If you enjoy testosterone-filled tales of men getting it on, then check out this collection from the pen of award-winning author Lucy Felthouse.
From stranded soldiers to submissive virgins, sexy firemen and second chances to shifters, and even some unexpected ménage, this book has variety galore. There’s something for everyone, and will have you eager to turn just one more page.
Enjoy six steamy stories, over 46,000 words of magnificent manlove.
Please note: The stories in this anthology have been previously published.
Word count: 46,500
“This can’t be fucking right!” said Lance Corporal Michael Scott, checking his map for the umpteenth time.
“I can assure you, Scott, that it fucking is,” responded his colleague, Private Damien Stone. He nudged the other man, pointed to a place on his own map, then raised his arm and indicated a rise in the ground in the near distance. “See, that’s that long barrow, so we are in the right place.”
Looking at the barrow—one of the many on Salisbury Plain—then down at the map, and finally at his compass, Scott had to agree. “So where the fuck are they, then?”
Stone had no answer for that one. He looked up into the lightening sky, which in the distance was tinged with pink, but saw no sign of their pick-up helicopter. Straining to hear even the faintest sound of rotor blades, Stone remained silent. Hearing nothing, he shrugged. “Dunno. Perhaps we got the time wrong?”
“I hope not, otherwise they’ve gone without us!”
“Nah. We’re early, if anything. The sun’s only just coming up.”
Sighing, Scott stuffed his map and compass into a pocket and said, “Well, I guess we’d better find somewhere to shelter. I don’t like the look of that.”
The that he was talking about was an ominous-looking black cloud being buffeted in their direction by the wind, which was picking up rapidly.
“With you on that one.”
On an unspoken command, they immediately split up and started to look around for somewhere they could keep out of the wind and imminent rain. It wasn’t long before Scott shouted out, and Stone immediately turned and headed in the direction of his colleague’s voice.
When Stone arrived, Scott had already removed his backpack and dropped it into the ditch he’d found and was striding down the slope to join it. Luckily, there’d been no rain over the past few days so the ground was dry. If the coming rainstorm ended up being heavy, it was entirely possible they’d get wet arses, and much more besides, but for now at least they’d be reasonably comfortable.
Following his colleague’s example, Stone shrugged off his pack. Scott was standing with his arms out, ready to catch it. Stone tossed it, then gave a curt nod of thanks before heading into the ditch.
Once there, he spotted scrub covering a couple of sizeable rocks, meaning they would at least be able to sit down. It would have to rain pretty damn hard for the water level in the ditch to get as high as the top of the rocks, so they’d be all right until the chopper arrived.
Stone pulled out his switchblade and began hacking at the scrub to clear it away. The roots and branches were thick in places. He soon became impatient, grabbed a handful and yanked—an action he quickly regretted.
“Fuck me!” he yelled, dropping the blade and cradling his injured hand with the other one. A deep, nasty scratch, flanked by a couple of more superficial ones, striped his palm. Blood welled up.
“All right, Stone?” Scott had been so busy scanning the sky for a sign of their transport that he hadn’t seen what had happened.
“Do I fucking look all right?” Stone snapped, moving towards his backpack to get a bandage and something to clean the wound.
“Chill out, mate. It’s not exactly a landmine, is it?”
Scott’s attempt at humour—tasteless as it was—only served to inflame Stone’s temper further. He shot Scott a glare that would have turned a lesser man to stone, yet said nothing, then opened his bag to unearth the medical supplies, trying not to smear blood everywhere. It wasn’t easy.
Sighing, Scott nudged Stone out of the way. “Come on, mate. Let me get it for you.”
Muttering, Stone allowed his colleague to retrieve the kit. His hand was still bleeding, though not as freely. A glance up at the sky told him they were still completely alone on the plain. Where the hell was the fucking helicopter?
“I enjoyed seeing Ms. Felthouse tackle men in uniform to intimidating shifters. Each of these stories are panty moistening goodness… Surprisingly, for each of these tales, they are well developed and end in a satisfying conclusion… The one consistent theme is the hawt erotic scenes. In every single one, the chemistry between the men is smoking. This erotic collection is recommended to mm readers who enjoy sampling every dish or ask for seconds.” The Romance Reviews