It’s finally here! The big day! Kyrie and Greg’s second book is real, and it’s even got a shiny new cover!
Okay, so people who are familiar with the book before this one–Hard Act to Follow–may be wondering why there is a different cover model for Greg. The reason is the guy on Hard Act had extremely limited stock photography available. Big gorgeous gingers with facial hair aren’t too easy to come by in the stock photography world, I’m sad to say. I’d hoped to have this guy’s hair reddened a shade, but, alas, it didn’t work out. At least he’s pretty darn attractive, IMO.
Realistically, the cover model for Kyrie, while consistent and super cute, isn’t at all Kyrie. If anyone can find a stock photo of a half-black, half-Korean twink with inch-long eyelashes and miles of style, I’ll be sure to scoop it up and make sure any future reincarnations of both books have that model. I’ll probably also cyber-stalk the RL guy.
So this Greg doesn’t have red hair. Big deal. Let’s use our imaginations, shall we? 🙂
Shooting Stars Book 4
By K. Vale
Release: June 27, 2016
Publisher: Liquid Silver Books
Greg Dwyer and Kyrie Li are living the glorious couple life in New York City. Or are they? When struggling actor Kyrie lands a modeling job, he’s ecstatic to have extra cash to spend on his best-friend-turned-boyfriend.
Of course, Greg is suspicious Anders Berglund, the gorgeous and androgynous Swedish cover model the designers love to pair with Kyrie, is after his man. And maybe Kyrie encourages a growing closeness with the guy?
Greg is probably to blame if Kyrie is drawn to the openly gay and seriously beautiful Andy. With Andy, Kyrie can be himself, as loud and proud as he’s always been. But Greg’s sexuality stays firmly locked in the closest except when he’s with Kyrie’s supportive family or alone with the man he loves.
To make matters worse, Greg’s out-of-touch mom meets with financial ruin and moves in with the couple, forcing him into the closet in his own home.
Can Greg find a way to stand up to Mommy Dearest and win back a love he fought so hard to reach? He discovers the road to pride begins at home and with accepting oneself first. Otherwise, it’s just a dead-end street.
Kyrie’s amazing day was about to get a cherry on top. He opened the apartment door to the rattle of keys on the other side.
Greg’s mouth dropped open, eyes widening comically, but he spared a nervous glance for the empty hallway behind him before stepping swiftly over the threshold.
He shut the door and locked it with a snap of the deadbolt.
“Is it my birthday already?” Easing his work computer to the floor, Greg allowed the suit jacket draped over one arm to follow unceremoniously. As he loosened his tie, yanking the knot from side to side, his mahogany gaze did a similar zigzag down Kyrie’s exposed body.
“This, my love, is just one of the outfits I was given today when I went for my Spectrum Spectacular callback.”
Greg took in the full extent of Kyrie’s ensemble, what little there was of it, and his auburn brows lowered. Kyrie spun around to give him the complete picture, peeking back over his shoulder with a salacious lick of the lips. The white micro trunks and matching fishnet tank were his favorite parts of the ample cache he’d received. He’d been beyond excited for Greg to get home and see them.
“Why would they…? You got the job?” A grin broke across Greg’s face, but the disapproval was still evident as he continued to eye Kyrie’s appearance.
“I got the job! I got the job!” He grabbed Greg’s hands and pumped them up and down. “I’m modeling with Anders Berglund! Anders. Berglund! The Swedish supermodel! We’re partners for the No Black, No White shoot!”
He clasped his hands together while the rest of his body vibrated with pent-up energy. Anders Berglund was gargantuan, his gorgeous face on nearly every magazine cover in the grocery store checkout aisle. Kyrie’s fairy godmother had waved a magic wand over him, and Greg just stood there with his forehead puckered.
Greg slid his arms around Kyrie, rubbing his back as if he were cold. “So…this is what you’re gonna be wearing?”
“Maybe. Who knows? They gave us a few outfits to try on for size.”
“This is not an outfit.” Greg rubbed the holey fabric between his fingers.
Kyrie canted his head, eyebrows lifting as he delivered his best You’re kidding, right? stare. “This is only a sample. There will be all kinds of clothes at the shoot. I’m sure they’ll pick the best of the best after we’re done.”
“Won’t posing half-naked hurt your acting career?”
Kyrie scoffed, rolling his eyes. “No! Watch how many doors this opens. Just you wait.”
“And this is for what? Gay rights or…something?”
Kyrie ramped up the baleful expression. “Have you been listening to anything I’ve said for the past month? It’s not just gay. It’s everything. A campaign to call attention to all shades of the sexual identity spectrum. We gays are pretty widely accepted these days, you might be surprised to know.”
Greg’s arms stiffened around him, and Kyrie bit down on a sigh. Yes, we gays. Including you. Or maybe bi sits better, but you’ve been sticking it to a dude for almost a year and a half now. Time to officially join the not-so-straight club.
Kyrie expelled a frustrated breath after all. “It’s a phenomenal thing to be part of, never mind the sweet paycheck I’ll be pullin’ in. Never mind that I’ll be working with Anders Fucking Berglund and how much visibility I’ll get out of it.” He squeaked, elation bubbling from him despite Greg’s muted response.
“And I thought his first name was bad,” Greg groused, even as his fingers tested the thin mesh over Kyrie’s back and traveled lower.
Kyrie freely admitted he was damned stunning in the getup. All the white clothing they’d given him popped against the brown skin he’d inherited from his mother. Conversely, Anders was the fairest lad in all the land. He had pale blond hair and porcelain skin, fractured only by startlingly dark eyebrows and a couple of highly fortuitous moles rumored to have launched his career. He’d be dressed in black and guaranteed to look amazing. Together…this was going to be fucking epic.
“I thought you’d be proud of me.” Kyrie pouted, simultaneously arching his ass into Greg’s touch like a cat begging for attention.
“Of course I’m proud of you. I just worry about…well—”
“Everything?” Kyrie reached up to stroke Greg’s cheek, loving the feel of his trimmed beard and mustache combo. It could be soft, skimming over Kyrie’s nipples while Greg flicked a tongue and lit them on fire, or it could be coarse, bordering on harsh, as Greg went savage licking Kyrie’s ass and balls. Sure, that sort of thing was usually reserved for the times Greg had a few drinks on board and abandoned his inhibitions fully. But, oh God, when it happened…
Kyrie’s dick swelled thinking about Greg’s tongue swirling over his asshole. “Want me to pour you a little whiskey to help you wind down after your hard—” he squeezed Greg’s cock through his suit pants, “—day, sexy?”
Greg grunted and rocked his hips into Kyrie’s hand. “I can always use a little tension release.” His eyes, hooded, stared at Kyrie’s lips.
He parted them slowly and dragged his tongue tip across his top teeth. “I think I have one of those stress balls around here somewhere.”
Firm and fast, Greg hauled him flush against his chest and stole Kyrie’s breath. His fingers explored Kyrie’s ass crack—crude, demanding, bunching the satiny material between his cheeks before dragging lower to feather behind his nuts.
“Think I found my two favorite stress balls right here.” Greg wore a wicked grin. “Trying to hide ’em on me?”
He gathered the back of Kyrie’s tiny tight boxers, taking the wedgie to another level. He gasped and lifted on his toes. His sac was trapped, kinked up on one side of the seam almost painfully tight. Greg cupped Kyrie’s slung nuts, the touch so gentle it reminded him of ice over fire. Cool, crisp sheets after a day from hell.
Kyrie loved being the seductive bottom, igniting Greg with his teasing and flirting, backing off while he simmered. Then Kyrie would stoke him higher, feeding the inferno until Greg eventually crumbled and became the domineering top. Usually they made the game last, pushing each other’s buttons in their own drawn-out version of foreplay.
The sliver of pain slicing down Kyrie’s crack paired succulently with the throbbing wood pressed against his lower belly. All signs told him they were going straight to sudden death—no warm-up, no scrimmage, just hot, fast action. Game on.
Shooting Stars Books:
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