It’s the last day in our celebrations for the upcoming release of Lickety Split by Damon Suede. Today we have an EXCLUSIVE Excerpt from Lickety Split. Go check out today’s post and don’t forget it’s your last chance to enter the not-to-be-missed giveaway.
We would also like to thank the lovely and very charming Damon Suede for the pleasure of his company this week, and all that’s left to be said is;
Go pre-order Lickety Split NOW!
EXCLUSIVE Excerpt from Lickety Split
by Damon Suede
As we wrap up this amazing Lickety Split week, I want to thank the entire team at Sinfully and all their visitors for making me feel so welcome in the buildup to my release. Y’all have made the last five days such a joy and I’m truly grateful.
Also, if you want a chance to get your hands TODAY, three days before it drops, you can still enter the Rafflecopter below. I’m giving away several ecopies of the book tonight and also one signed print copy as soon as I have one in hand to autograph and send to you.
Now… for the last weekday before the book comes out, I thought y’all might like to see a spicy excerpt from the book itself. Even if you haven’t seen the blurb, I think you’ll still follow it; think wary cowboys and pining and forbidden lust and rope and enemies to lovers and May/December in East Texas… This scene is more voyeurism than full-n bone dance, but I think it’ll give you a pretty good sense of where the book will take you.
In this excerpt from Chapter Two, Patch Hastle considers going out to hook up in Beaumont on his second night back at the family farm, but instead sneaks over one last time to spy on Tucker Biggs, his dad’s bigoted rodeo buddy, his oldest enemy and scariest fantasy.
The lantern made the house into a ghostly echo of itself. Too much regret. Twenty-plus years of bullshit since before Patch had come home from the hospital.
He kept expecting his father’s shouting, thumps on the table, or his mama muttering passive-aggressive church blab at him to make him sit still, act right, hush up. He had half a mind to burn this place down just to sweep it all away.
Instead he had a glass of warm vodka. Who needs TV? His boredom and memories rose up till they felt like terror.
He’d go for a drive. Hell, Beaumont had gay bars, and Grindr worked out here—maybe he could find himself some willing bohunk to rope and ride. One thing about Texas: it offered hot-n-cold running rednecks and cowboys on tap in every flavor, if that was your kink. Patch didn’t DJ in towns with this many sweet farmboys, so he might as well take advantage. Like a drunk in a brewery. Wolf in the fold.
His cock shifted. He wet his lips. He knew how small towns worked. Even ugly, he could say “New York” and they’d be on their knees stuffing his joint down their throats. “Big city” meant exotic. He wasn’t afraid or gangly, not anymore. He was a city slicker now. Moving around had sanded off his awkward edges and lumps. Yeehaw. He’d get duded up, and they’d fall easy. They’d seen him on billboards and better.
Small-town boy makes bad.
Strike while the iron is hot, right? Patch peeled down to his briefs and eyed himself in the mirror, a hostage to vanity. Before he hopped in the lukewarm shower, he did push-ups and crunches to put blood in his sore muscles. The water pump outside delivered killer pressure at least. He rinsed off in the dark, not bothering with any product or cologne, ’cause out here that was for sissies. He let his hair dry and curl in loose waves. “Pussy hair,” his dad woulda said. Fuck you, old man. His agency called it “dark butterscotch” on his comp card, and they should know.
Wasting no time, Patch dug jeans and a V-neck out of his bag and toed into old sneakers from high school. He ducked outside in happy anticipation. For once he’d show the locals how—
He stalled on the steps. Why would he let just any old small-town queer to know him and blow him? No. He didn’t want none of them. Blushing, he stopped dead in the front yard. Pathetic.
No. He wanted a cowboy, a greaser, a jock, some rough sumbuck who’d toss him around and make him crazy. He wanted—
“Tucker,” he whispered. So help me.
The sky churned overhead like a storm with no clouds, no rain.
Patch looked out toward the trailer, hidden across the property behind a small break and a cowshed. He thought of Tucker kneeling in front of his zipper to love on that goofy dog and again wondered what the hell he and the other cowboys and convicts got up to out there when nobody was looking. Maybe…. Surely….
A half mile away, Tucker Biggs sat lonely in his shorts. Or not lonely, humping some waitress. Or his own hand. Or some rodeo clown, even. Not like he’d ever had any modesty, but living out here alone? No chance. He probably put on a show every night.
For a full five minutes Patch fought the impulse to just go see for himself. He’d never unsee it, and yet if he didn’t, he’d never have the chance again. In a week he’d be back in New York and he’d never see Tucker Biggs again. Thank fuck.
Before he could second-guess himself, Patch walked up the drive and turned onto the dark shoulder headed the right direction, even though he knew it was the wrong way.
Out here the county didn’t even have lights, leaving it truly pitch dark. His eyes adjusted as he walked the half mile to the pond, the trailer, and Tucker.
Like I’m thirteen.
Back then, Patch had snuck over to spy on this trailer plenty. Duh. Hot cowboy next door. He remembered hanging around the locker room for a glimpse of Coach Biggs’s perfect bare chest. Going camping and washing in the creek as slow as he dared. Or that one night he’d spotted his dad’s best friend under the barn shower, the flash of his perfect pale butt. He’d been too afraid to sneak closer. Too petrified of getting busted, but now, here, he was grown and it was just the two of them.
The trailer sat bright and still. Tinny voices, from the TV, sounded like, but nothing alive. Someone was home.
He padded along surefooted as a fox. He crossed the ditch and ducked through the split-rail fence like he was still a kid. He circled the yard slowly, coming no closer to the trailer just yet. His gaze strayed to the lit windows, ready to catch Tucker and his local skank or maybe his sleazy buddy doing something raunchy and embarrassing.
The windows spilled amber light onto the patchy front yard and its clutter. Inside, television voices rose and fell, but no overt cock show. Duh.
Patch walked on, disappointed and also somehow relieved. At this point, the notion of Tucker as a closet case would’ve been even more humiliating. Bix had gone to Kerrville. Now he remembered and felt foolish.
He walked on, keeping to the road’s unlit shoulder, ready to be inside. Then, just as he passed out of sight, a phone’s ring and movement drew his eye back to the trailer.
Tucker walked naked past both open windows. The angle hid most of his body, but the root of his fat slab of cock was visible under the dark pubes that led up a trail to fan out over his chest. Jesus, his body. His arms, his back—even with the farmer tan he looked like a statue. Tucker passed from sight, but Patch stood frozen, waiting for another chance.
Television laughter echoed. The rise and fall of Tucker’s raw, drawling bass wove through it, wordless and seductive. Why didn’t any of the small-town dumbasses in New York sound like that, look like that, feel like that?
Patch’s hands squeezed into powerless fists.
He refused to creep closer, but he stepped sideways into a stand of live oak and wiped sweat from his face. Not like he’d ever have the chance again. Minutes ticked by until he started to feel ridiculous squinting at empty windows on a double-wide. And then….
Tucker drifted back. Smiling at something and talking on the phone notched against his shoulder. He paused, and for a crazy moment, stood exposed face to knees, shadowed and splendid, in the rectangle of the window. He rubbed at his armpit, raised the hand to his face and frowned skeptically at the smell. Absently, he tugged at one tiny nipple and dropped his hand.
If possible, Tucker looked even sexier, even stronger than he had seven years ago. He wore that wear and tear like a prize buckle.
Patch crouched lower, wincing at the crack of a stick under his foot. From somewhere inside, Botchy ruffed lazily. He saw her nosing at the window screen. Shit. She’d come right to him if she got out. His heart galloped.
Tucker leaned to look out over his yard and said something to the dog. As he leaned closer, his chiseled bare body blocked the lamp glow, silhouetting him, but if anything, that made it worse. Alpha male, ready for trouble.
Patch held his breath, aware of his pulse in his ears. His cock rose into an impatient ridge inside his stupid pants. He’d never wanted anyone so much in his life.
I can’t stand him. But he knew that for a bluff. Patch refused to move.
Turning, Tucker laughed at something and rubbed the tight abdomen over the lazy thick swing. Hold your horses.
Light-headed, Patch swallowed and exhaled. Fourteen again. He knew he couldn’t be seen in the dark, but no way was he gonna get caught spying.
Tucker cracked his neck and nodded.
That ridiculous impulse to stay and spy warned him how much he needed to leave this place, like yesterday, split before he did something stupid or got himself beat. He’d seen what he wanted. He couldn’t have it. The end.
In the trailer, Tucker turned away, muscle playing across his back and shoulders, then the tight swell of his haunch before he sat, vanishing from sight.
The end. Run.
Excerpted from Lickety Split by Damon Suede
published by Dreamspinner Press
Copyright 2016. Damon Suede. All Rights Reserved
Publisher ~ Dreamspinner Press
Due for Release ~ 13th March 2017
Genre ~ Contemporary BDSM Gay Romance
Lickety Split: Love won’t wait.
Patch Hastle grew up in a hurry, ditching East Texas for NYC to make his name as a DJ and model without ever looking back. When his parents die unexpectedly, he heads home to unload the family farm ASAP and skedaddle. Except the will left Patch’s worst enemy in charge: his father’s handsome best friend who made his high school years hell.
Tucker Biggs is going nowhere. Twenty years past his rodeo days, he’s put down roots as the caretaker of the Hastle farm. He knows his buddy’s smartass son still hates his guts, but when Patch shows up growed-up, looking like sin in tight denim, Tucker turns his homecoming into a lesson about old dogs and new kinks.
Patch and Tucker fool around, but they can’t fool themselves. Once the farm’s sold, they mean to call it quits and head off to separate sunsets. With the clock ticking, the city slicker and his down-home hick get roped into each other’s life. If they’re gonna last longer than spit on a griddle, they better figure out what matters—fast.
Also by Damon Suede
Meet Damon Suede
Damon Suede grew up out-n-proud deep in the anus of right-wing America, and escaped as soon as it was legal. Though new to romance fiction, Damon has been writing for print, stage, and screen for two decades. He’s won some awards, but counts his blessings more often: his amazing friends, his demented family, his beautiful husband, his loyal fans, and his silly, stern, seductive Muse who keeps whispering in his ear, year after year. Get in touch with him at DamonSuede.com.
Advance and signed copies... an early ecopy of LICKETY SPLIT the weekend before it’s available and a signed print copy after it releases along with a pile swaggy extras.
Just in case you missed this weeks Featured Posts from Damon Suede
Monday: Day One… SWOON TIME: finding the right dirt to fall down in.
Wednesday: Day Three… Farm WORK: building Hixville and the Hastle farm for Lickety Split