You might have noticed this book took me a while to write . . . or maybe you didn’t notice, but take my word for it, it did. That might be why it ended up longer than it needed it to be. Ultimately we trimmed over 15,000 words from the original Billionaire manuscript, so posts from me (as opposed to spotlights and reviews) are all going to be cut scenes from the book. Sort of like the extras on a DVD, but, you know, not.
A list of stops on the tour can be found here. Why would you want to follow the tour? Well, because I’m giving away a fabulous, one-of-a-kind Voodoo Ken Kit, which the winner can use to seek revenge on any or all of their exes. How do you win? Check the bottom of each tour post for details.
It’s just a friend thing
Before confessing his gayness to his best friend, Tierney Terrebonne’s sex life is strictly restroom. After confessing his gayness to his best friend . . . it doesn’t improve much. Why bother trying when the man he’s loved for fourteen years (see: “best friend”) is totally unattainable? Good thing Tierney is an old hand at accepting defeat; all it takes is a bottle of bourbon. Or fifty. Repeat as needed.
Dalton Lehnart has a history of dating wealthy, damaged, closeted, lying, cheating, no-good, cowardly men, so of course he’s immediately attracted to Tierney Terrebonne. Fortunately, Tierney is so dissolute that even Dalton’s feelings for the man would be better described as pity. Which becomes sympathy as they get to know each other. Followed by compassion, concern, caring, and hopefulness as Tierney struggles to change his life. When the man comes out very publicly and enters rehab, Dalton finds himself downright attached to Tierney. And as everyone knows, after attachment comes . . .
But post-rehab Tierney can’t handle more than friendship, so Dalton should be safe from repeating his own past mistakes, right? Right?
Sunday was a day to play a game commonly called “rugby” but which Tierney thought of as “bloodletting and beer with a ball.” Sometimes he remembered the ball. Tierney’d always looked forward to Sundays, but when Ian had moved to the city and started playing on Tierney’s team, Sunday became the best day of Tierney’s week.
For a couple of months. Until Tierney figured out that, while he’d always thought of Ian as his closest friend and backup plan, Ian pretty much saw Tierney as not much more than an old college buddy.
Then, last week, when Tierney’d gone to pick him up for their scrimmage, Ian had been freshly showered and seemed too fucking loose. Relaxed.
Sated. As if he’d been banging some chick all night long.
A chick he had, like, feelings for.
Knocking on Ian’s door this particular Sunday afternoon, Tierney couldn’t shake his foul mood. So foul he was ready to quit playing rugby if his friend was going to be a dick. Last week, Ian had taken forever to answer. If that douche took too long to answer this week, Tierney’d—
Ian opened the door. “Hey man.”
Tierney’s anger switched gears. “Nice of you to show right away this time.” Stepping forward into the entry, he started forming his plan of verbal attack. “You ready or—”
A nearly naked guy stood in Ian’s bedroom doorway, blinking like he’d just woken up.
Christ. Tierney’s mouth was an uncharacteristic beat or two behind. “Dude?”
“Just a sec,” Ian said from the end of an echoey tunnel. “Almost ready.”
Sam. That was his name, the guy in Ian’s place. That skinny, flaming waiter Ian had met a few weeks ago. Tierney couldn’t breathe, blackness creeping into his vision from the sides, narrowing his focus down to a pinprick. Until all he could see was his closest friend in the world, the guy whose image he’d jacked off to a million times and who he’d fucking been holding out for, walking up to that emaciated pale twink on the other side of his living room and—
Jesus fucking Christ. Tierney’s palm hit the wall, holding him steady.
—Ian kissed Sam.
Want a chance to win Voodoo Ken? Well, keep looking, because this isn’t the post with the magical question. FYI, I’ll ship worldwide, so anyone can enter.
Raised on a steady diet of Monty Python, classical music and the visual arts, Anne Tenino was—famously—the first patient diagnosed with Compulsive Romantic Disorder. Since that day, Anne has taken on conquering the M/M world through therapeutic writing. Finding out who those guys having sex in her head are and what to do with them has been extremely liberating.
Anne’s husband finds it liberating as well, although in a somewhat different way. Her two daughters are mildly confused by Anne’s need to twist Ken dolls into odd positions. However, other than occasionally stealing Ken1’s strap-on, they let Mom do her thing without interference.
Wondering what Anne does in her spare time? Mostly she lies on the couch, eats bonbons and shirks housework.
Check out what Anne’s up to now by visiting her site. http://annetenino.com