- L M Somerton
The Wyverns came into being for the Hard Riders Anthology. My story, Mantrap, introduced Rogue and Orlando along with their friends. I'm writing a series of short stories about The Wyverns and their adventures. Deathtrap is the next release and again features dominant Rogue and bratty sub Orlando. You can pre-order now from Totally Bound.
Here's a sneaky preview...
“Thank fuck. What took you so long?” Hatchet emerged from the narrow gap to the side of the massive refrigerator and glared at him.
Rogue quirked an eyebrow and gave his bald, tattooed friend a quizzical look.
“What’s the big emergency? You only came in here to make coffee. I was beginning to think you’d headed to South America to get fresh beans, you were taking so long.”
“Sarcastic fucker.” Hatchet ran a hand over his smooth skull. “The problem is that hell-spawn you call a sub…boyfriend…whatever the fuck he is. He won’t let me into the storeroom to get new filters or coffee.”
“He won’t let you…” Rogue shook his head. “Hatch, he’s half your size. You can intimidate gun runners, drug smugglers and ninety per cent of local law enforcement, but you can’t get past Orlando?” He sighed. “Where is the brat?”
“Where do you think?”
Hatchet gestured in the direction of the storeroom door on the opposite side of the kitchen. The door was open, but Rogue couldn’t see Orlando. He edged to the far side of the table and was met with the sight of a perfect ass, snugly wrapped in leather, sticking into the air. Orlando was on his knees, scrubbing the storeroom floor more vigorously than Rogue thought necessary, though the action did make the young man’s rear jiggle in quite an entertaining way. Orlando was also singing. Badly. Wires trailed from beneath tousled black hair.
Letting him use my iPod was a big mistake—even I don’t massacre Green Day that much.
Rogue glanced around the kitchen. He grinned then grabbed a spatula from the draining board. He got into a good position and planted a firm smack across Orlando’s butt. The spatula made a great snapping sound as plastic hit leather.
“What the hell! I warned you, Hatchet.” Orlando swiveled on his knees. In one hand he held a scrubbing brush, in the other a meat cleaver. “One more muddy, ape-sized boot print on my clean floor from you, you corn dog with eyebrows, and I’ll…”
The scrubbing brush flew through the air. Rogue didn’t manage to duck quickly enough and the missile caught his shoulder.
“Throw that cleaver and I’ll tie you to a chair and let Hatchet do whatever the hell he wants with you,” Rogue growled as he rubbed the sore spot.
“Oh…hey, Rogue.” Orlando finally paid some attention. He scrambled to his feet and yanked the buds from his ears. “Is there a problem?”