talking about the work he loved so much. Dmitri was practically made for the screen, and not only because of the way he looked, but because of the sounds that came out of his mouth. His enunciation was quite enthralling. There was something about his accent—crisp and British—that made him sound cultured, even when he was being vulgar.

Actually, there was an odd disconnect when Dmitri used slang or swore. Dmitri certainly swore often enough, proficiently enough, but even at his most earthy he had an old-fashioned primness about him. He swore as if he was quoting from an ancient text, and the words were foreign, or at least archaic. Maybe that was because he’d been brought up among academics. Although the academics might have been the ones who’d taught him to swear—they could be a filthy lot at times, no matter how refined their intonation.

Adam’s own accent was harsher, broader—“Strine” all the way—and even though he’d always hated posh accents, Adam liked Dmitri’s accent, so much so he wanted to hear him say dirty things with it. The way Dmitri said the word fuck made it sound like something proper and educational you did in between digging up artifacts and teatime. Adam had to concentrate on not imagining Dmitri saying dirty things, just in case that might lead him to him think about fucking Dmitri in between digging up artifacts and teatime. It was hard enough to keep from embarrassing himself as it was, now that he was back to staring at Dmitri’s lips.

“I always wanted an older brother. You’d be perfect,” Dmitri said.

That was almost as bad as hearing Dmitri say something dirty. Adam couldn’t quite wrap his head around the idea. Brothers—where the hell had that come from? They barely knew each other. They were colleagues, that’s all. Colleagues who had co-discovered a cave at the edge of the Oldupai Gorge in Tanzania, and who were both at the conference to present their findings. They’d worked together, been excited about the discovery together. No big deal. Nothing to warrant comment.

There was the erection, unabated since the airport in spite of the orgasm in the men’s room. Okay, so, there was something between them—something indefinable—something that, on Adam’s end of it, was decidedly not brotherly.

The thing was he liked the kid; he really did. He’d liked Dmitri from the moment they’d met. Adam did feel protective of him, in a way, after all that had happened, perhaps even a bit brotherly toward him. That made the way Adam was staring at Dmitri’s lips feel even dirtier, because you do not look at your brother like that. It was wrong. It was indecent. But still, if Adam concentrated and thought of Dmitri more like a younger brother, maybe his erection would go away.

Adam’s older brother had been ruthless with him, so that was the solution. Adam would be tough on Dmitri. He would be critical, tease him, keep him in line. That was what an older brother would do, especially if he had a younger brother like Dmitri. “Brothers are tough on each other,” Adam said.“Good. That’s what I’ll expect, then,” Dmitri said brightly, “for you to be hard on me.”

Adam wanted nothing more than to be hard on Dmitri. He was a little ashamed of the images that being hard in relation to Dmitri brought to mind. They weren’t complete images, just flashes. Fragments of scenes. Things he did not fully want to admit to. Hell, he honestly did not like blokes that way. Not normally. But he’d never seen anyone lick his lips quite like that. And then there was the hair…

Edited by Julianne Bentley

Just close your eyes and feel: soft, warm lips skimming from your shoulder to your ear, your skin prickling and tickling. Then add another set, echoing the first, layer upon layer of sensation as two sets of hands join the game, stroking, sliding, ratcheting up the heat. And when your lips part and the tip of your tongue darts out, it’s met by two more in a luscious, messy, three-way kiss. This is necking, pure and hot, sending shivers of arousal down your spine. In these stories, the men come in threes: triple the pleasure, triple the love.

Beautiful Friend by Dar Mavison

Madison Emerson and Tex Bellamy are former elite soldiers whose partnership reaches back to basic training and into the future. They are “equal partners in a relationship that more than tolerates intruders,” and Emerson has a plan to make a beautiful medic, Gabriel, their next conquest.

Black and Blue by Dar Mavison:

It’s love at first sight when Archer sees Freddie at a club. They seem compatible from the start—Freddie has a need to serve, and Archer likes to protect—but both men prize their privacy, and all they really know about each other is instinct and desire. It comes down to one night when Archer invites Freddie to his home for a private scene to convince Freddie how right they are for each other.

This terrific collection explores what is going on in both the brains and the bodies of men take a walk on the wild side with a serving of kink: restraints, blindfolds, spankings, threesomes, and more — just a taste of danger to whet your appetite.

To read more, go to Dreamspinner Press to purchase Games in the Dark, and while you’re there, visit my page at Dreamspinner!

Click below to read an excerpt…

An excerpt from Black and Blue:

…Freddie was special. Archer knew it the moment he saw him, splayed against the back wall of the back room at The Hangar, wearing nothing but a black leather cock ring and the straps holding his wrists and ankles in place. Long and lean, wiry even, with that shock of thick,dark hair almost covering his eyes, and the burst of the black leather flog standing out starkly against his pale chest. His uncut cock, dark and engorged, looked obscenely large compared to his slender limbs and hips, and stood out from neatly trimmed dark, almost black, hair above meticulously shaved balls. Archer appreciated meticulous personal care.

Freddie was being whipped by Sandro, a burly regular at The Hangar, who clearly did not understand what he was dealing with. Sure, Freddie was enjoying the attention and he wanted more, if only so someone would eventually take the cock ring off him, but he wanted to be doing as well as being done to. He wanted to serve. Archer could see it in his eyes, in the way his arms strained, in the way he licked his lips between strokes. He needed to serve, and anyone who did not understand that was not qualified to whip a man of that caliber.

Archer understood. So the second Sandro turned his back on Freddie, Archer leaned in and said, in a low voice, “If it was me, you’d be sucking my dick by now.” Freddie had flinched, as any good bottom would have, terrified that Sandro would see him looking at another top, let alone talking to one, but it was crowded enough and loud enough, and Sandro was sufficiently distracted by the young blond in the obviously brand-new studded harness for Archer to get close enough to tell Freddie what he needed to hear.

“I’d take care of you properly.”

And Freddie, with a flash of a jealous glare at the harnessed blond, or maybe that was anger at Sandro for being so stupidly inattentive, whispered his phone number…

To read more, go to Visit Dreamspinner Press to purchase Games in the Dark, and while you’re there, visit my page at Dreamspinner!

Troy Cycle by Dar Mavison

When the gods abandoned men during the battle of Troy, the greatest of those men – Hector, Odysseus, Paris, Achilles – schemed to end the war. Amongst themselves they waged war both vicious and tender in a desperate attempt to achieve peace, a peace that for some would only be found in death, leaving others to discover it in new life. But none would ever be forgotten by the other three.

This anthology also includes stories by D. G. Parker, John Simpson, Remmy Duchene, Connie Bailey and Ariel Tachna.

Click here to purchase this collection online as an e-book or in paperback.

Read an excerpt from “Troy Cycle” below:

…Hector had tried to teach Paris strength and composure in times of trial. Hector’s beloved voice ran through Paris’s head, commanding him to scrutinize his assets and liabilities and identify his most effective weapons.

None. He had no weapons. He was trussed and unarmed, but even unbound and in possession of a hundred swords he could never hope to overpower the great Achilles. His freedom lay on another route.

He had his beauty. Beauty was a curse in the business of war, but this was not war; this was negotiation, and Achilles thought him pretty. He should be able to use that to his advantage. He had his position. Achilles was still calling him ‘prince’, even if his voice held more scorn than respect. He had his voice. It had served him well in the past. He could try to talk his way out of this.

“Do you know how you came to be here?” Achilles asked as he hauled Paris up to sitting.

Paris opened his mouth to speak, but could only cough dryly.

So, he did not have his voice after all.

Achilles retrieved a goblet from the other side of the curtain, and after a sip of wine Paris was ready to try again. “I know not how I came to be here,” he said in as noble a manner as possible. “I must assume it is due to the munificence of King Odysseus.”

Achilles chuckled. “That must be a fancy Trojan word for ‘greed’.” Achilles leaned over Paris and untied the rope from his waist.

Achilles’s scent flooded the air, earthy and metallic, the scent of a man who knows war. It was almost overwhelming. “Mark me, little prince, Odysseus will profit from this somehow. No one gets the better of the king of Ithaca, no matter what honey drips from his pretty tongue.”

Paris was dismayed. Sycophancy would not work; he would have to use other tactics. He was determined to turn his helplessness to his advantage. He coughed and leaned toward the held out cup again. He drank enough to soothe his throat and let the rest wet his lips, spill over and trickle down his chin and throat. He tried to catch the overflow with his tongue, and was satisfied to see Achilles’s eyes track the movement. He licked his lips and heard a faint intake of breath.

Not so helpless after all…

Click here to purchase this collection online as an e-book or in paperback.

Poker Face by Dar Mavison

Sneaking out of town after a poker game, Joe and Frank ride on together to the next town and find themselves stuck in a monsoon, holed up in a small hotel room. Passing the time by sleeping, telling stories, and sharing each other’s bodies, Joe teaches Frank that facing up to your past is the key to facing your future.

This collection includes stories by Madeleine Urban, Catt Ford, Connie Bailey, John Simpson, and D. G. Parker.

Purchase this collection online, as a e-book or in paperback.

Read an excerpt from “Poker Face” below.

Frank Jackson stood by the window of a small hotel room and watched the rain pour onto the parched landscape. It must have been a miracle. He knew it was what everyone had been praying for. The land had been drying up, water holes disappearing, people getting desperate. Two months with nary a drop, but today the sky had opened, and no one was going anywhere with the roads washed out like that.

He turned to look at the man lying on the bed. Lord, he was beautiful – long and lean and dark, reserved and graceful. It was a hard-earned grace, if what he’d said was true. Frank could never tell. People invent all kinds of stories to make themselves look more interesting. Sometimes they’re exaggerations, a few harmless embellishments on the facts. Sometimes they’re outright lies. Frank had long given up sorting out truth from fiction. He listened to the stories as just that. Stories. Worthwhile if they were entertaining or made a good point or had enough of a grain of truth to seem real, but not to be taken too seriously. Sometimes he told them that way, too.

The only thing you could know for sure was what you’d seen with your own eyes. Frank had seen this man sitting at the poker table, still and mysterious. The others were drinking and talking, animated in some way. Even when they were trying to bluff, sitting still and looking sly, you could see them moving inside their skins. But this man didn’t twitch or move a muscle, nothing showed. The consummate poker face.

It was striking to see all that serenity in the middle of a saloon. The town wasn’t nearly as wild as it used to be, but the saloons were close to lawless zones. Fights weren’t punished, although you might be asked to take it outside if too many of the furnishings were put at risk. You gambled at your own peril, because there were no rules to stop cheating, and nothing to stop the cheated from exacting a painful revenge if the culprit was caught. That particular saloon didn’t house the most serious card game in town – that would be in the back room of the one down the street where the stage stopped – but it was serious enough, and this stranger stood out at the table as more than just a foreigner. He was different in a fundamental way.

No one was up by much, and no one else was down to any great extent. Frank didn’t have enough cash to want to join. But he watched. He watched this man play hand after hand, even and methodical, seeming to let the others control the course of the game, until the drink had flowed sufficiently for the kitty to grow to an enticing size. Then he watched him call.

“Jacks over nines,” he said with that queer accent. He scooped the cash across the table and shoved it into the inside pocket of his coat. “And with that gentlemen, I wish you all a fine evening.”

There was a fair bit of commotion over that particular bit of bad timing, and Frank feared the man might be in serious trouble. It’s poor manners to leave a game right after winning a pot that big, without giving the losers any chance to recoup. But this man turned to his chief accuser and said something so quiet and low no one else could hear, and that was the end of it. Impressive, Frank thought, and at the time he figured that really was the end of it.

Purchase this collection online, as a e-book or in paperback.