From author, Meg Amor and Loose ID
Explosive heat makes sparks fly as two wounded men learn to trust and find a home for their shrapnel-laced souls.
IN
Hawaiian Orchid
Kulani is “The Orchid,” a young, insecure, pro-surfer who comes from a rough background on the Big Island of Hawai’i. He’s Beau Toyama’s cousin from Hawaiian Lei. But he’s also a healer and has a heart as deep as the ocean he’s part of. Like the great Hawaiians, who have gone before him, warrior Kulani Mahikoa epitomizes the spirit of aloha and love. Kulani’s not only healing his own wounds, but “The Lost Boys”—young, homeless, abandoned and abused gay boys he’s taken under his wing.
Rob Masterson is a wounded psychologist who’s trying to come to terms with his husband Tony’s death. When he died, they were separated but still living together. Can the lone and lonely New Zealand widower reconcile all the pieces of guilt and love, to heal and fall in love again? When he drops anchor in Kona Harbor and meets the exotic islander—young, bolshie Kulani—explosive heat makes sparks fly between them.
Is the age difference between them a barrier or something they’ll get past? Kulani has more layers than Rob ever bargained for. And Rob’s tangled knot of responsibility, grief and guilt with his New Zealand heritage and past life is something he needs to untangle.
Two wounded men have to learn to trust and love one another. Traveling between the South Sea Islands of beautiful New Zealand and the exotic Hawaiian Islands—they forge a sea change, finding a home for their shrapnel laced souls.
Hawaiian Orchid by Meg Amor
Edited by Heather Hollis
Cover Art by Syneca Featherstone
Published by Loose Id, LLC
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Read an excerpt:
“Are you always this stroppy? Or only on a good day?”
“What do you mean?” he says, all attitude.
Jesus Christ, gorgeous he might be, but with the chip on his shoulder the size
of a log, it’s more work than I need right now.
“There’s the door.” I indicate with my head. “See yourself out.”
“You really want me to go home?” he says despondently.
I sigh. “Kulani, you’re so damn prickly, it’s like having a cactus shoved up my
arse every two seconds.”
He runs his fingers through his long, curly black hair, sweeping it back with
one hand, and digging his other one into his back pocket. I’d love to take him
to bed, but this isn’t worth it. Too much attitude, too many issues. If I’m not
picking prickles out of my skin, I’ll be treating myself for burns. He’s a lot
of work.
“I’m sorry.” He shrugs. Even that has “fuck you” attitude. I’m past the age
where I feel like babysitting someone.
I walk over and place my hand on his shoulder. “You’re stunning, but I’m too
old for you.”
He drops his head, and I mentally exhale, waiting for the next bite from him.
But when he looks up, he has tears in his eyes, and my heart takes a direct
hit.
Bugger.
“You don’t really like me, do you?” he asks, biting his lip, eyes cast down.
“You’ve got an abrasive personality. I feel like I’ve been rubbed raw this
evening. It’s like being in a boxing match.”
His shoulders slump, and I have to hold myself back from pulling him into my
arms. I don’t need this sort of energy in my life. There’ll be tantrums and
fights…hurt feelings over stupid things…
His hand comes up and rubs mine on his shoulder. He needs the touch, the
connection with another human. I recognize that feeling. But this is inviting
trouble, even for a quick fuck and one-night stand. I could do with the sex,
but not the aftermath of spiky energy.
His breathing is up and down, as he’s trying to get himself under control.
Fighting emotions, no doubt. Bugger it. He’s tugging at my bloody heart for
some reason. That’s probably why I blurt out, “Come sail with me tomorrow.
We’ll go over to Maui.”
For a split second, all the aggression falls away, and I get to see the
vulnerable kid underneath. I shouldn’t really call him a kid. At twenty-five,
he’s an adult, but still half my age. He squeezes my hand, and I take that as a
yes.
“Meet me down at the boat about seven. Bring coffee from Lava Java. I’ll bring
everything else.”
“Can we make it eight?”
God, he can’t even get his arse out of bed and be there early for an
invitation. But I give in, nodding.
“Okay,” he says, tough-guy stance back in place. Oh to be that young and stupid
again.
Speaking of stupid. What the hell am I doing inviting him out again tomorrow,
when all I want to do is throw him out the door? Beautiful, yes, but the
attitude leaves a lot to be desired. If I had to take a wild stab in the dark,
I’d say he’s sitting on a ton of hurt. Layers and layers of it. He’s so bloody
bolshie and oppositional, I’m exhausted from the evening. I like a decent
intelligent convo with someone, interplay back and forth. The opportunity to
get to know someone more. Flirt a little, or a lot. I’m probably too
old-fashioned and been out of the game too long, but I need something different
than what he’s after.
Then he throws his energy, and I get sideswiped again. “Don’t I get a kiss good
night?” he says, raw sex appeal oozing from him, and I nearly grab him by his
shirt to yank him to me. Now I’m fighting to control my breathing. “Please,” he
says so softly I wonder if I’ve heard it right.
What a mix he is—seething rage, the log on his shoulder bashing me in the head
all night. Then he becomes so vulnerable, it’s like someone rubbing balm into
my abraded skin. His own version of BDSM, just done in a mental fashion. I
amuse myself for a moment, thinking of a safe word I could use. Fun. That would
be a good word. It’s the least likely word I can think of for this evening so
far.
No, it’s not my thing. I wrote a paper for uni once and interviewed people in
the scene. I probably know enough to be dangerous, but not enough for anything
else.
I look at his eyes, the fragility. He’s asking me to not reject him, but I also
see the humiliation at having to ask, to beg. I do my best internal Bogart
voice. Buckle in, schweetheart, this could be a rough ride.
I stroke his face with my free hand, and his lips tremble. No, no, no…straight
to my cock. Direct hit.
Score.
Shit.
He comes in toward me, and I let him. His full lips touch mine, and my hand
automatically reaches for his waistband, pulling him closer. I slide my arm
around his waist and palm his arse, pressing him into my groin. He’s rock hard;
his erection rubs mine. He lets out a long, slow groan of desire, and I know
I’ll have a hard time sending him home. I fist my hand into his hair, and he
nips at my mouth before sliding his tongue between my lips, grinding his cock
into me.
He yanks my tank over my head. His hand cups the back of my neck, and he
nuzzles me, moaning softly in my ear. A tug at my earlobe sends sharp spikes of
desire into my groin.
“Fuck me,” he groans.
I grunt, straining to breathe; spasms of deep need ripple through my body. Oh,
screw this. I spin him around and push him over the kitchen bench, pulling his
tank over his head and discarding it. Spread before me is an enormous but
delicate-looking orchid stem and flower tattoo that covers half his back. In
scripted writing, The at the top of the flower, then warrior, strength,
and bravery are tucked in around the huge bloom and stem. It
moves with his muscles and is surprisingly sexy for a guy. I’ve noticed he has
an orchid on his left foot too. I wonder what it means.
Later. Right now, I want a different type of exotic. I yank his shorts down
with his underpants to lightly nip and lick his buttocks. Reaching between his
legs, I feel the prize he’s offering. Nice and thick, uncut, already spurting
lube, a rock-hard erection, and tight, firm balls. Curly black pubic hair too,
which I like. Can’t stand the shaved look. I like my men to be masculine. I’m a
huge fan of vintage porn for this reason. They’re not all ripped and buffed.
Just regular, fit guys with lovely cocks and decent, thick pubes.
He spreads his legs, holding his cheeks apart, and I probe his brown pucker
with my tongue. With his Hawaiian heritage, his skin’s smooth and he’s brown
all over, no tan marks, even on his nicely rounded bum. He’s sensuous and moves
in a sexy, fluid way.
I pump his dick with my hand, and he vibrates with need. It’s a turn-on.
“Fuck me hard,” he begs me again.
Jesus… I want him too much.
I slide up his back, licking his salty skin, enjoying the hard muscles under my
tongue that only a waterman has naturally. Not overly done.
“Stay,” I whisper in his ear. “Back in a minute.”
Copyright © Meg Amor
Aloha Elodie, Thank you. I didn't even realize this was on here. Thank you so much an sorry to be so tardy with my thanks Aloha Meg :)
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