Blurb

Love can be dangerous!  Valentin Bychkov, rising star of contemporary Russian ballet, appears to have everything: wealth, talent, success, and a face and body to match. Not that anyone can get close. Bypass the entourage and there’s still Valentin’s sharp tongue and acerbic wit to deal with. He may give his body freely, but his emotions are kept tightly locked away.  Max Farley’s life is a simple one. All he’s interested in is work, drinking, and picking up the latest in a long line of one-night stands. The way he chooses to live may not be to everyone’s taste but it suits him down to the ground. He’s never met anyone who’s made him want to confront the demons from his past. Until now.  A show in London brings the two together. Lust brings them closer still. But if rumors of Bratva connections turn out to be true, then dangerous men wait in the wings. One dangerous man in particular, who’s used to people following his orders without question.  Difficult choices need to be made on both sides. Valentin and Max need to stop playing with fire and let each other go, or face the consequences. But letting go isn’t that easy where love is concerned.  And some things are worth the risk.  Warning: This book contains a snarky ballet dancer with an aversion to clothes, a little too much wall sex and an overabundance of Russian heavies.

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I propped the door open a few inches before lounging back in the chair, aiming for a look of relaxed languor. I shifted my robe to the side slightly, ensuring there was an ample amount of thigh on display, the tanned skin dark against the whiteness of the robe. And then I waited. I didn’t have to wait long, the knock sounding at the door, even though it was clearly open, less than a minute later. Apparently, even a Max who was pissed still had manners. I schooled my face. I might be looking forward to seeing him, but it wouldn’t pay to let him know that. “Come in.”

The door burst open to reveal a glowering Max. His gaze swept briefly around the suite before settling on me, his expression turning even stormier. I cocked my head to the side and studied him as his long legs made short work of the space between us, the door slamming shut in his wake. He halted a few paces away, his eyes dropping to the generous portion of bare skin I’d left on display before dragging his eyes back to my face. I arched an eyebrow in a deliberately infuriating fashion and waited for him to speak first.

He shook his head. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

I gave the question some thought. Despite the fact that niggling him would definitely appear in my top five list of fun things to do and it was a really bad idea for him to stay, I didn’t want to push him to the point where he actually left. Therefore, I needed to find the right balance between the two. “I think I am a man who picked up the phone and offered an invitation.”

Max raked his hand through his hair, leaving it looking delightfully rumpled. It reminded me of the way he’d looked on the first day I’d met him. “An invitation? It didn’t sound like an invitation to me. It sounded more like a demand.”

I waved a hand lazily down the length of his body. “Yet here you are. And I’m so flattered that you chose me over alcohol.”

His nostrils flared. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You have a drinking problem… or you’re on your way to having one. I haven’t quite decided which yet.” The words weren’t designed to provoke. I was stating a fact. During the last two weeks, he’d turned up to work looking like crap and smelling of booze more often than he hadn’t. The only reason nobody had complained was that it didn’t seem to stop him from doing his job. Apart from the error with my music on the first day, he hadn’t put a foot wrong.

He let out a humorless laugh. “You’re unbelievable! Do you know that?”

I chose to deliberately misunderstand him. “Thank you.” I gestured to the empty chair arranged diagonally to mine. “Have a seat.”

His eyes dropped to my thigh again. “I’m not staying. I just came to tell you what you could do with your demand.”

I shifted so that the robe fell open a few more inches, the belt barely holding it closed. “You came all this way to tell me to otva li.”

His jaw tensed. “What does that mean? You know I don’t speak Russian.”

I smiled. “It means fuck off, whereas to fuck would be ebat. I would rather we ebat’sya than you otva li.”

 

 

H.L Day grew up in the North of England. As a child she was an avid reader, spending lots of time at the local library or escaping into the imaginary worlds created by the books she read. Her grandmother first introduced her to the genre of romance novels, as a teenager, and all the steamy sex they entailed. Naughty Grandma! Romance novels were forgotten for a while when real life got in the way: university, clubbing, work, moving to London, and more work. When life settled down (slightly) H.L Day stumbled upon the world of m/m romance. She remained content to read other people’s books for a while, before deciding to give it a go herself. Now, she’s a teacher by day and a writer by night. Actually, that’s not quite true—she’s a teacher by day, procrastinates about writing at night and writes in the school holidays, when she’s not continuing to procrastinate. After all, there’s books to read, places to go, people to see, the gym to visit, films to watch. So many things to do—so few hours to do it in. Every now and again, she musters enough self-discipline to actually get some words onto paper—sometimes they even make sense and are in the right order.

 

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