Invited into Your Closet Excerpt

Chapter Twenty


Miranda squirms in place. I know she has a million questions and that me cancelling the sit-down with the rest of the guys has cramped some of her writing plans. It wasn’t vital to her project, but it was more information for her to work with. But this is probably the best time to address a whole pile of things because she seems open now and this is the deepest we have explored any of her questions.

“We do have anal sex. I told you that before. I usually top. That’s the way we like it. You and I have discussed lube, and now you know about our condom usage. We don’t keep the company in business, but we do have them, and neither of us has had unprotected sex with other men or suffered the worry of a broken condom in our past.”

Miranda stumbles for words, and I don’t really know how to help her. I’m not sure what she’s hunting for or missing in her mind. I resolve to ask her a question. The question. I’ve wanted to ask for ages now, but it has never seemed appropriate, and with Spencer in her life, I don’t really want more information. But she’s poked around in our sex life enough, and now it’s my turn.

“Have you ever had anal sex?”

Her brown eyes grow wide. She shifts her hip against the cupboards as she shuffles her feet to find a new position. She is completely out of her comfort zone now, and I pushed her there. I feel ruthless. I shouldn’t be picking apart her sex life, but that’s what she’s doing to ours.

“You haven’t, have you? You have no idea what it feels like or the emotions involved.”

She shakes her head, keeping her eyes low while playing with the crumbs on her plate.

I was positive she was an anal virgin. Her query about lube being needed every time gave that away. If she’s had anal sex, she would know that friction is not a friend where your ass is concerned.

“Don’t be embarrassed. A lot of women haven’t. A lot of men haven’t, either. It doesn’t say anything about you or your sex life, or your writing for that matter. It just gives me perspective. I have a better understanding of why you are so concerned with the logistics. What I don’t understand is why you would think gay sex is any different than a straight couple having sex. I’ve read some of your stuff, and although it’s far from porn, you describe it pretty well.”

She shuffles again. I was hoping she would open up to us. It would give me a much better understanding of how to help her in the future to bring her book to print. I push her once more.

“Miranda. Your writing is spectacular. That’s why it gets published. That’s why people buy it. I got through Rachel’s Highway ignoring the sex and I still couldn’t put it down.”

She exhales and squirms before looking up to me. “I… write what I think is sexy.” She shrugs. “As well as what turns me on and would make sex interesting to me. I write what I think other women would like to hear a man say to them in bed, and I make it feel like… something they don’t have or something they would like to have. Something mysterious.” Her soft voice trails off, and she fiddles with her long hair, frustrated. She pulls it into a pony in her hands, then pulls it over her shoulder, letting it fall across her chest.

“I… I also write from my imagination. I have a vivid one. I go by what I believe certain things would feel like, would look like. Smell like. Some of it I have experienced before. Most of it I haven’t, like most women. Not all women who read BDSM have experienced it. Not all women who read books about swingers are swingers. Not all women have had anal sex.

“I know what a woman finds sexy on a man, because I am a woman. My problem is I don’t know what a gay man would find sexy on a man.” She looks at Mark and back to me. “What you would want to hear in bed. What a gay man wants his lover to look like, smell like, and move like. I know it will be varied, as it is for women, but the general idea of what works for a gay man sexually is missing for me. I can figure out some of it from porn, obviously, but it’s still just an assumption. And I’m not used to writing full-on descriptive sex.

“The relationship parts I have down, and they don’t differ as much as I thought from a straight couple in love. And my characters’ lives can be as wild as I want to make them and as wild as I write for women. Not all gay men can say they’ve had a sex-filled weekend in Vegas, or sex on a beach in Morocco or with a cop or a CEO of some huge company. Gay or not, most people don’t know what it’s like to hide from a stalker, have sex in public, or skydive or drive a race car or be with a prostitute.

“But part of what I’m going to write about, most gay men have experienced, so… it makes sense that it needs to be one hundred percent authentic. Or it won’t work. The sex and intimate interactions between the men I write have to be real. It has to sound real and feel real to the person reading.” 

 I look at Mark. I know what’s flying around my head at the moment—I wouldn’t care if she watched us right now, although I’m already worked up—but I don’t think that’s what she’s pushing for. I don’t know how Mark would feel about it anyway.

“Is it that much different than a man with a woman?” Miranda lifts her hands and drops them to her thighs with a light slap as if she’s giving up on the idea of being able to do this. “I know the body parts are different, so some of the mechanics obviously are, but what’s it like for a man to be with a man? Or a woman with a woman? Is it really any different? Is my thinking and experience miles from where it needs to be?”

I hang my head. She knows I can’t answer that—we’ve talked about this. I haven’t got a clue how different a man and a woman would be. I don’t have any interest in discovering it, either. If Miranda’s looking for a lesbian viewpoint, then she needs to talk to Liv, yet I can’t offer her that. And if Miranda wants a comparison with straight, she needs to talk to Mark.

Mark shuffling from the counter catches my attention and causes me to look up.

“Come here.” He waves his hands, arms outstretched, wanting me to come to him for an embrace. As much as I’m wound as tight as a drum and could take him right here, even with my aversion to cooking surfaces, I don’t think Miranda would stand by and watch. But I so want a hug.

I push from the fridge, which I’ve been protecting for most of this conversation, and go to him. He grips my hips before I can change my mind and slides his palms around my sides and up my back, pulling me to him.

“Work with me,” he whispers, kissing my temple and giving me a tight squeeze.

I have no idea what he means, but my heart pounds in my chest in anticipation. Fuck, I would be ecstatic if Miranda’s visit ended right now. I have a burning need to be deep in Mark’s ass and turn the world off.

When Mark pulls away from me, I see Miranda’s face and she again looks uncomfortable with our show of affection.

“Miranda… smell Corbin,” Mark says boldly.

My gaze cuts to Mark, as does Miranda’s. I’m sure the look of horror on her face is mirrored on mine.

“Go ahead, do it,” Mark tells her.

What the fuck is he up to?

Miranda leaves her resting spot but hesitates before coming around the side of the island. She wrings her hands together in front of her, watching my face as she closes in on me, and I can only imagine I look as unsure as she does.

She becomes even more awkward when she comes to stand in front of me, as if she doesn’t know exactly where to smell. God, I don’t want her to jump my bones, but I hope I don’t smell like garbage, either. I’ve been cooking. I’ve been sweating. Maybe I’ll smell like wine and garlic instead.

“Right here.” Mark points to the side of my neck where it meets my shoulder ridge, and she leans in and up on her toes. I bend slightly to allow her, and I feel ridiculous doing it.

I hear her slow intake of breath, and I can feel her warmth, smell her hair. She smells nice, clean, but as usual, even though I find her beautiful, funny, smart, and great to be around, I get no wood. She could grab my balls right now and nothing would happen.

She pulls back and smiles at me shyly, looking to Mark for an answer as to why she’s smelling my body.

“What do you think?”

She shrugs, her face going redder by the second. “He smells… okay, good.”

Mark laughs, jamming his face against my neck. “No, he doesn’t…” I am about to hit him when he finishes. “He smells incredible.”

Okay. The grumble in Mark’s voice just stirred my groin, and I think I might like this game. Miranda, on the other hand, still looks tentative.

“Smell here.” Mark motions to my torso, just under my arm at my ribs, but not too close to my armpit, thank God.

Miranda looks at me before she leans in, and I stay as still as a statue, almost terrified by what she’s about to do.

She draws in another slow breath, and Mark asks, “Is it good? Is it the same?”

She pulls away, shaking her head. “Almost the same. Not as nice, but… not really bad, either,” she says like she doesn’t want to hurt my feelings.

Mark grabs my arm, lifting and drawing in the same slow breath, shaking his head. “That’s where you’re wrong. He smells even better. It’s sweat mixed with his musk and the body wash he uses.”

Mark pushes his hand up the length of my torso, resting it in my pit, and I’m beginning to feel like a lab experiment. My body is loving it, however. My groin is beginning to throb, and my once flaccid dick is hardening.

“His pits smell even better with the scent clinging to his hair, but if you don’t find the appeal in the smell of his torso, then you won’t like his pits or groin after he’s been hovering over the stove.” And he laughs. “I love it.”

Mark gives my pit hair a bit of a tug before sliding his hand across my chest. I feel his heat through my thin shirt, and he is making it very difficult to stay still.

“You see the size of my hand against his chest? That’s not the same as it is with a woman. A woman looks smaller, pint-sized under a man’s hands. She looks… breakable. If I were to grab a woman the way I grab Corbin when we make love…” Mark grabs my shoulder, digging his fingers into the blade on my back, sending a delicious signal to my ass. “I would hurt her or bruise her.” Mark’s eyes drift from my chest to Miranda’s face, and I pray he doesn’t say anything more about bruises. I don’t want her to know that I told him about Spencer’s aggression with her.

“I’ve slept with women before, Miranda. It’s the same in some very simple ways, but for the most part, it is as different as two sides of the same coin. Aggressive sex between a man and a woman is very different than aggressive sex between two men. It’s an equal power struggle between two men. Especially if they are the same size.”

Mark forces his hands over my body, thankfully never going lower than my belt, but when he steps to my side and slides around me to press his chest to my back, I realize that my dick is almost at full staff in my jeans. I wince. Embarrassing.

“From a medical point of view, our hormones are doing exactly the same thing at exactly the same time, to exactly the same body parts. Including our brains.” Mark nibbles the skin under my ear while keeping his hands on my hips, holding my ass to his groin. “Two men is a lot of testosterone in a very small space, and because of that, it produces unique feelings, emotions, and actions. What feels good to a man does not always feel good to a woman. If I were to sink my teeth into a woman’s shoulder when I climaxed, the same way I drill my teeth into Corbin’s, she would need stitches and I would be arrested.”

I wait for a demonstration of his wicked love bite when he claps my muscled shoulders, but it doesn’t come. He leaves me wanting it, almost screaming for it.

“Corbin’s body is the same as mine, can handle the same amount of stress as mine. I’ve always been attracted to men of similar build as myself, and so has Corbin. And I know why. We want our power to be matched in bed, our bodies equal. It makes the wrestle better and the struggle to achieve climax more intense. Don’t get me wrong. We can be soft. Passionate. Gentle with each other. And at certain times you have to be, but part of it is always the power, the strength involved in the sex.

“The fact that Corbin is ripped adds to my satisfaction in bed. I love touching him.” Mark moves his hands from my shoulders and seductively winds them down my chest to palm my abdomen, then tugs at my T-shirt at the waist of my jeans, adding to the fire in my groin.

 “The fact that he’s got as nice of a body as I do just turns my crank. He’s hung, and any man will tell you it’s important in a lover.” 

I wince, embarrassed from his audacious praise.

“Most women will say that, too.” Mark kisses my neck and inhales my scent, and I can feel the bulge of his hard cock pushing against my ass now. “But studies show most women would prefer more width than length. I guess feeling it in your tonsils is not as important as feeling a man stretch you. Men like things just as large as women do, Miranda. It makes us know our partner is there, right where we want them. And we can feel them long after they’re gone.”

My groin explodes as Mark slips around my body to face me again, our lips almost touching. His teasing has pushed me beyond what I can stand. My dick powers against my tight jeans, and I could cry from the pressure of the zipper. I am unquestionably getting a piece of Mark’s ass tonight. He basically announced it. 

“Corbin’s lips are warm. Full. Just like a woman’s can be. But what he can do with those lips is more incredible, more powerful, more aggressive, and I can offer him the same back. Kissing a woman is different than kissing a man.”

Mark lowers his lips closer to mine, but he pauses before they touch. When he lashes my bottom lip with his tongue, it’s all I can stand. We fuck or this stops.

He parts his lips as his breathing speeds. His eyes beg me to make a move while his grip continues to dig into my hips to keep me against him. His dick bumps against mine, and I don’t know if I can hold back. I want to for Miranda’s sake, but for myself, I want every bit of the power Mark spoke of. He hit the nail on the head. All of it. Everything he explained to Miranda was true.

“Kiss me,” Mark whispers. “Kiss me and let her see what’s between us. The soft and the hard.”

I’m left huffing against his lips, my tongue twitching in my mouth, wanting to be let loose. Not to achieve the sweet, soft peck Miranda witnessed when Mark arrived home from work, but to experience the uninhibited clash of mouths that happens when we’re jacked up. The recklessness that becomes our lovemaking. 

I centre myself. Too much testosterone, as Mark said. It clouds our brains, and we become the idiots women talk about all the time.

“I’m sorry, Miranda,” I whisper against Mark’s lips. “This has gotten way out of hand.” I can’t break my eyes away from Mark’s. The intensity and the arousal matches mine. He’s as hungry for me as I am for him. He’s become just as unhinged.

I peck Mark’s lips and bump my straining erection against his before sadistically pulling away.

“That’s all the show, Miranda. You don’t want to watch us get each other off, and I have an aversion to cooking surfaces anyway.” I laugh in an attempt to lighten the tense mood and find my head, and she laughs with me.

“Kitchens turn me off, too.” She sounds embarrassed, choked up, and rattled, but I can only focus on Mark, the feral smell of him and his arousal. I’d bet money he’s leaking in his briefs.

I keep my eyes from Miranda’s face and cover the last of the torte with cling wrap. Keeping my hips shielded by the counter, I move around the kitchen to start coffee. I wish she would go, for no other reason than to let us continue what Mark started, but if she leaves now it will look like she’s running, so I know she will stay put.

“Sorry. As Corbin said, that got a little out of hand. No harm, no foul. What do you take in your coffee?” Mark asks her, smiling at me as if pleased with himself.

“Um, milk and sugar.”

“What other questions do you have?” Mark asks. He knows he’s spooked her.

“How about why you guys aren’t married?” she asks, changing the subject, and I’m happy that she does move on.

Mark shakes his head. “We’ve never wanted to be.”

I sigh to myself because it’s not entirely true. I could be persuaded if I had a willing boyfriend, but I know I don’t, so I leave the topic alone anytime it enters my head.



As I merge onto the highway, my brain is spinning in a million directions with too much information and too many images arriving in my mind. My imagination is working overtime, and for me and the way my brain works, it is almost debilitating.

Vivid mental imagery they called it in a psych class I took in university. I’ve never had imaginary friends or heard voices in my head. I’ve never had a problem discerning what is real and what’s not—it’s just invasive mental images that well up from my subconscious with such power that in some instances it can shut down the rest of my body. And I’m hanging on the edge of that now.

When it gets this strong, I get the capability of having emotion intertwined with the images.

I recall pictures we were shown for a safety training when I had a summer job in a factory that made rolled vinyl for the automotive industry. The pictures were of scalpings caused when an individual’s hair became caught in a machine. The pictures were gruesome, bloody, and almost unbelievable. While a number of the other student hires were grossed out, what I experienced from the pictures was worse. What I got was the emotion behind the trauma, the sensation as well as the pain. I could almost feel what it would have been like. It’s why I have always been successful with my writing. It’s as if many of the things I imagine are happening right in front of me with the ability to freeze-frame it for closer inspection and analysis. Which is also why I stick to writing gushy romances. Anything too dark and twisted would have me in the psych ward.

However, tonight, there was no need to imagine anything. No need to freeze-frame it, either. It was playing out in front of me like a slow, sultry dance. No hiding the double erections. No hiding the other signs of arousal in either of the men. No hiding the deep, burning desire to get naked and busy.

I experienced Corbin’s desire to shove his tongue down Mark’s throat. I could imagine it happening, feel it happening—graphically. I could sense the overwhelming want snaking across their skin. I’m sure had I not been there, they would have ripped each other apart.

Vivid mental imagery, creative imagery, or creative visualization disorder—whatever they want to call it, I got it. A blessing and a curse rolled into one formidable ball of emotion, colour, sensation, smell, and sound.

My biggest problem is that as much as I can imagine the two guys having sex, I’m not sure if I can convey those feelings and images in a way to draw those same feelings from my readers. I don’t know if my writing of the sex will measure up to the ideal I have in my head for my final product. And it’s causing me to doubt my ability to write in this genre again, as well as worry what I will look like after this is through.

When Mark spoke about rough sex, those thoughts, so delicately voiced, stirred my own muddled thoughts about what happened with Spencer in the closet. The sex was unnerving, but it pushed boundaries of what I was comfortable with and gave me a sense of liberation. However, I didn’t like the bump or how I felt after or the vibe coming off Spencer.

I grip the wheel, twisting my hands to the point of pain to keep the sexy images of Spencer, and of Mark and Corbin, from swamping me. This kind of thing needs to happen in front of my computer, not when I’m driving. I feel totally awake, yet a heavy sense of exhaustion tugs at my body.

I look at the time: 11:40. I should stop at Spencer’s, stay the night and talk with him. It would cut more than thirty minutes off my long drive to Niagara-on-the-lake and settle more of my brain, but I know I have to get home for my dog.

I roll down the window for fresh air and blare the radio to dull my thoughts.