Friday, December 8, 2017

Friday's Film Adaptation:The Lady in the Lake by Raymond Chandler

Philip Marlowe #3
A couple of missing wives—one a rich man's and one a poor man's—become the objects of Marlowe's investigation. One of them may have gotten a Mexican divorce and married a gigolo and the other may be dead. Marlowe's not sure he cares about either one, but he's not paid to care.

The Treloar Building was, and is, on Olive Street, near Sixth, on the west side. The sidewalk in front of it had been built of black and white rubber blocks. They were taking them up now to give to the government, and a hatless pale man with a face like a building superintendent was watching the work and looking as if it was breaking his heart.

I went past him through an arcade of specialty shops into a vast black and gold lobby. The Gillerlain Company was on the seventh floor, in front, behind swinging double plate glass doors bound in platinum. Their reception room had Chinese rugs, dull silver walls, angular but elaborate furniture, sharp shiny bits of abstract sculpture on pedastals and a tall display in a triangular showcase in the corner. On tiers and steps and islands and promontories of shining mirror-glass it seemed to contain every fancy bottle and box that had ever been designed. There were creams and powders and soaps and toilet waters for every season and every occasion. There were perfumes in tall thin bottles that looked as if a breath would blow them over and perfumes in little pastel phials tied with ducky satin bows, like the little girls at a dancing class. The cream of the crop seemed to be something very small and simple in a squat amber bottle. It was in the middle at eye height, had a lot of space to itself, and was labeled Gillerlain Regal, The Champagne of Perfumes. It was definitely the stuff to get. One drop of that in the hollow of your throat and the matched pink pearls started falling on you like summer rain.

A neat little blonde sat off in a far corner at a small PBX, behind a railing and well out of harm's way. At a flat desk in line with the doors was a tall, lean, dark-haired lovely whose name, according to the tilted embossed plaque on her desk, was Miss Adrienne Fromsett.

She wore a steel gray business suit and under the jacket a dark blue shirt and a man's tie of lighter shade. The edges of the folded handkerchief in the breast pocket looked sharp enough to slice bread. She wore a linked bracelet and no other jewelry. Her dark hair was parted and fell in loose but not unstudied waves. She had a smooth ivory skin and rather severe eyebrows and large dark eyes that looked as if they might warm up at the right time and in the right place.

I put my plain card, the one without the tommy gun in the corner, on her desk and asked to see Mr. Derace Kingsley. She looked at the card and said: "Have you an appointment?"

"No appointment."

"It is very difficult to see Mr. Kingsley without an appointment."

That wasn't anything I could argue about.

"What is the nature of your business, Mr. Marlowe?"


"I see. Does Mr. Kingsley know you, Mr. Marlowe?"

"I don't think so. He may have heard my name. You might say I'm from Lieutenant M'Gee."

"And does Mr. Kingsley know Lieutenant M'Gee?"

She put my card beside a pile of freshly typed letterheads. She leaned back and put one arm on the desk and tapped lightly with a small gold pencil.

I grinned at her. The little blonde at the PBX cocked a shell-like ear and smiled a small fluffy smile. She looked playful and eager, but not quite sure of herself, like a new kitten in a house where they don't care much about kittens.

"I'm hoping he does," I said. "But maybe the best way to find out is to ask him."

She initialed three letters rapidly, to keep from throwing her pen set at me. She spoke again without looking up.

"Mr. Kingsley is in conference. I'll send your card in when I have an opportunity."

I thanked her and went and sat in a chromium and leather chair that was a lot more comfortable than it looked. Time passed and silence descended on the scene. Nobody came in or went out. Miss Fromsett's elegant hand moved over her papers and the muted peep of the kitten at the PBX was audible at moments, and the little click of the plugs going in and out.

I lit a cigarette and dragged a smoking stand beside the chair. The minutes went by on tiptoe, with their fingers to their lips. I looked the place over. You can't tell any thing about an outfit like that. They might be making millions, and they might have the sheriff in the back room, with his chair tilted against the safe.

Half an hour and three or four cigarettes later a door opened behind Miss Fromsett's desk and two men came out backwards laughing. A third man held the door for them and helped them laugh. They all shook hands heartily and the two men went across the office and out. The third man dropped the grin off his face and looked as if he had never grinned in his life. He was a tall bird in a gray suit and he didn't want any nonsense.

"Any calls?" he asked in a sharp bossy voice.

Miss Fromsett said softly: "A Mr. Marlowe to see you. From Lieutenant M'Gee. His business is personal."'

"Never heard of him," the tall man barked. He took my card, didn't even glance at me, and went back into his office. His door closed on the pneumatic closer and made a sound like "phooey." Miss Fromsett gave me a sweet sad smile and I gave it back to her in the form of an obscene leer. I ate another cigarette and more time staggered by. I was getting to be very fond of the Gillerlain Company.

Ten minutes later the same door opened again and the big shot came out with his hat on and sneered that he was going to get a hair-cut. He started off across the Chinese rug in a swinging athletic stride, made about half the distance to the door and then did a sharp cutback and came over to where I was sitting.

"You want to see me?" he barked.

He was about six feet two and not much of it soft. His eyes were stone gray with flecks of cold light in them. He filled a large size in smooth gray flannel with a narrow chalk stripe, and filled it elegantly. His manner said he was very tough to get along with.

I stood up. "If you're Mr. Derace Kingsley."

"Who the hell did you think I was?"

I let him have that trick and gave him my other card, the one with the business on it. He clamped it in his paw and scowled down at it.

"Who's M'Gee?" he snapped.

"He's just a fellow I know."

"I'm fascinated," he said, glancing back at Miss Fromsett. She liked it. She liked it very much. "Anything else you would care to let drop about him?"

"Well, they call him Violets M'Gee," I said. "On account of he chews little throat pastilles that smell of violets. He's a big man with soft silvery hair and a cute little mouth made to kiss babies with. When last seen he was wearing a neat blue suit, wide-toed brown shoes, gray homburg hat, and he was smoking opium in a short briar pipe."

"I don't like your manner," Kingsley said in a voice you could have cracked a Brazil nut on.

"That's all right," I said. "I'm not selling it."

He reared back as if I had hung a week-old mackerel under his nose. After a moment he turned his back on me and said over his shoulder:

"I'll give you exactly three minutes. God knows why."

He burned the carpet back past Miss Fromsett's desk to his door, yanked it open and let it swing to in my face. Miss Fromsett liked that too, but I thought there was a little sly laughter behind her eyes now.


The private office was everything a private office should be. It was long and dim and quiet and air-conditioned and its windows were shut and its gray venetian blinds half-closed to keep out the July glare. Gray drapes matched the gray carpeting. There was a large black and silver safe in the corner and a low row of low filing cases that exactly matched it. On the wall there was a huge tinted photograph of an elderly party with a chiselled beak and whiskers and a wing collar. The Adam's apple that edged through his wing collar looked harder than most people's chins. The plate underneath the photograph read: Mr. Matthew Gillerlain 1860-1934.

Derace Kingsley marched briskly behind about eight hundred dollars' worth of executive desk and planted his backside in a tall leather chair. He reached himself a panatela out of a copper and mahogany box and trimmed it and lit it with a fat copper desk lighter. He took his time about it. It didn't matter about my time. When he had finished this, he leaned back and blew a little smoke and said:

"I'm a business man. I don't fool around. You're a licensed detective, your card says. Show me something to prove it."

I got my wallet out and handed him things to prove it. He looked at them and threw them back across the desk. The celluloid holder with the photostat license in it fell to the floor. He didn't bother to apologize.

"I don't know M'Gee," he said. "I know Sheriff Petersen. I asked for the name of a reliable man to do a job. I suppose you are the man."

"M'Gee is in the Hollywood sub-station of the sheriff's office," I said. "You can check on that."

"Not necessary. I guess you might do, but don't get flip with me. And remember when I hire a man he's my man. He does exactly what I tell him and he keeps his mouth shut. Or he goes out fast. Is that clear? I hope I'm not too tough for you."

"Why not leave that an open question?" I said.

He frowned. He said sharply: "What do you charge?"

"Twenty-five a day and expenses. Eight cents a mile for my car."

"Absurd," he said. "Far too much. Fifteen a day flat. That's plenty. I'll pay the mileage, within reason, the way things are now. But no joyriding."

I blew a little gray cloud of cigarette smoke and fanned it with my hand. I said nothing. He seemed a little surprised that I said nothing.

He leaned over the desk and pointed with his cigar. "I haven't hired you yet," he said, "but if I do, the job is absolutely confidential. No talking it over with your cop friends. Is that understood?"

"Just what do you want done, Mr. Kingsley?"

"What do you care? You do all kinds of detective work, don't you?"

"Not all kinds. Only the fairly honest kinds."

He stared at me level-eyed, his jaws tight. His gray eyes had an opaque look.

"For one thing I don't do divorce business," I said. "And I get a hundred down as a retainer—from strangers."

"Well, well," he said, in a voice suddenly soft. "Well, well."

"And as for your being too tough for me," I said, "most of the clients start out either by weeping down my shirt or bawling me out to show who's boss. But usually they end up very reasonable—if they're still alive."

"Well, well," he said again, in the same soft voice, and went on staring at me. "Do you lose very many of them?" he asked.

"Not if they treat me right," I said.

"Have a cigar," he said.

I took a cigar and put it in my pocket.

"I want you to find my wife," he said. "She's been missing for a month."

"Okay," I said. "I'll find your wife."

He patted his desk with both hands. He stared at me solidly. "I think you will at that," he said. Then he grinned. "I haven't been called down like that in four years." he said.

I didn't say anything.

"Damn it all," he said, "I liked it. I liked it fine." He ran a hand through his thick dark hair. "She's been gone a whole month," he said. "From a cabin we have in the mountains. Near Puma Point. Do you know Puma Point?"

I said I knew Puma Point.

"Our place is three miles from the village," he said, "partly over a private road. It's on a private lake. Little Fawn Lake. There's a dam three of us put up to improve the property. I own the tract with two other men. It's quite large, but undeveloped and won't be developed now for some time, of course. My friends have cabins, I have a cabin and a man named Bill Chess lives with his wife in another cabin rent free and looks after the place. He's a disabled veteran with a pension. That's all there is up there. My wife went up the middle of May, came down twice for weekends, was due down the 12th of June for a party and never showed up. I haven't seen her since."

"What have you done about it?" I asked.

"Nothing. Not a thing. I haven't even been up there." He waited, wanting me to ask why.

I said: "Why?"

He pushed his chair back to get a locked drawer open. He took out a folded paper and passed it over. I unfolded it and saw it was a Postal Telegraph form. The wire had been filed at El Paso on June 14th at 9:19 a.m. It was addressed to Derace Kingsley, 965 Carson Drive, Beverly Hills, and read:


I put this down on my side of the desk and he was handing me a large and very clear snapshot on glazed paper which showed a man and a woman sitting on the sand under a beach umbrella. The man wore trunks and the woman what looked like a very daring white sharkskin bathing suit. She was a slim blonde, young and shapely and smiling. The man was a hefty dark handsome lad with fine shoulders and legs, sleek dark hair and white teeth. Six feet of a standard type of homewrecker. Arms to hold you close and all his brains in his face. He was holding a pair of dark glasses in his hand and smiling at the camera with a practiced and easy smile.

"That's Crystal," Kingsley said, "and that's Chris Lavery. She can have him and he can have her and to hell with them both."

I put the photo down on the telegram. "All right, what's the catch?" I asked him.

Philip Marlowe searches for a missing woman in this mystery shot entirely from the detective's viewpoint.

Release Date: January 23, 1947
Release Time: 105 minutes

Robert Montgomery as Phillip Marlowe
Audrey Totter as Adrienne Fromsett
Lloyd Nolan as Lt. DeGarmot
Tom Tully as Police Captain Fergus K. Kane
Leon Ames as Derace "Derry" Kingsby
Jayne Meadows as Mildred Havelend
Richard Simmons as Chris Lavery
Morris Ankrum as Eugene Grayson
Lila Leeds as Receptionist
Robert Williams as Artist
Kathleen Lockhart as Mrs. Grayson

Author Bio:
Raymond Thornton Chandler was an American novelist and screenwriter.

In 1932, at age forty-four, Raymond Chandler decided to become a detective fiction writer after losing his job as an oil company executive during the Depression. His first short story, "Blackmailers Don't Shoot", was published in 1933 in Black Mask, a popular pulp magazine. His first novel, The Big Sleep, was published in 1939. In addition to his short stories, Chandler published just seven full novels during his lifetime (though an eighth in progress at his death was completed by Robert B. Parker). All but Playback have been realized into motion pictures, some several times. In the year before he died, he was elected president of the Mystery Writers of America. He died on March 26, 1959, in La Jolla, California.

Chandler had an immense stylistic influence on American popular literature, and is considered by many to be a founder, along with Dashiell Hammett, James M. Cain and other Black Mask writers, of the hard-boiled school of detective fiction. Chandler's Philip Marlowe, along with Hammett's Sam Spade, are considered by some to be synonymous with "private detective," both having been played on screen by Humphrey Bogart, whom many considered to be the quintessential Marlowe.

Some of Chandler's novels are considered to be important literary works, and three are often considered to be masterpieces: Farewell, My Lovely (1940), The Little Sister (1949), and The Long Goodbye (1953). The Long Goodbye is praised within an anthology of American crime stories as "arguably the first book since Hammett's The Glass Key, published more than twenty years earlier, to qualify as a serious and significant mainstream novel that just happened to possess elements of mystery".




Review Tour: Merry & Bright by Joanna Chambers

Title: Merry & Bright
Author: Joanna Chambers
Genre: M/M Romance
Release Date: November 23, 2017
Cover Design: Natasha Snow
Three seasonal love stories from Joanna Chambers.

Quin Flint is unimpressed when his gorgeous colleague, Rob Paget, asks for extra time off at Christmas. As far as Quin is concerned, Christmas is a giant waste of time. Quin’s on the fast track to partnership, and the season of goodwill is just getting in the way of his next big project. But when Quin’s boss, Marley, confiscates his phone and makes him take an unscheduled day off, Quin finds himself being forced to confront his regrets, past and present, and think about the sort of future he really wants…and who he wants it with.

Mr Perfect’s Christmas
Sam Warren’s new job hasn’t been going so well so the last thing he’s in the mood for is the obligatory office Christmas party, particularly since Nick Foster’s going to be there. Nick–the guy whose shoes Sam has been trying to fill–seems to take very opportunity to point out where Sam’s going wrong. But when Sam receives an unexpected Secret Santa gift at the party, he’s forced to question his assumptions about his rival. Could it be that he’s been misinterpreting Nick’s actions all along? And is it possible that his reluctant attraction to Nick is reciprocated?

Rest and Be Thankful
Things haven’t been going well for Cam McMorrow since he moved to Inverbechie. His business is failing, his cottage is falling apart and following his very public argument with café owner Rob Armstrong, he’s become a social outcast. Cam needs to get away from his troubles and when his sister buys him a ticket to the biggest Hogmanay party in Glasgow, he can’t leave Inverbechie quick enough. But when events conspire to strand him in the middle of nowhere in a snowstorm, not only is he liable to miss the party, he’ll also have to ask his nemesis, Rob, for help.

Merry & Bright
Overall Anthology Original & Re-read Review December 2017:
Merry & Bright is a lovely collection of Joanna Chambers holiday novellas. Having read Humbug & Rest and Be Thankful previously, it was fun to revisit those characters.  Mr. Perfect's Christmas was new to me and it was equally fun.  Joanna Chambers has a way of creating characters and scenarios that entertain but they also allow you to learn something about yourself if you open your mind.  Don't get me wrong, they don't read as a teaching lesson, the author has not set out to make you learn something but she writes her characters in a way that you can't help but be reminded of things we tend to take for granted.  You may learn something about yourself but most of all you get a wonderful romance(in the case of Merry & Bright you get three) that will bring a smile to your face and warm your heart.

Original Review December 2015:
You can't help but notice the connection to A Christmas Carol, which is my favorite Christmas story ever, so that alone piqued my interest.  Well, only a chapter in and my interest was justified because Quin definitely has something to learn about life and himself.  He may not have help from the spirits of Christmas Past, Present, and Future as Scrooge did but life has dealt his boss, Marley a hard lesson in loss and she in turn forces Quin to take a break from the office. I always tear up when Scrooge learns the meaning of Christmas and when Quin learns a few things about himself I teared up too.  A truly perfect read for the holiday season.

Mr. Perfect's Christmas
Original Review November 2017:
This is a lovely holiday romance with intriguing characters.  I couldn't help but want to bang a little sense into Sam's head hoping to make him feel a better fit with his co-workers but at the same time I understand why he feels on the outside looking in.  Such a lovely read that is fun, entertaining, and it just might help you remember that sometimes words are very much needed.  In general, as a species we humans are not mind readers and although some things seem and feel obvious to us, its not so obvious to others.

Rest and Be Thankful
Original Review December 2015:
I had featured Joanna Chambers in anthologies before but until this Christmas reading season, I hadn't actually read her work. What was I waiting for? This is the second story of hers I've read in the past 4 weeks and I loved it. Cam and Rob are the kind of pair that you just know where they should be and that they will get there but the story lies in the "getting" there. Once again, communication or lack thereof is the key, something we all need to remember. When the weather and safety brings Cam and Rob together so they have to finally talk, well let's just say that's when the holiday really begins.


Author Bio:
Joanna Chambers always wanted to write. She spent over 20 years staring at blank sheets of paper and despairing of ever writing a single word. In between staring at blank sheets of paper, she studied law, met her husband and had two children. Whilst nursing her first child, she rediscovered her love of romance and found her muse. Joanna lives in Scotland with her family and finds time to write by eschewing sleep and popular culture.



December 1 - Valerie Ullmer, Inglorious BitchesGay Book Reviews
December 4 - Drops Of InkScattered Thoughts & Rogue WordsOMG ReadsWicked Faerie's Tales & Reviews
December 6 - Lelyana's Book Blog
December 8 - Unquietly MeMirrigold: Mutterings & MusingsBayou Book JunkiePadme's LibraryHearts On Fire ReviewsAu Boudoir Ecarlate

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Release Tour: Bob and the Polka-Dot Highway by R Murphy

Title: Bob and the Polka-Dot Highway
Author: R Murphy
Series: Bob Books #3
Genre: Paranormal Romance
Release Date: December 6, 2017
Poor Roz…once again stuck on the horns of a dilemma. Does she accept the great offer for a job that’s hundreds of miles from Crooked Lake? Or does she pick David, the great guy who grows grapes half a mile from her house? And either way—assuming our crabby woman-of-a-certain-age manages to make a decision—what about her ghost, Bob?

Granted, Bob and Roz have never had a … ummmm… ‘traditional’ relationship but still, martini-loving ghosts don’t toddle along every day of the week. What happens to the wit, the sparkle, the laughter?

So many questions…(sigh).

Join Roz, David—and Bob—as they spend a beautiful, but confusing, summer on Crooked Lake. And oh, by the way, watch out for drips…

My ghostly guest, Bob, swirled his drink while the late afternoon sun streamed across the kitchen, lighting the martinis on the table with an otherworldly glow.

Outside the kitchen’s picture window, Crooked Lake nestled into dusk. Even though it was only early May, a determined fly fisherman drifted in the center of the lake, casting for dusk-feeding trout. Gentle waves splashed against the rock wall I’d struggled to build only a couple of months before. Enough water had drained off after the spring floods that I once again had an actual beach and I planned to spend the summer shoveling shale to enhance and deepen it.

I glanced at Bob, my ghostly companion of many months, as he sipped his drink. I’d gotten to the point where Bob didn’t intimidate or scare me at all. In fact, if it came to being crabby, unpleasant, and maybe even a little scary, I had him beaten by a mile. (I’m not proud of this, mind you. But I do try to call a spade a spade. It’s one way to simplify what seems to have become an awfully complicated life.)

Despite the small spare tire Bob sported around his middle and hair that, in the right light, might be characterized by some as thinning, Bob prided himself on being a suave and debonair ghostly figure. He had nothing but disdain for those immature spectral bullies who throw furniture around and make their hauntee’s lives miserable. I don’t think, now that I focus on it, that I’ve ever even heard Bob raise his voice. (He would not be able to say the same about me, I’m afraid. Not that I have anger management issues. I mostly have crabby management issues.)

Lately Bob has spent his time wandering around the house in a gentle alcoholic fog, babbling about whatever topic he’s fixated on that day. Sometimes it’s the value of 5000 hedgehogs; other days, he’ll get obsessed with his bird phobia or government conspiracies to wear out shoes, or he’ll fret about wearing a white suit. I’ve become used to it. In our early days, we’d only get together at dinnertime. Now that David’s not spending any time at my house, Bob stops by much (MUCH!!!) more often.

Although the soul of ghostly gentility himself, Bob tends to hang out with what I might diplomatically call a challenging sort of crowd, the Algonquin Round Table in Manhattan. I’d visited his friends at The Algonquin hotel a couple of times and the word ‘surreal’ pops into my mind every time I try to describe the experience. Fortunately, though, his ghostly buddies hadn’t found their way from midtown Manhattan out to my isolated lake house in western New York. I planned to keep it that way.

Author Bio:
Roz Murphy is the pseudonym of a long-time Finger Lakes resident who lives with ghosts and doesn’t want to confirm in her neighbors’ minds how nutty she really is. (They already have their suspicions.) After decades of writing in Manhattan and throughout the country, Roz settled on the shores of New York’s Keuka Lake, some of the most beautiful country ever created. She’s an ardent fan of the Finger Lakes wine industry, especially the local dry Rieslings.

Bob and the Polka-Dot Highway

Bob at the Lake

Bob at the Plaza

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Release Blitz: On Your Knees, Prospect by KA Merikan

Title: On Your Knees, Prospect
Author: KA Merikan
Series: Kings of Hell MC #3
Genre: M/M Romance, Paranormal, Adult
Release Date: December 6, 2017
Cover Design: Natasha Snow
--- There is freedom in blacking boots for the right man. ---

Jake. Kings of Hell MC Prospect. Obedient. Desperate for approval.
Vars. Dominant. Stern. Undead.

Jake is itching to become a patched member of the Kings of Hell MC.
For two years he's toiled as the only prospect. So when a new guy swans in and thinks he'll get a patch in no time just because he's got friends in high places, Jake is there to stand in his way.

Only that the guy is older, more experienced, drives a Harley, and has the kind of boots Jake craves to lick.

But he won't.

Because he only fucks patches.

Vars is ready to find a new home in the Kings of Hell MC after a messy relationship led him straight to hell. In comparison, the pretty, blue-eyed prospect could be just the pleasant rebound he needs.

The boy is a brat, but that could be amended with a firm hand and a gag.
If only Jake was ready to admit to his submissive needs, Vars would gladly take him under his wing.

That is, until he finds out something inhuman resides inside of Jake.
Vars didn’t cheat death only to call out to it again.

But stuck together in one room, keeping each other’s secrets, they might just have to become allies, no matter how unwilling. Because if there is something Vars can’t resist, it’s a boy with pleading eyes.

“You are mine now, boy. This room is soundproof. No one will hear you scream.”

“Yes, sir. My body is yours.”

WARNING: This story contains scenes of violence, offensive language, and morally ambiguous characters.

Jake wouldn’t be subjected to this indignity. He hit right back at Vars, even if the man was solid as a rock. “I’m no slave! I do what I’m asked, and yes, if that means sucking dick, so be it. It’s called dedication. I bet you’ve never heard of it!”

Something flashed in Vars’s eyes, and he descended on Jake, twisting back his arms and pushing him forward as if Jake barely weighed anything. With a yelp, Jake clenched his eyes shut, unable to breathe as he braced himself for impact with the floor, but his body met hard steel instead.

Dampness started soaking into his clothes, and his chin slid over Knight’s newly-cleaned car. It smelled of detergent, sharp and unpleasant, but the large body pressing him down overpowered all his senses.

He struggled against the firm hold but knew he could put more strength into it. His mind drifted off to the leather flogger and cuffs that have occupied it from the moment Jake had made the mistake of touching Vars’s toy bag.

The cool touch of the car’s hood was a relief to his burning cheek. It was increasingly difficult to remind himself every day that Vars was a prospect like him when the man carried himself with so much authority.

“You sure of that?” Vars whispered, leaning over Jake until his lips were inches away from Jake’s ear. The movement pressed his hips tighter to Jake’s ass, and even though there was no trace of arousal in those leather pants, sensing the heat of Vars’s groin had Jake’s flesh feel like molten fire. Were Vars’s pubes salt-and-pepper as well, or had that been his imagination?

“Of what?” Jake’s voice came out trembling so heavily he didn’t recognize it at first. What was he doing? He couldn’t possibly give into this weird thing Vars was pulling him into. Vars had no right to him. No patch. And yet everything about the energy Vars exuded spoke to Jake on a level he didn’t understand.

So he stayed put and stopped the pretense of struggle.

Vars breathed fire down the back of Jake’s neck, and while his body still pressed down hard, and his powerful hands still kept Jake’s arms in a twist, something about the hold changed. Vars hesitated with his answer, his hips swaying gently against Jake’s buttocks as he inhaled and exhaled so close to Jake’s ear it was almost like shouting.

“That you want to serve. That polishing all those shoes on your knees gets your dick hard.”

Yes? No? Maybe? No. Yes.

So he might actually enjoy doing things for the members. Big deal. It was a lucky thing, since he’d been stuck as a prospect for years.

Jake couldn’t understand why he was so nervous. Why his body reacted so violently to this inquisition. Vars’s bulk pressing against him wasn’t helping with focus, but it was the hold on his arms that was making Jake’s senses spiral out of control. He’d gotten a glimmer of that when wrestling with Gray before, but there was something different about Vars holding him down. He just didn’t know what.

“I just want to please,” Jake whispered so quietly he wasn’t sure he’d be heard.


Author Bio: 
K. A. Merikan is the pen name for Kat and Agnes Merikan, a team of writers, who are taken for sisters with surprising regularity. Kat’s the mean sergeant and survival specialist of the duo, never hesitating to kick Agnes’s ass when she’s slacking off. Her memory works like an easy-access catalogue, which allows her to keep up with both book details and social media. Also works as the emergency GPS. Agnes is the Merikan nitpicker, usually found busy with formatting and research. Her attention tends to be scattered, and despite pushing thirty, she needs to apply makeup to buy alcohol. Self-proclaimed queen of the roads.

They love the weird and wonderful, stepping out of the box, and bending stereotypes both in life and books. When you pick up a Merikan book, there’s one thing you can be sure of – it will be full of surprises.


On Your Knees, Prospect #4


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