'Indulge Me' by Kaenar Langford

Meet me at Indulgence. Noon today. I want you naked in the Wet Area.

Keane’s heartbeat speeded up as he clutched the note in his hand. No need to look at it again. He knew the contents by heart. Too keyed up to sit, he strode to the door of his office and yanked it open.

“Who brought this note, Mrs. Sellers?”

Obviously startled by the unusually sharp tone of voice, his middle-aged secretary looked up from her keyboard. “I hope I didn’t do anything wrong, Mr. Daniels. It was one of those bike messengers. I signed for it and he left. Wasn’t that all right?”

Keane shook his head and forced a smile. “That’s fine. I just wondered who’d delivered it, that’s all.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Sellers acknowledged his acceptance with a nod of relief and got back to work.

Keane shut the door and crossed to his desk. He dropped into his chair and smoothed out the paper, wondering who had issued the invitation. No, not an invitation—a command. Who had demanded his presence at Indulgence? He’d only been to the place—one of the largest gay spas in Toronto—a few times, but somebody knew him well enough to be able to pinpoint his favourite spot in the luxurious bathhouse.

Could it be someone here at work? he wondered. Although he’d never hidden the fact he was gay, Keane had also never gone out of his way to advertise it. Marquette and Associates was a very well-respected architectural firm that had designed some of the more famous buildings that graced the city. The group had a world-wide reputation, their designs having won various prestigious competitions and awards. Keane enjoyed working for them, especially for Rayche Marquette, the head of the company.

Just the thought of his boss made his cock stir. The first time he’d seen him, he’d almost lifted out of his chair. He’d been afraid his erection would elevate the table, he’d been so aroused. Mr. Marquette had been nothing but professional during the interview, never giving any hint he was aware of Keane’s interest or that he returned the sentiment.

'Dalton's Awakening' by Carol Lynne

Checking the address against his secretary’s scrawl on the piece of paper, Dalton entered Bella Lucina’s. As soon as he stepped into the cavernous restaurant, he was impressed. Why haven’t I been here before? Oh yeah, because Cathy hadn’t liked Italian food.

The thought of his ex-wife doused any chance of a decent mood for the day. Walking up to the hostess stand, Dalton waited his turn in line.

“May I help you, Sir?” the lovely blonde asked.

“Yes. Dalton Montgomery. I have a reservation at twelve-thirty.”

The hostess checked her large leather-bound book. “Yes, Mr. Montgomery. Your party called to say he was running late. He asked that you please wait for him. Would you care to do that in the bar?”

Dalton gave a nod and strode across the marble tiled floor to the separate lounge. Looking around at the tables, he opted for a seat at the bar. He was impressed once again by the luxury and warmth of the décor.

“What’ll you have?” the bartender asked.

“Just an iced tea, please. I’m waiting for my lunch appointment to arrive.”

“Coming right up.”

The bartender grinned and turned to walk to the end of the bar. Dalton watched the man’s back as his muscles moved under the white tailored dress shirt. Wow, this was a fancy place. He didn’t know if he’d ever been to a restaurant where the hired help could afford tailored clothing.

He refused to acknowledge the way the overhead lights played off the man’s black curls, or the way the tendons in the bartender’s olive skinned forearms bunched and moved with his actions. Nope, he refused to acknowledge any of it. What Cathy had claimed in court was simply not true.

Memories of the humiliation he’d been served at the hands of his wife of thirteen years assaulted him. Dalton ran his fingers through his hair, the coarse texture reminding him of his hair colour. Cathy had tried in vain for years to get him to cover the grey, but he figured why bother. He wondered if he should give it some thought now that there was more grey than dark brown.

“Problems?” the bartender asked, setting down his glass.

Dalton smiled at the friendly face. He’d been lonely for conversation lately. When Cathy had started her campaign to discredit him, his friends had dropped off, one by one. “Life,” he finally answered. “I hear you.” The bartender stuck out his hand. “I’m Sal.”

Surprised by the friendly gesture, he shook the offered hand. “Dalton.”

“Nice to meet you, Dalton.”

'Lunches in Laguna' by J.P. Bowie

One thing among the thousand things I love about living and working in Laguna Beach is the perfection of the weather on a day-to-day basis. Sure, there’s the occasional gloomy day when a cloud bank from the Pacific Ocean rolls in, but by noon the sun has usually burned through and the temperature is, as I said, perfection.

So it’s no surprise that I love taking my lunch outside the office, strolling through the streets lined with art galleries, restaurants and gift shops, grabbing a sandwich from the bakery and finding a quiet spot on the beach where I can watch the boys play volleyball, shirtless on the sand.

Another thing I love about Laguna—the plenteous supply of eye-candy. Some of the most beautiful men in the world either live here or flock to this quaint little town for vacations or weekend breaks. During the summer, there are more recorded fender benders than most anywhere else in the US. The reason? Eye-candy, so distracting to male and female drivers alike. The heavenly vision of a tall, tanned and lithe body clad only in shorts slung so low you can see the crack of a delicious ass has been the cause of many a rear-end bump—pun intended. Fortunately, the only resulting casualty is usually the red face of the driver. I know—I’ve almost been there, done that myself, on a couple of occasions.

Anyway, there I was, Scott Stevenson, twenty-nine years old, single and without a date in almost five months, strolling down Forest Street just before the noon hour, when I spotted him, and boing!—I stopped dead in my tracks. Gawked is the word used to describe what I did at that moment—I gawked at the man standing in the doorway of an art gallery talking with an older couple. It was his smile that got me first, radiant and lighting up his face. Wreathed in that high wattage smile, he was simply stunning.

I stepped back, pretending to look in the window at the art studies displayed there. All the while, I watched him from the corner of my eye, taking in the whole package—tall, wide shouldered, wearing a pale blue dress shirt open at the neck and white linen pants.

How’d that old bossa nova song go? Tall, and tan, and young, and lovely... That was him to a T. His dark brown hair was crisply curled, and as I stood there, gawking, trying to determine the colour of his eyes, he turned and looked at me. Like a ninny, I jerked my head away and almost banged my nose on the plate-glass window.

He said goodbye to the couple, then he hesitated for a moment in the doorway. Next thing, he was standing next to me.

“See anything you like?” he asked, his voice matching the beauty of his face. Husky and melodious.

Silly question, I thought, turning to look at him.

Grey. His eyes were grey, flecked with blue. Unusual and totally mesmerising. I found myself atypically tongue-tied—and still gawking for Chrissakes.

“We have much more inside,” he said. His fingers touched my arm. “Would you care to see our latest acquisitions?”

“Yes,” I croaked then cleared my throat. His touch had been electrifying. “Yes, I’d like that.”

'Raven' by Dakota Rebel

“I fucked the most amazing guy tonight!”

Kennedy came strolling into Raven, our nightclub, about fifteen minutes to ten p.m. He reeked of sex and whiskey, the same as every Friday night for as long as I’d known him. Buying Raven hadn’t done anything to change him. If anything, it had made his addictions worse, because now the boys and the booze were even easier to come by.

Not that he had ever had a problem getting men. At six foot two inches with short black hair, bright blue eyes and not an ounce of fat on his forever twenty-seven-year-old body, there wasn’t a gay man on earth that wouldn’t gravitate towards him.

Except me. I mean, sure, he’s sexy as hell. But I’d never been interested in Kennedy’s bullshit. He talked a big game, but I was never really sure if the truth was as good as his stories.

“So who was it this time?” I asked, barely looking up from the liquor inventory sheet at the bar.

“Samson, that adorable twink who’s been following me around the club for the last few months. You know, the short blond kid?”

I nodded, half listening, half thinking about gagging. Yeah, I knew Samson. He had pretty much given up on Kennedy last I knew. He’d even offered to blow me two nights prior, as if I was runner up to the King of Raven. I’d politely declined.

In fact, lately, I was politely declining more advances than I was used to. Don’t get me wrong. I’m an okay looking guy. Five-foot-ten-inches tall, grey eyes, light brown hair, and, thanks to a pissed off master, I had the perpetual five o’clock shadow I’d been sporting when I was turned into a vampire ninety years ago.

Thank goodness, I still looked twenty-four or I wouldn’t even be getting offers from Kennedy’s cast-offs.

“Do you want to hear about it?” Kennedy asked, propping his hip against the rail of the bar.

“Not especially. We open in ten minutes, and since you aren’t going to do any actual work, that leaves me to do it all.” I slammed shut the inventory ledger. He tried to grab my arm as I walked past him, but I jerked away, heading for the DJ booth.

The DJ was the one part of the business Kennedy had taken any interest in choosing. So of course, he was the worst spinner on the planet. Brock had been hired not so much for his musical talent or experience with DJ-ing in general. Instead, Kennedy had chosen him because he had been very enthusiastic at the interview. On his knees. Like everyone else Kennedy had hired and I had ended up firing in the last six months.

'Lust in the Afternoon' by Cian Fey

“What do you mean he can’t make it in?” Ted Wayne wiped his palms on his jeans and swallowed the panic rising in his throat.

“Sorry, Ted,” his boss’s voice crackled over the static on the phone connection. A vicious winter storm had blanketed Detroit, leaving the office all but empty. It was also seriously fucking with communications. “Whoever is already in the office is going to have to do today’s nooner. And it looks like that leaves you, since Gray will have to work the camera.”

“I—I can’t, Martin. I’m just a computer jockey—no good in front of a camera.”

“You’re young and in great shape. Our subscribers will love you.” Men for Men was one of the hottest gay e-zines in the business, with tens of thousands of subscribers. Many of those tuned in to the daily live-feed “Lust in the Afternoon” spots, and even more went back and downloaded the clips for a hefty fee.

Ted admitted he liked to watch the feed as he uploaded it to the site, had even downloaded a few at home for his personal viewing, but he’d never even considered being the on-air talent. “Don’t we have any back-up for when things like this happen? A couple of clips already on disk?”

“We used the last of those over the holidays,” Martin said. “When so many were out with the flu epidemic. Now we’re stuck. The weather reports say it will be at least two days before the roads are clear. That leaves you and Gray as the only two who can get into the office, besides Nathalie.”

Nathalie Perot was an incredible receptionist, and a pretty little lipstick lesbian, but not what Men to Men’s subscribers expected to see on screen. Art director Grayson Jeffries, on the other hand, was a fucking sex god—tall and muscular with a smooth shaved head and a trim goatee, milk-chocolate skin and dark chocolate eyes.

“I can work the cameras,” Ted practically pleaded. “Gray will look much better on camera than me.” Understatement. Gray Jefferies was a walking wet dream. Over the last month, Ted had jacked off night after night just imagining Gray’s strong, toned body naked.

“You’ll be fine.”

The deep voice from behind his shoulder startled Ted, and he spun around in his chair to see Gray leaning against a filing cabinet, his arms crossed over a tight black turtleneck and an encouraging smile on his handsome face. Three gold rings glinted in his right ear.

“If you’re really freaked about someone recognising you, I can fuzz the image so nobody sees your face.”

Ted rolled his eyes and sighed into his Bluetooth headset. He knew when he was outnumbered. “Fine. I’ll do it. But you owe me, Martin. I want an extra week of vacation for this.”

'Lunch is Served' by Jude Mason

Philip sat in the front seat of the Toyota sedan, which he’d parked outside The Gate Club, and thought about what had brought him to that moment. He squirmed, trying to get comfortable, and smiled, knowing comfort wasn’t going to happen for at least a few hours. Mark Freeman had seen to that.

He’d met Mark a few short weeks ago when he’d applied for the waiter’s job at The Gate Club. Philip had known what kind of club it was, and he knew all about the Gate Room where members had to pass a security check before they could escort their ’pets’ across the threshold.

That meeting was burned into Philip’s memory. If he lived to be ninety, he was sure he’d remember that darkly handsome man ushering him into his small office. Philip was tall and well muscled, but had nothing on Mark. He was a good six inches taller and outweighed him by at least thirty pounds. The tight black slacks and silk shirt did nothing to hide the man’s bulging muscles. Tendrils of dark hair curled over the top of his fitted, white silk shirt, and when he’d reached out to shake hands, Philip’s eyes had been glued there. Only when Mark had gently cleared his throat had Philip dragged his attention back to the reason he’d come. A job, yes, he needed a job and the one being offered fitted him perfectly.

“Why don’t you sit down and we’ll get right to business,” Mark suggested and nodded at the leather chair on the visitor’s side of the desk.

“Thanks, Mr. Freeman,” Philip replied and hurried to sit down, knowing an erection was imminent. At least seated, it wouldn’t be so evident. The chair was comfortable, and while Mark glanced through his résumé, Philip got the chance to look around the room.

Books and files lined about half of the wall behind Mark while six monitor screens filled the other half. The screens were blank and Philip wondered what he’d see if they were switched on. Mark’s desk was mid-sized and made of dark wood; the corners were padded with the same black leather as the chairs. He glanced around and saw a tall metal cabinet that took up most of another wall. Its doors were closed.

Incongruously, in the corner to his right stood what looked like a carpenter’s sawhorse or bench, only much nicer. The top was padded in leather, just like all the furniture, and looked well used.