We’re so happy to welcome author Clare London on From Top to Bottom Reviews today on the tour for her newest novel, Sweet Summer Sweat. Enjoy the exclusive excerpt she brought with her, and be sure to check out the giveaway below!
When you find a place where lust and sex rule life, and your every desire can be fulfilled, why would you ever want to leave?
Young runaway Scot and his boyfriend Jerry escape their deadbeat homes and families, hoping to leave prejudice behind them and travel to a new life in Las Vegas. Unprepared and naive, they’re lost almost at once, and shelter at a run-down, deserted motel in the middle of the scorching hot Nevada desert. A place with secrets, run by staff both gorgeous and uninhibited, and driven by a mysterious sexual connection Scot’s never even dared to dream.
All but drugged by the lazy heat and the hedonism around him, Scot watches as Jerry is seduced away and realizes their relationship was nothing more than shared lust. Restless, Scot knows he wants true love and real understanding. Could he find it with the mysterious and elusive owner of the motel, Connor Maxwell? Connor seems to think so, every time he appears and pursues Scot for his own. But where does Connor come from? It seems the passion calls him into being at its own whim.
Eventually, what binds Connor and his friends to the motel may be too strong for Scot to break through. Scot has ambitions to travel, to make something of his life – but is his only option to embrace life at the motel in his true lover’s arms?
Or will that love be strong enough to release them both…
Scot cleared his throat. “Maybe we’ll have breakfast a bit later. Is that okay?”
Vincent smiled, though not looking directly at him. “Of course. Whenever you like.”
“You’re the guests, after all,” came a softer, higher voice from the doorway. Scot whirled around to find Oliver standing there.
Oliver’s gaze passed swiftly over Scot. “Vincent doesn’t mind waiting,” he said. His eyes were on Vincent now. “Not for something he really likes.”
Scot frowned. He supposed it was Oliver’s way of speaking, but it sounded barely civil. Fuck, but the people here were odd.
Oliver walked past Scot and went to stand beside Vincent. He glanced back over his shoulder at Scot, a sly grin on his face. Then he dropped his hand down to Vincent’s ass and squeezed it. It didn’t seem to faze Vincent. He stood at the stove, stirring a pot of beans, adding some salt. He may have nudged back against Oliver’s touch, but nothing more.
“I don’t know what game you two are playing, but I’m not interested in watching you making out all the time.” Scot was amazed at his nerve, but relief washed over him at saying the words aloud.
“Game?” Vincent looked over at Scot too. He slipped a hand around Oliver’s waist.
“For God’s sake!”
“You can join in if you want.” Oliver’s voice was a murmur. With a breathy chuckle, he hitched himself up on to the counter beside the stove. His legs swung gently over the edge, just like he had on the counter at reception. Tap, tap, tap. His bare heels drummed a slow tattoo against the laminate doors of the cupboards.
Scot wanted to turn on his heel and leave the room. But he didn’t move, watching the two other men together. What the fuck? He’d never been any kind of voyeur.
…that’s not what this is, Scot. You’re invited to join, not to spy…
He jerked his head around but there was still no one else there. The shadow at the door had gone, along with Jerry’s footsteps, vanishing across the yard outside. Or had it?
“I don’t do that,” he muttered. “I don’t want that!”
For a second, the atmosphere in the room stilled.
…You hear me that well?…
“Yes, I do!” Who the hell was he talking to? Oliver and Vincent were both staring at him. A look passed between them, wary yet excited. Scot felt his throat grow tight, and his heart beat faster. “Why don’t you show yourself so I can see you too, you fucking coward?”
Oliver gasped. He wore his ubiquitous shorts, but no shirt this morning. His hair was attractively mussed as if he’d combed it carefully, but then ran his hands wildly through. “Scot? Listen to me.” His words were slow. “Are you sure you’re not hungry? Let me.” Leaning over, he took the spoon from Vincent and ran his finger slowly through the pool of thick, rich sauce in its bowl. He lifted his hand above his head and watched the liquid drip down from his fingertip. A single, pale red bean hung from his skin. Smiling, he glanced again at Vincent, then just as the bean fell, he caught it on his outstretched tongue. A tiny bead of tomato sauce dribbled from the side of his mouth.
Vincent’s gaze fastened on Oliver’s flicking tongue. Oliver grinned slyly. He poked his wet finger into his mouth, and slurped the rest of the sauce off noisily. “Tastes good… and full of what you do best, Vincent. Sauce and seasoning.”
Abruptly, Vincent turned to Oliver and landed heavy hands on his shoulders, pushing Oliver none too gently down on the counter. He stood over it as Oliver wriggled to get more comfortable, his head up against the wall, his legs still hanging over the edge. His chest was heaving more noticeably than before.
“Don’t try to distract me,” Scot cried. That’s all this was, wasn’t it? Outrageous, provocative behavior. He could feel the air shivering around him; something moving; something brushing along his arm.
“It’s not all about you, Scot,” Oliver murmured, his bright eyes challenging Vincent’s gaze.
Vincent’s hands tightened on the waist of Oliver’s shorts. “Don’t upset the guests, Oliver. If he wishes to leave…”
“…he can go. Of course.” Oliver nodded, still grinning. “Why don’t you leave the room, Scot, and follow Jerry?”
Vincent laughed softly.
Scot stood as if rooted to the spot. Were they laughing at him? At Jerry? Why didn’t he leave? He should be with Jerry, after all.
Vincent tugged at Oliver’s shorts, and Oliver sighed as they slid down his hips. His swelling cock eased from the waistband, a single drop of pre-come oozing softly onto his stomach. The muscles of his belly tightened and his thighs pressed against the counter.
Scot stared. He couldn’t deny the arousal curling inside his belly. They made a gorgeous, sexy pair of lovers. Half-naked. Totally uninhibited.
“Maxwell’s here,” Oliver whispered to Vincent. With another wriggle, he kicked his shorts farther down his legs.
Vincent smiled, his greedy gaze on Oliver’s exposed erection. “I knew he would be tempted to join us. Maxwell?” he called out softly to the room in general.
Oliver laughed, his legs spread wide on the counter. “Your recipes are as persuasive as always, Vincent.”
“What are you all talking about?” Scot found himself taking steps toward the two men. “Who else is here?”
For a brief second, Oliver frowned. “He’s come for us, Scot, not guests who are just passing through. For his lovers, for those who love him, who understand.”
Vincent touched Oliver’s forehead with his fingers. “Hush,” he said to him.
“Don’t be like that. Connor Maxwell likes this one. He’s searching. He needs understanding too.”
“I’ll give him that!” Oliver’s petulance sounded heartfelt, his eyes widening with distress. “If I’d known, if I’d seen this when they drove into the yard in that pile of shit, if I’d realized—!”
“Stop this!” Scot almost shouted. He was panting and his skin was clammy.
And then a third man materialized beside him.
About the Author:
Clare London took her pen name from the city where she lives, loves, and
writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home, she juggles her writing with her other day job as an accountant. She’s written in many genres and across many settings, with award-winning novels and short stories published both online and in print. She says she likes variety in her writing while friends say she’s just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she’s happy.
Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic, and sexy characters.
Clare currently has several novels sulking at that tricky chapter three stage and plenty of other projects in mind… she just has to find out where she left them in that frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home.
Clare loves to hear from readers, and you can contact her here:
Google+ : https://plus.google.com/u/0/+ClareLondon/posts