A warm welcome to author Leigh Carman joining us today here at love bytes to talk about her new release “Two-Man Advantage book #3 in the Players of LA series.
Welcome Leigh 🙂
Leigh Carman for Dreamspinner Press
A hockey star skating on the edge of a catastrophe.
A PR specialist so adept, he’s called “the Fixer.”
Working together will be the biggest challenge of both their careers.
The LA Vikings hockey team is fed up the violent outbursts of its huge, intimidating enforcer, Viktor Novak. Hounded by a homophobic and domineering father, Viktor takes out his frustrations by spilling blood—on and off the ice. Now he has one last chance to clean up his image, or his career is over.
That’s where Bowen Miller comes in.
Bo has taken on the hardest cases and succeeded—by micromanaging every aspect of a client’s life—at the expense of his own happiness. But in the stubborn, hot mess that is Viktor, Bo might have met his match—both in and out of the bedroom. One man is out of control, and one controls everything. But when sex and attraction come into play, those roles are open to negotiation.
Bo shows up at Vik’s house unannounced
Pissed off, I swing my feet to the floor and stomp down the stairs, ignoring the pain in my head. When I see who’s standing on the other side of the glass pane in the door, my jaw literally drops in shock.
Fumbling, I unlock the bolt and open the front door.
Before I can say another word, the man shoves his way inside and slams the door closed behind him. I jump back, shocked at his aggressive demeanor, not missing the furious look in his eyes or the scowl on his face.
“What are you—?”
“We had a meeting today, or did you conveniently forget?” he snarls, stabbing a finger into my bare chest.
Bo’s touch ignites my skin, the heat sizzling though my veins and going straight to my neglected, half-hard cock. That’s when I realize I’m all but naked, wearing only a tight pair of tiny red Calvin Klein briefs.
Fuck. I can’t let Bo see me sporting a hard-on for him.
“Do you mind if I get dressed?” I ask, turning my back on him before he can respond. I hurry up the stairs, Bo’s shoes clanging on the metal steps behind me.
Thankfully Bo doesn’t say a word about my near nudity or my obvious erection. I go straight through the main area to my bedroom and yank on the loosest pair of sweats I own, praying the extra fabric will hide my bulge. Bo looked so furious when I answered the door, I half expected him to begin yelling at me from the other room, but my loft remains silent. I take the opportunity to spend an extra few minutes brushing the fuzz off my teeth and running my wet hands through my sweaty bedhead. I can’t do much about the dark bruise in the middle of my forehead, so I clean up the cut with a towel and toss it on the floor.
With both palms on the vanity, I lean over and close my eyes, murmuring to myself. “Get control of yourself, Novak. If Bo sees you sprouting wood, he’ll know you’re gay, and then cleaning up your rep will be all but impossible.”
I open my eyes and stare into the mirror, loathing the man I see in the polished surface. Most people would see a handsome man, one with sculpted muscles, tattoos that cover three quarters of one arm and extend up over half of his chest and upper back, deep sapphire eyes, and light blond hair. Not me. I see a coward. A pussy who can’t tell his own father who he is. A man who can’t take control of his life and be who he wants to be. A failure.
It takes a few deep breaths to calm down enough to stop me from looking pale and a bit like someone on the verge of losing their mind. I swallow the bile burning at the back of my throat and step out into the main room.
It’s time to face a very angry Bowen Miller, which wouldn’t be so downright frightening if I didn’t want to rip his clothes off and bend him over my kitchen table, holding him down while plowing that fantastic ass.
Fuck me. This is going to be a disaster.
Oh my god.
I’m standing in Viktor Novak’s garage, ready to bust a nut in my pants. I should have known driving over here was a bad idea, but when Vik blew off my calls, sending me straight to voice mail each and every time, I was so angry I wasn’t thinking rationally. All I knew was how furious I was that Vik thought he could ignore me.
It’s my thirst for power and control in everything I do. Nobody blows me off. When I say jump, they ask how high. When I snap my fingers, they come running. The fact that Viktor fucking Novak won’t do what I tell him to makes me nearly insane with rage. Yet, if I’m honest with myself, the fact that Vik is the only one I can’t intimidate, defying me at every possible chance, really turns my crank, and that makes me even angrier.
By the time I arrive at his bizarre industrial-style house, after a dozen unanswered calls and texts, steam is practically billowing out of my ears. My entire body is rigid and tense, every muscle pulled taut, ready for a knockdown, throw-down, holy hell of an explosive argument.
Ready, that is, until six foot three inches of rock-hard hockey player answers the door, his only item of clothing an obscene pair of minuscule red briefs, which barely contain an erection so huge I’m shocked it doesn’t split the fabric in half. One look at that magnificent bulge and my brain shatters into bits of dust.
I glance back up at a pair of angry sapphire eyes. Vik must know I was slobbering over his monster dick, because when I manage to tear my eyes from his groin, I watch his cheeks and neck flush a stunning shade of crimson, glowing against his pale skin. Vik frowns and turns on his heel to stomp upstairs, forcing me to follow.
Oh my god. It just keeps getting worse.
Now I’m staring at the dimples on his lower back, placed right above the swell of a luscious round bubble butt topping a pair of thick, heavily muscled hockey thighs and defined calves as they bounce up the stairs. All of that creamy, bare flesh taunts me, untouchable even though it’s mere inches from my face. As I suspected, most of Vik’s skin is hairless except for his legs and arms, which have a sparse dusting of crisp blond hair. I’m practically drooling at the sight.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter once I’m upstairs, left alone while Vik stalked off to cover up his amazing physique. It’s both a shame and a blessing rolled together for Vik to hide all of that perfection. After adjusting my own hard dick, I huff loudly, bending over a large granite countertop that divides one huge living space in two, to lean on my elbows. Frustrated, I clutch my head in my hands, running my fingers through my hair and giving it several sharp tugs, hoping the pain will deflate my cock, which is now just about bursting out of my slacks.
“Sorry about that. I don’t usually answer the door naked.”
I jump at the sound of Vik’s voice, letting out a very unmasculine yelp. I’m almost afraid to turn around, worried Vik will detect the raw, animal lust in my eyes. After swallowing thickly, I stand up, rotating an inch at a time until I’m facing one of the hottest men I’ve ever laid eyes on. Earlier, I was too busy staring at his mouthwatering bulge, so this is the first time I notice Vik has a sleeve of colorful tattoos beginning halfway up one muscled forearm, continuing to cover part of his upper chest. Many of them are images related to hockey and others appear to be words in Cyrillic. I can see all of this because, of course, Vik only bothered to put on a low-hanging pair of gray sweats with the Vikings logo emblazoned down one leg, leaving his upper body bare.
Sweet baby Jesus.
To find out what happens next, check out Two-Man Advantage
Leigh Carman is the pen name for the M/M romances written by bestselling Contemporary romance writer, Heather C. Leigh. She lived outside Atlanta for 15 years and recently moved to Houston with her husband, 2 kids, and French bulldog. She is leaving explicit directions in her will for her friends to discreetly scatter her ashes around Fenway Park. Then they are to sit back, watch a game with a beer and a Fenway frank and have a wicked good time.