Artist’s Touch
The
Guild, book one (Sculptor’s Desire and Guitarist’s Wish coming soon!)
By
Kerry Adrienne
Blurb:
Every starlet wants master painter Kenon
Alavi to do her portrait…and more. But Kenon prefers firm to soft and sates his
desires with the boyfriends of the women he paints, enjoying the diversity of
many lovers but shunning any attachments.
Wallace Harte’s English degree isn’t
helping him find a job and working at a bar is the closest he’s gotten to being
the Second Coming of Faulkner. Something’s gotta give soon or he’ll be out on
the street.
Kenon zeroes in on the bartender at an art
exhibition, intending to add him to his long list of conquests, but Wally
bolts, initiating a heated game of cat and mouse. Kenon delights in the game
until he discovers what Wally is writing. Feeling betrayed, Kenon swears off
all entanglements until he reads Wally’s story and discovers true love is
sometimes between the pages and not the sheets.
Inside Scoop:
This book contains hot, sexy scenes of M/M interaction of an artistic nature.
Who knew having your portrait painted could be so hot?
A Romantica® gay erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave
EXCERPT:
By reading any further, you are stating that you are at
least 18 years of age. If you are under the age of 18, please exit this site.
An Excerpt From: ARTIST’S
TOUCH
Copyright © KERRY ADRIENNE,
2014
All Rights Reserved,
Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.
Another day, another drink for those who had dollars.
Wally slipped the candied cherry into the Manhattan and handed the glass to the
tall brunette leaning against the bar. With barely a nod, the woman slinked
away as if on skates, joining one of the clusters of patrons waiting on Kenon
Alavi’s arrival. The artist, notorious for being late, probably wouldn’t arrive
for another ten minutes at least. Light jazz floated through the air from the
ensemble set up in the far corner and spots of colored lights beamed up the
walls to the tall ceilings that arched over the studio space. This would make a
great setting for a novel, Wally mused. Too bad he didn’t have the plot to go
along with it. His creativity had hit an impasse as cliché as the proverbial
brick wall.
“Martini. Wet and stirred, no olive, no twist.” The man
put his hand on the bar and looked over his shoulder toward the gallery door.
“I’m tired of waiting. Don’t care how special Alavi thinks he is, my time’s
important too.” He tapped his fingers on the bar. “Annoying bastard. Wouldn’t
be here if my wife wasn’t so keen on having him paint her.”
Wally pulled out the glass for the martini, not speaking
to the customer. He’d been hired to make drinks, not socialize. The man was
just complaining anyway. He wasn’t really expecting a conversation, especially
from the bartender. Plus, tonight Wally had to remember all the different
highbrow cocktails. He rarely served anything but beer and frozen drinks back
at the Cellar Bar. He poured the vermouth into the sloped glass, then stirred
the concoction. As long as Mr. Alavi paid his wage, who cared when he actually
showed up? His gala, his schedule.
“Told her we could get a portrait done for a lot less but
she insists on this guy.” The finger tapping grew more vigorous. “He’s refused
her calls for two months now. Arrogant bastard.”
Wally nodded and set the drink in front of the man. Mr.
Alavi sounded like a typical snobby artist. Big surprise. “Here you go, sir.
Wet and stirred. No olive, no twist.”
“Top shelf?” the man asked, raising an eyebrow. He toyed
with the rim of the glass, running his finger around it as if he was checking
for chips.
“It’s all we serve,” Wally mumbled, wiping up a few drops
of condensation from the top of the bar. Alavi’s guests were snobby too. “Only
the best.” Bottles of fine alcohol that could pay off his student loans with
cash left over for a few months of rent. He looked out over the room of people.
Wealth and privilege as far as he could see, well, except for the musicians in
the corner. He smiled. At least they were making a living off their art. One
day he would too—if he could ever shed his writer’s block.
The man shrugged and tipped up the glass, finishing off
the cocktail in one gulp. He held the glass to the light and examined it, then
set it on the bar. “Good thing Alavi has an open bar at this reception.
Otherwise, I’d leave right now, no matter what my wife said. I’ll take another,
please. The same.” He resumed his tapping.
Wally took out a new glass and prepared the man’s drink.
The jazz music was making him sleepy. He’d much prefer something a little more
lively. Having spent the previous night out on the town dancing to a club beat
didn’t help. But he couldn’t refuse the extra money this bartending gig would
put in his pocket. He pushed the glass over to the man and tried not to yawn.
Silence hit the entire room at once, echoing off the
vaulted ceiling in thick waves. Someone gasped, then the patrons broke into
applause. Mr. Alavi had arrived. The large front doors banged closed and the
music softened.
Drink forgotten, the man strode off to join the mass of
bodies that now moved as one as they pushed toward the door where Mr. Alavi
waited to be greeted. Wally squinted to see what the excitement was but the
crowd blocked his sightline. He’d heard the artist put on quite the spectacle
and with the number of people and amount of money spent on the reception
tonight, he didn’t doubt it for a second.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea in front of Moses and a
man walked toward the grand doors that led to the open studio in the back of
the room.
Wally stared.
Mr. Alavi’s stopped to shake hands with a tall gentleman
and then moved on through the crowd. Light glinted like a beacon off the silver
brooch at his throat. Murmurs filled the room—whispers, really. Like a creature
of the night, Mr. Alavi was dressed in black from head to toe with a few flashes
of silver sparkle sprinkled here and there. God, why did all the handsome men
have to be rich and unattainable? Alavi was probably straight too. Life was
definitely not fair.
Wally reached for the two martini glasses and bumped one
over. He caught the stem of the second one just as the glass bowl shattered
against the bar. His heart pounded and blood rushed to his ears. When he looked
up, Mr. Alavi was staring at him, looking him right in the eye with a piercing
gaze and unreadable expression. Everyone in the room watched. Wally’s face
flooded with heat and sweat trickled down the back of his tuxedo shirt. Fuck.
“Sorry,” he stammered to no one in particular.
Before anyone could respond, Mr. Alavi moved in his
direction and Wally’s throat tightened. Would he fire him on the spot? He began
picking up pieces of glass and dropping them into the bar wastebasket, avoiding
Mr. Alavi’s approach. Way to go, Wally, blow your chance to earn some extra
cash. The one glass probably cost more than the night’s wages.
He bent to drop a large piece of glass into the trashcan,
still holding on to the marble bar with his free hand. He squeezed his eyes
closed. He’d get through this. Bile rushed into his throat. Why did he always
screw things up? He took a deep breath. What was the worst thing that could
happen? He’d been fired before and for worse offences.
A warm hand covered his, sending a wave of fear up his
arm. Wally stood, coming face-to-face with Mr. Alavi. Wally wanted to pull his
hand away and run but fifty wealthy snobs would stop him before he made it to
the front door and onto the New York streets. He was trapped.
“Everything okay?” Mr. Alavi asked, his voice as smooth
and dark as his slick black satin shirt.
Wally met the man’s gaze—green eyes lined in kohl, set in
warm skin that shimmered in the bar light. Black spiky hair dusted with
glitter.
Mr. Alavi squeezed his hand and Wally shivered.
“I said, is everything okay?”
“Y-y-yes,” Wally stammered. Even from over the bar, he
could tell that Mr. Alavi was tall, well over six feet. His shoulders broadened
and then tapered to trim hips. Wally’s mouth filled with saliva. The man was
hot. Even if he was about to fire him for breaking the barware.
Avoiding eye contact, Wally studied the black leather
jacket Mr. Alavi wore. It was no rental but made to slip around his body like
water, hugging the right places, with a few silver studs and spikes on one
shoulder. Designer-made, no doubt. In place of a tie, he wore a silver serpent
brooch pinned at the neck, its eyes made of tiny rubies and its forked tongue
licking out.
Wally gulped and his already-warm face burned. The man
must think he was an idiot, drooling and fumbling like a fool. The crowd had
gone back to chattering and mumbling but a few people still glared toward the
bar, probably annoyed that Wally had taken the artist’s attention away. Mr.
Alavi lifted his hand and pulled Wally farther down the bar, away from the rest
of the broken glass. The artist looked out at the crowd. Wally didn’t see the
look he gave them but anyone staring suddenly turned away and ignored the scene
at the bar. The man had the power, no question about it. This was his scene and
his alone. Wally’s pulse quickened. At least he wouldn’t be totally humiliated
by stares when Alavi fired him.
“What’s your name?” Alavi asked, squeezing Wally’s hand.
“W-w-wall…Wallace Harte, sir. I’m sorry I broke the
glass.”
He brushed away Wally’s comment with his free hand. “Ah.
An unusual name. Wally for short?”
Wally nodded and gulped down the panic in his throat.
“Call me Kenon,” the artist said, stretching out his name
in a French-sounding accent. He ran his thumb over Wally’s knuckles in a slow
circular motion and Wally closed his eyes.
The scant hairs on his arm stood erect and he hoped Kenon
couldn’t feel how damp his palm was beneath his grasp or how his pulse beat a
frantic escape rhythm. From the corner, the music started playing again and the
low murmur of the crowd drowned the silence in his ears. Deep breath.
“Thank you, sir,” Wally said. He opened his eyes and met
Kenon’s gaze. For a moment, he stared into Kenon’s green eyes, pausing to fully
examine them. Enhanced with dark eyeliner, the artist’s eyes almost glowed with
feral sparkle. Predatory. Waiting. Wally looked down, not daring to move his hand.
Mr. Alavi must be quite the lady-killer. Who wouldn’t want to be with him?
“Time to open the show, Mr. Alavi,” a gallery aide said,
sidling up to Kenon at the edge of the bar. “Everyone’s getting impatient.”
Wally had seen the aides milling around, making sure things stayed perfect. It
must cost a fortune to produce an event like this.
“This is my show. Let them wait,” Kenon growled and
clamped down on Wally’s hand.
The aide looked at Wally and smirked. “I’m sure the
bartender won’t mind talking to you after the show.” He emphasized the word
“bartender” as if it were a dirty word.
Kenon snapped his head and turned to the man. “I said I’m
busy.” This growl was louder and deeper and the aide’s eyes widened and his
shoulders tensed.
“Yes, sir,” he said and backed away, hands up.
Wally began to shake. He tried to tell himself it was
from the air-conditioning but he knew it was from a mixture of fear and longing
to be near this mysterious man. The artist must always have a rapt audience.
Despite his growling, everyone seemed to be taken in by his charm. Kenon milked
Wally’s finger in a stroking rhythm and Wally clenched his thighs together,
willing his dick to be still. Kenon was too close and it was a good thing the
bar was between them or things could get embarrassing.
“Now,” Kenon said. He tugged Wally’s hand close to his
chest, tightening his grip once again. “Lean in so I can whisper what I have to
tell you. Privacy you know.” He smiled, a tight line of control.
Wally leaned toward Kenon, drawing in a deep breath of
what was likely the most expensive cologne he’d ever smell, combined with a
fresh scent that could have been makeup or fine-milled soap. Underlying
everything was an all-male scent of danger combined with sex and power. The bar
was cold against his chest but the man’s breath was hot in his ear. “Yes?” he
asked, voice trembling. “I’m sorry I broke the glass.”
“I said I’m not worried about the glass.”
“What, then?” Wally squeaked out.
“Why are you shaking?” Kenon touched his nose to Wally’s
earlobe and Wally tensed. “Am I too close?”
“I…I…don’t know,” Wally said, his breath stuttering in
his throat. Why was he shaking? He’d not had a boyfriend in ages but had never
responded to man’s presence so strongly and so urgently before. Especially a
straight man. At least not while he was sober.
Kenon pressed closer and his warmth radiated over Wally’s
neck and face. Wally stood statue-still under the assault of heat. “I want to
see you after the show,” Kenon whispered. “Will you stay around? To…talk…”
Wally nodded. Was he in trouble?
“Goooood,” Kenon blew. “See you then.” His lips brushed
Wally’s ear and then he nipped it gently, holding on to the lobe for a second
before releasing it. Wally shuddered as heat jolted straight to his groin. Why
was Kenon flirting? Wasn’t he straight? And why was he so close? Wally squirmed
as his pants tightened and his dick disobeyed the order to stand down. The ruby
eyes of the serpent brooch glinted as Kenon pulled away.
Viper.
Just as quickly as Kenon had latched on to Wally’s hand,
he dropped it. Turning, he sauntered off as if he were strolling along a
promenade without a care. The crowd, cued into his movement, followed him
through the open doors to the main exhibit hall. Wally stared after him,
watching the people meander into the larger room where Kenon’s latest paintings
would be unveiled.
What had just happened? And why had he agreed to meet
Kenon after the show? He knew better than to tempt fate with an employer,
especially one he was so attracted to and who was so out of his league. He
always screwed things up. He adjusted himself and sighed. What did he have to
lose?
Add
Artist’s Touch to your Goodreads’ shelf HERE.
About the Author:
Kerry writes about love in
its many forms, and enjoys exploring the dynamics of relationships and the
quandaries people get themselves into. She lives in suburbia, but is making
plans to escape to the ocean and NYC, as both places hold a piece of her heart.
You can connect with Kerry
here:
You can
purchase Artist’s Touch here:
