Blog Tour Stop – Pumping Iron by Nya Rawlyns

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pumping_iron_excerpts

Pumping Iron Cover 850 x 1273Sequestered at a beach house in the Hamptons, charged with keeping Lovett Junior occupied while his law firm does damage control over Junior’s peccadillos, Mike and Sean are dancing around their attraction for each other. Mike suggests a run – that’s the stick, but there’s a carrot involved also.

He sank to his knees, still blowing hard. By my guesstimate, we’d gone two miles and change. Ten was usually a warmup for me, but then I was fit, Sean wasn’t. At least not for that.

I needed to look at the bigger picture: Sean naked, on my bed, his cock at full salute, a come hither expression on his face, eyes at half mast, touching himself, fondling his balls, a finger nudging the gully, thighs inching apart…

Sean blew that fantasy clear out of the sky, dumping me into a brand new one with, “I’ll give you the best blow job of your life if you stop and let me die right here.”

“Tempting. But one question. Is that before or after?”

“Wha—?” He grimaced and ducked his head, his shoulders shaking.

I offered a hand to pull him up, but he surprised me and yanked hard enough I got caught off balance and sank to my knees in front of him. Now we were both sucking air, our chests heaving, and it had nothing to do with exertion, not that kind.

Behind me the sky was lightening enough it reflected in the deep brown pools that were his eyes, the irises wide and soft and so sexy I leaned in for a closer look, hungering for a taste of his mouth and skin salty slick with sweat and sea air.

He had my wrist, pinching down hard, his thumb rubbing along the underside … not rubbing, shoving, shoving the blood back, back toward my cock, and it hurt in a way that I never wanted it to stop. I couldn’t take my eyes off it, off him digging into the skin, thin now under the assault of a blunt nail. It was angry, harsh how he did it, so harsh I at first didn’t feel the touch, a caress on my cheek, following the line to my jaw and tilting my head.

I wanted to look down, I wanted to see how much pain and pleasure he could control, but that feather touch drained me of everything but wanting him, right there, right on that beach with the grey shadows retreating toward the dunes, exposing us, exposing me to his power.

Oblivious to everything but the craving for his taste, I surrendered as he took my mouth, tracing it with his tongue, probing. My hand hung helpless, useless, in a vise grip that numbed sensation and replaced it with such intense focus on my cock and my mouth, there was nothing left but him sweeping inside, crushing and bruising as he invaded my senses.

The first sharp nip released an intense flood of copper-iron. Sean swished it away, then assaulted the bruise with another and another until he withdrew, leaving me passive, struggling for air.

I murmured, “Sean?”

He stood. I couldn’t. Not yet.

Whispering, “We have company,” Sean nodded in the direction of the dunes behind us.

Holding out a hand, he helped me up. We locked gazes, his almost a challenge. Then with a rueful grin, he said, “I have sand in my shorts.”

I looked down, leering. “Looks like a sand dune to me. You might want to do something about that.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“A contest.”Pumping Iron Teaser 1

I was going to make him pay in spades for turning me into a quivering blob of jelly, right there in the open, lancing my heart with that fucking display of dominance. Reaching over to hook a forefinger in the waistband of his bathing suit, I tugged him closer and laid out the terms, keeping them clean and simple.

“First one back gets to top.”

He growled, “Bite me,” and took off like a shot, with me a few steps behind.

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Sequestered at a beach house in the Hamptons, charged with keeping Lovett Junior occupied while his law firm does damage control over Junior’s peccadillos, Mike and Sean find it difficult to grab some private time.

Junior’s little secret was that of all the splendid things one could do with one’s time, watching young men fucking each other, in the flesh, was the ultimate viewing experience, and the only way Junior had a chance of coming. It was hit or miss, the coming part, but the watching for pleasure apparently hit the spot all the time.

If he had even the remotest clue we were going at it hot and heavy, he was going to guilt us into letting him voyeur his way into my checking account. My take on ten large per diem wasn’t insubstantial, and there was the added bonus for keeping him happy and off Boston’s upscale, high end streets until Monday earliest.

It wasn’t going to buy me financial independence but it feathered a nest in desperate need of new options, including paying off a debt that had driven me to Bad Boyfriends in the first place, hocking my cock and acting abilities while hiding in plain sight.

My mini-meltdown had taught me one thing: I could act my way out of a paper bag but that didn’t make me a good card player.

“You done?” Mike was standing, cock at full alert, arms crossed. It was a good look on him. It would look even better with me hammering his ass until he cried uncle, something I suspected wouldn’t happen all that easily.

“Don’t say it.” He smirked. He was thinking it … I think too much. Apropos of nothing, I observed, “We’re naked. How do you propose to do this?”

He pulled me off the bed and dragged my bare assed carcass to the door, opened it and pointed through the wall of trees.

“What the hell am I looking at?”

“Stairs to the upper deck.”

He tiptoed along the sandy path, his junk bobbing with the exaggerated movements. Putting a finger to his lips, he shushed me, then made a dash across the open space to the near side of the house and an attached ladder leading up to the second floor deck. He was up and over the railing before I’d even taken the first step. Not sure if I was supposed to wait while he secured the booty, or follow him and Tarzan my way up the ladder, I hesitated. He waved me to come up and join him.

Cottage. Single bed. Jerking off alone. Or king-sized bed, high thread count, condom and me buried deep into nirvana fucking a man I might be falling in love with? No contest. I dashed, I climbed, I conquered.

Giggling like schoolgirls, we barged through the patio door, with Mike sprinting to the bathroom. When he came out, I was sprawled on the bed, wallowing in comfort, stroking myself because it fucking hurt not to. He tossed a wrapper to me. It landed on my belly. I ignored it, liking the look in his eyes as he watched, eyes so filled with lust it damn near derailed me.

Taking pity, I said, “Lie down. I want to see your face when you come,” and made room on the bed while tearing at the wrapper and making quick work of rolling the damn condom on. I almost came right then and there. From the grimace on Mike’s face, he was so close it was clear this first one was going to be a quickie, for both of us.

He tossed the lube and drew his knees up, exposing himself to my tender ministrations, my finger easing in carefully. If it had been a while, he needed prep and not me going in like a battering ram, though everything inside my gut screamed for me to do just that.

You’re a professional, Rourke. You can control yourself. Do it right. Do it slow.

Mike hissed, “That’s enough. Just fucking do it already.” So I did, inch by slow inch and when he groaned, “Oh, fucking hell, Sean, fuck that’s good,” I moved, moved in the hot channel, lava hot with him clenching my cock tight, so tight I near exploded at the sensation.

Stretching his legs back, bending him almost in two, I watched his face, his eyes rolling back, felt him tense. And from the corner of my eye I caught Junior staring through the glass panel, drooling.

I rasped, trying to catch my breath, “He’s watching.”

Mike clenched his teeth, wadded the twelve hundred thread count Egyptian cotton in his bear paws, and bellowed, “Then give him his fucking money’s worth.”

So I did.

pumping_iron_CI

Blurb:

Kane leads a double life. By day, he pumps iron, running a fitness center, where jocks and Cougar flock for the burn and the ‘tude. By night, it’s something else entirely that gets pumped, as Kane swaps sweats for Armani to cater to an exclusive clientele, willing to pay well to indulge their special interests and tastes. His double life isn’t a problem until his conniving ex tightens the financial screws.

Finding and retaining suitable companions for his after-dark clients isn’t easy. David Black’s pole dancing performance at a friend’s club hints that he might hit all the bullet points on Kane’s list of requirements, in a way that could mean something other than “just business.”

David is out of work and out of options, so when he’s offered the choice of starvation or performing both on and off the stage, it’s a no-brainer. Kane’s offer of a position with the escort service is as attractive as the man himself, and David agrees to a trial period involving certain conditions. He quickly finds that he’s out of his depth.

Confronted with unanticipated roadblocks, one thing is clear… neither man is taking no for an answer.

Excerpt:

I stifled the urge to sneeze. Mold. I was allergic to mold.
Apparently so was the tall man staring at one of the boss’s art deco posters—Captain America, but modern, not an antique. He sneezed and reached into a coat pocket, pulled out a handkerchief and swiped at his face. From the back he looked familiar. Dark hair, broad shoulders, overcoat from a custom big and tall men’s store. He looked angry or pissed or just not happy to be there—body posture was one of my specialties. I don’t need to see the face to know which way the wind blows.
My heart sank. If he was a detective, that “only the one” was probably me ending up at the precinct for lewd and lascivious behavior. I’d taken Charlie’s advice. I’d courted the pole last night, in a prime and prissy way. Tonight, I’d gone full frontal assault, with more grind than bump, and got a hard-on from my efforts that bulged the pleather pouch to the breaking point.
My sixty-three dollars was now looking like bail money.
Clearing my throat, I plastered polite on my face, and asked, “You wanted to see me?” He wasn’t a customer. No point in pretending otherwise.
He turned.
I swallowed. My tongue thickened. Spit pooled in my mouth, threatening to drizzle down my chin.
He nodded. I nodded. I went to sit in the folding chair in front of the desk.
“Don’t.”
I didn’t.
The soft cashmere turtleneck was a dead giveaway. This was my too smexy for his shoes guy from the audience, the one sitting next to the stage, the one I’d copped a feel with my eyes at the end of the routine… That one. There. Giving me a once, twice, thrice-over.
The pouch bulged.
A grin played at the corners of his mouth. I hoped he had handcuffs. I really hoped he liked doing bad cop.
He held out a hand, said, “I’m Kane.”
We shook. I shook, mostly inside, but it was a close call. I had the presence of mind to ask, “May I see some identification?”
He looked surprised, but fished in an interior pocket and pulled out a small, flat metal holder. He withdrew a business card and handed it over.
I stared, not exactly processing much…

BAD BOYFRIENDS
1-800-bad-boys

While I mouthed Bad Boyfriends, he said, “I have a proposal for you, Mr.—”
“Black. David Black.” It was tempting to extend my hand again for another shake, a formal one. One where I could maybe fondle the backs of those long, elegant fingers, do a few sweeps with my thumb, my tongue, my tongue tied in knots, brain in lockdown.
“You’re not a cop?”
I looked at him, really looked at eyebrows drawn together tight, stern, over eyes that were blue, but not. More like Smoky Mountains hazy blue, flat, intense. He was scary handsome, scary imposing, a total alpha, I eat interns for breakfast, sexual metro hunka way out of my league.
He chuckled. That made it worse.

Excerpt:

I stifled the urge to sneeze. Mold. I was allergic to mold.
Apparently so was the tall man staring at one of the boss’s art deco posters—Captain America, but modern, not an antique. He sneezed and reached into a coat pocket, pulled out a handkerchief and swiped at his face. From the back he looked familiar. Dark hair, broad shoulders, overcoat from a custom big and tall men’s store. He looked angry or pissed or just not happy to be there—body posture was one of my specialties. I don’t need to see the face to know which way the wind blows.
My heart sank. If he was a detective, that “only the one” was probably me ending up at the precinct for lewd and lascivious behavior. I’d taken Charlie’s advice. I’d courted the pole last night, in a prime and prissy way. Tonight, I’d gone full frontal assault, with more grind than bump, and got a hard-on from my efforts that bulged the pleather pouch to the breaking point.
My sixty-three dollars was now looking like bail money.
Clearing my throat, I plastered polite on my face, and asked, “You wanted to see me?” He wasn’t a customer. No point in pretending otherwise.
He turned.
I swallowed. My tongue thickened. Spit pooled in my mouth, threatening to drizzle down my chin.
He nodded. I nodded. I went to sit in the folding chair in front of the desk.
“Don’t.”
I didn’t.
The soft cashmere turtleneck was a dead giveaway. This was my too smexy for his shoes guy from the audience, the one sitting next to the stage, the one I’d copped a feel with my eyes at the end of the routine… That one. There. Giving me a once, twice, thrice-over.
The pouch bulged.
A grin played at the corners of his mouth. I hoped he had handcuffs. I really hoped he liked doing bad cop.
He held out a hand, said, “I’m Kane.”
We shook. I shook, mostly inside, but it was a close call. I had the presence of mind to ask, “May I see some identification?”
He looked surprised, but fished in an interior pocket and pulled out a small, flat metal holder. He withdrew a business card and handed it over.
I stared, not exactly processing much…

BAD BOYFRIENDS
1-800-bad-boys

While I mouthed Bad Boyfriends, he said, “I have a proposal for you, Mr.—”
“Black. David Black.” It was tempting to extend my hand again for another shake, a formal one. One where I could maybe fondle the backs of those long, elegant fingers, do a few sweeps with my thumb, my tongue, my tongue tied in knots, brain in lockdown.
“You’re not a cop?”

I looked at him, really looked at eyebrows drawn together tight, stern, over eyes that were blue, but not. More like Smoky Mountains hazy blue, flat, intense. He was scary handsome, scary imposing, a total alpha, I eat interns for breakfast, sexual metro hunka way out of my league.
He chuckled. That made it worse.

pumping_iron_ATA

Nya Rawlyns

Crossing boundaries, taking no prisoners. Write what’s in your soul.

It’s the bass beat, the heartbeat, the lyrics rude and true.

Nya Rawlyns is the pseudonym of a writer who cut her teeth on sports-themed romantic comedy and historical romances before finding her true calling in the wilderness areas she has visited but calls “home” in that place that counts the most: the heart. She writes M/M erotic romance because her good friends deserve to have their amazing stories told.

She has lived in the country and on a sailboat on the Chesapeake Bay, earned more than 1000 miles in competitive trail and endurance racing, taught Political Science to unwilling freshmen, and found an avocation in materials science.

When she isn’t tending to her garden or the horses, the cats, or two pervert parakeets, she can be found day dreaming and listening to the voices in her head.

Website: http://loveslastrefuge.com/

Website: Romancing Words

The Men of Crow Creek: http://the-men-of-crow-creek.weebly.com/

About Me

Nya on ARe/OmniLit

Face Book

Twitter

Her published works include:

Curling Iron (A Bad Boyfriends Novella)

Pumping Iron (A Bad Boyfriends Novel)

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Ash & Oak (A Crow Creek Novel)

Pulling Leather (A Crow Creek Novel)

Strapping Ash (A Crow Creek Novel)

Sorting Will (A Crow Creek Novel)

Flankman (A Crow Creek Novel)

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The Wrong Side of Right

Good Boy Bad

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Cajun Gothic (Blood Haven)

The Strigoi Chronicles: Penance, Fane, Michel, Dreu

Acid Jazz Singer (Hunger Hurts)

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Skin

The Guardians of the Portals

Dance Macabre (short story)

Finish Line (novella)

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The Christmas Toast

The Valentine Toast

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The Shadow of This World

Sculpting David

Hunters Crossing

The Giveaways:

Combination of Rafflecopter and Individual Blog Giveaway:

Rafflecopter:  Ebook (epub, mobi) of Pumping Iron (Book 2)

Ebook (epub, mobi) of Curling Iron (Book1)

Grand Prize:  Original Chain Maille Bracelet by MetaMDesigns (US only)

Rafflectopter Link:

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Individual Blog Giveaways:

Ebook Bundle (Curling Iron and Pumping Iron) epub, mobi

2 Giveaway Bundles per Blog Stop.

The Buy Links:

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Pumping-Iron-Bad-Boyfriends-Novel-ebook/dp/B00MNOFD4Y/ref=sr_1_11?ie=UTF8&qid=1410121934&sr=8-11&keywords=pumping+iron

AmazonUK:http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00MNOFD4Y?ie=UTF8&camp=1634&creativeASIN=B00MNOFD4Y&linkCode=xm2&tag=ggre-21

ARe: https://www.allromanceebooks.com/storeSearch.html

B&N: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/pumping-iron-nya-rawlyns/1120132464?ean=2940046331318

  • Print Length:169 pages
  • Publisher:PubRight (August 11, 2014)
  • Categories: Romance, Gay, Comedy, Erotic

Pumping Iron Tour Banner

My Review:
Pumping Iron (A Bad Boyfriends Novel)Pumping Iron by Nya Rawlyns

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

this series is my first experience with nya and i absolutely love it! i love her writing style!

i totally recommend reading curling iron – the preceding novella as it helps with the supporting characters in this book…not required but nice to know.

i’m glad this was a full novel…i wanted more of david and kane in their novella!!

sean and mike are so different but so fabulous in their own ways. mike is an absolute bada$$ and when he shows his softer side it just melts you. sean is a total sweetheart that you just want to hug!

you are left with some questions at the end so i seriously hope there is more to come from this series!

View all my reviews

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2 Responses to Blog Tour Stop – Pumping Iron by Nya Rawlyns

  1. Nya Rawlyns says:

    Thanks so much for your wonderful review and for hosting Pumping Iron on its tour!

  2. Pingback: Pumping Iron Gets Swoons and Sighs | Love's Last Refuge