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?
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:
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