Showing results by author "Kelly Fox" in All Categories

Augustus Walker, Jr. is a problem. Every queer person I know has had a tragic crush on a straight person at some point in their lives, and for the last year, Walker has been mine. Not that my crush on him is serious—I'm just appreciating a sweet, sexy guy who happens to be a big fat goose egg on the Kinsey scale. Le sigh and all that.

I'm a gay preacher with more tattoos than sense and more notches on my bedpost than years in the ministry. You've heard of those romances where the priest is seduced by the worldly outsider? Yeah, this isn't that. I'm also not totally settled on the existence of God. Call me a skeptic, but when you work with abandoned and abused teenagers, you tend to have a few questions for anyone calling themselves divine.

I've loved Hendrix Cavanaugh since his high school mascot days, and seeing him grind himself down like this has been driving me up a wall. Now that he's collapsed on stage, I can't watch from the sidelines for a second longer. I know I'm not his type—I'm a network security specialist who wears expensive suits and alphabetizes his spice drawer. In contrast, Hendrix wears all black, including his eyeliner and nail polish, and I doubt he's so much as alphabetized his contacts list.

Hating Justin Jennings should be a lot easier than this. He nearly ruined my life, and I swore when I left town that I’d become the opposite of him in every possible way. I’ve kept that promise, traveling the world to save the people who cannot save themselves. The lost, the trafficked, the stolen. This work is my life’s mission, and now my father has given me the land to expand my operations.

Spoiler alert: This isn't some sad exploration of my tragic past. I have a list of the people who bought and sold me. And they aren't getting a redemption arc.

There’s not much I miss about prison, save for the buttoned-up therapist who doled out subtle commands and generous praise in equal measure. We never spoke of the crackling tension between us, but every time he straightened my posture or called me a good boy, we knew what was going on.

Everett: There are a ton of reasons why falling for my tiny, adorkable best friend is a terrible idea - starting with the body in my trunk. I have other reasons - he still mourns his late husband. I’m way older, he’s a foot shorter, my tattoo shop is a front, he’s an assistant professor at UT. Still, I can’t help but think we’d be perfect for each other if I didn’t kill people (very, very bad people) for a living.

I understand that sleeping with the boss is a bad idea. To be fair, I was already sleeping with my co-worker. And yeah, we all live in the same bunkhouse on a ranch in the middle of the Central Texas Hill Country, but we’re professionals. We can handle it.

What's the first rule of running a gym by and for combat vets? Enjoy the scorching hot scenery, but get your kicks somewhere else. Never mind that my cousin-slash-business partner ignores that rule every chance he gets. I don't ignore it. Ever. And frankly, between Grindr, and living in one of the gayest cities in America, it's not exactly a hardship. That is, until a pair of blue eyes, swimming with vulnerability, shows up at my door, looking for a job. He's too skinny, too mouthy, and way too young for the likes of me, but he pings that protector instinct in me - hard.

I just told off my billionaire CEO in front of the entire company, and it was totally worth it. Do I care that a viral video of our exchange sent his stocks into freefall? Nope. Am I going to help Rand Wolfe rehab his company’s reputation? Not a chance in hell. There’s just one problem: I’m the bastard son of a mafia don, a fact Wolfe finds out the hard way when he tracks me down at the docks. Saving his life puts a mafia-style extradition order on my head, and the only place to hide is his high-rise penthouse.

Letting him go was the biggest mistake of my life. Giving me a second chance might be the biggest mistake of his. I’d spent a year as Ronan’s friend-with-benefits, convincing myself that he could never feel the way I felt. I was floored when those three little words flew out of his mouth. So, I ran and have regretted that decision every day for the last five years.

The first time I saw Anders F--king Bash, he was shirtless, armed, and simultaneously the most beautiful and frustrating man I’ve ever met. He has not gotten any uglier. Or any less frustrating. And today I finally took a swing at him. Our boss thinks a simple op in East Texas is exactly the thing we need to mend our relationship and restore the team dynamic.

I wait for the signal at crosswalks. I pay my taxes on time. And despite my association with a certain mafia family, I run a clean business providing security for Manhattan's wealthy elite. I don't break the law.

Love isn't something I get to wish for. Ten years ago, my nephew was sold to traffickers, and it was my fault. I spent the next decade doggedly searching for him in the most awful places imaginable, unable to stop until I knew he was safe. I finally track him down to Wild Heart Ranch, an equine therapy center in the heart of Texas with a secret mission to help victims of trafficking. While I get to know the funny, strong, disturbed man my nephew has become, I find comfort and companionship in Levy, the ranch's tattooed, pierced, much younger equine therapist.

I like horses better than most people. After years of supporting our local equine rescue, it’s safe to say that I have a certified hate-on for the rodeo. So why is Luke McCall, injured rodeo diva, in my training paddock? I feel bad that he was outed by the media, and I get the need to regroup out of the spotlight.

So many close calls, drunken flirtations, exchanged glances…and then his unfailing sense of duty would kick in. He has always outranked me and was never going to cross that line. Even though we’re no longer in the service, he insists he’s not good enough for me. And sure, he’s still the boss…of our highly illegal mercenary organization. But that’s not the only thing holding him back. He’s scarred and in pain and believes his physical limitations should deter me. What he doesn’t seem to get is that I would sacrifice a limb for him. Major organs. My entire heart.

Look, no one's ever accused me of being sane, y'know? So when I say that I am crazy over this RICO agent, know that I mean business. Sure, I'm responsible for getting him fired from the job he's wanted his whole life, but his grandfather just died and left him 13.1 billion dollars. Dude deserves a break is all I'm saying. And yeah, I'm a violent mobster with a savior complex, but that shouldn't get in the way of our epic love story.

Sam reminds me of the horses we rescue. Scarred, skittish, and…strong. Beautiful. He’s a bit of a hat-stealer, and, truth be told, I’m a little leery of his chosen profession. The things he does in front of a camera...well, it makes me blush just thinkin' about it. But if that scar on his face is any indication, he could use somebody at his back. I aim to be that person. And yeah, some of my parts get confused by the fact that he’s all delicate and sparkly, but that’s not important. Even if the good hand lotion has somehow made it into the tack room.

Heath has every reason to hate me, and that only serves to fuel our explosive chemistry. Now that we live in the same city again, all I want to do is show this sexy bear of a man that I’m not the jerk he once knew. My career as a US Navy SEAL changed the course of my life, and I'm desperate for him to see the new me. Unfortunately, my reconciliation efforts so far have ended in hospitalization, second-degree burns, and a broken towel rack. Not my finest work.

He survived the Rwandan genocide to become an NBA legend. I survived a few hours of truly amateur torture to become the guy who falls apart when someone drops a tray of dishes. We both volunteer at my brother-in-law’s gym for combat vets, and we’ve been circling each other for a year now. It’s possible that pairing a seven-foot wall of sunshine with me—the guy who gets snarky about that one time I got waterboarded—might just be the mother of all bad ideas. An even worse idea? Let’s add a splash of kink to the mix.