By Keta Diablo
Buy From DARK ROAST PRESS
Craven and Anthony find themselves in a cauldron of trouble while spying on Beresford Hall. A man in a black hood has routed them while they spied, and now he’s escorted them to the manor and secluded them in separate rooms.
One thing haunts Craven, the ice-blue eyes behind the hood and Anthony’s words, ‘Only one man possesses such eyes . . . Dominic Beresford, the most magnificent creature God ever breathed life into.’
EXCERPT FROM CARNAL CRAVINGS
A gay fiction erotica novella
"You were instructed not to touch anything in the room, were you not?"
Craven turned abruptly and looked into the ice-blue eyes of the most magnificent-looking man he'd ever seen. Long, black hair touched his shoulders, sleek and shiny; the waves accentuated his olive skin and finely-chiseled features.
"Yes, sir, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to."
"Didn't mean to, or couldn't help yourself?" The decadent creature advanced toward him.
Heat crept up Craven's neck. "I-I, it brought back memories, sir."
"Did it now?" the Greek God said.
Craven nodded and licked his dry lips.
"Perhaps you'd care to tell me your name and why you were snooping about my private property?"
"Craven Saunders, sir, and we weren't snooping―"
"What do you call it, young man, agate-picking?" He shook his head, his voice stern. "I detest it when someone lies to me. At least if you are determined to spy on others, be man enough to admit it."
"Yes, sir, what?"
Craven's tone took on the innocent pleadings of a child. "We were spying, Mr. Beresford, but I promise it won't happen again."
"Oh, I've no doubt about that, Mr. Saunders." He arched his neck, the sleek, black hair gleaming beneath the soft candlelight in the room. "I must inform you that my valet, Higginbotham, claims you've been spying for weeks. Knowing Higginbotham is an honest man, I conducted an investigation myself last Friday eve."
The man swiped a hand across his erotic mouth, the gesture turning Craven's knees to marmalade and his already dry throat to an arid desert.
Craven hung his head. Damn, he could do nothing but confess. "Your man spoke the truth."
When Craven garnered the courage to look at him again, the man gave a tiny shake of his head before speaking. "Craven . . . an odd name, is it not?"
"Yes, sir," he interjected quickly. "It means―"
"I know what it means―weak, spineless, fearful." The world tilted on its axis when the man advanced and raked him over with those deep, blue orbs. "Do the adjectives describe you, Saunders?"
"No, Mr. Beresford, sir, I don't believe they do."
He studied the man, captivated by smooth, silky cadence of his voice. If indeed Beresford stood before him, Anthony couldn't have been more correct. Magnificently stunning, he oozed primal male virility. The dim light of the bedchamber could not hide it. His mouth full, his nose straight, every feature of his face finely-chiseled face had to have been crafted by a skilled artisan . . . or a patient God. Craven couldn't drag his gaze away from the man's luminescent orbs. His stomach somersaulted and he longed to be touched by him, * * * * * senseless. Had he been out in the sun too long that day?
"Well, we shall see about that." The man's slow, languid once-over sent shivers down his spine.
Closing the distance between them, he took Craven's chin between his thumb and index finger, forcing him to look into those piercing eyes. "What makes you think my name is Beresford?"
"My friend, Anthony, told me Dominic Beresford's eyes were the color of ocean depths, sir, so I assumed―"
He snorted. "Anthony? The other sniveling brat who, at this moment, occupies my parlor?"
Craven nodded again and felt his knees go weak. Breathing hard, a manly scent, tinged with spice, spiraled up his nose. God, would that he could take back this day.
"How old are you?"
"From where do you hail, and as soon as you answer that question, enlighten me on exactly why you made such a foolish decision to spy on me."
"I grew up in Charleston, Mr. Beresford, and I, we, made the foolish decision out of curiosity."
"What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care. William Shakespeare," he quipped. "Do you know what it means?" He paced before him, the massive build distorting the light and other furnishings in the room.
"Yes, sir, it means curiosity killed the cat."
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