Remember, although I've written M/M for publication, Make Me Burn will be my first solo project. I cannot begin to tell of the butterflies so please, be gentle with me ;D
It’s been months since Wes Dumont laid eyes on Jayce Santana. Since Jayce kissed him and then left town without a word. Wes tried hard to put the tattered pieces of his heart back together, but another failed relationship makes it clear he’s nowhere near over Jayce. Now Jayce is back, once again tilting Wes’ world on its axis and setting his blood boiling. All the anger and resentment doesn’t hide the hunger, but Wes has been burned before and he’s grown wary of Jayce’s intentions.
Jayce has been running, from Wes and himself, denying the future he sees in the depths of Wes’ eyes. His past still haunts him, but he’s back, ready to fight. Ready to claim Wes the way he should have. Only Wes isn’t making things easy. Both men just may go up in flames before Jayce convinces Wes he’s playing for keeps.
Wes hopped out the cab, shoulders hunched as he fished his keys out his pocket. Behind him, the driver sped off, burning rubber. He hurried up the driveway, looking forward to an evening spent in a hot bath since he had the house to himself.Even though his best friend, Ever, hadn’t officially moved in with her man, Simon, she spent most of her time over at his house. After years of it being only the two of them, Wes actually liked the peace and quiet of his suddenly mundane life.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside, flicking on the light as he kicked the door closed. “Freaking cold.” No matter how long he lived in The Windy City he’d always complain about the brick weather. “Freezing my nips off out there.”
“Is that so?”
Wes stumbled backward, crashing into the closed doorway with a stifled scream. His heart pounded like a thousand drums in his ear as he clasped a hand to his throat. “What the fuck?”
“Hello, Wes.” The tone of those two words matched the mockery in the stormy gray eyes perfectly. Seated in Wes’ favorite chair repositioned to face the front door, swathed in black, Jayce Santana watched him with a smirk on those way-too-memorable lips and a gun on his lap. His hair was longer. The scruffy beard and cut above his left eye was new, but nothing else about that cowardly bastard had changed.
Not even Wes’ body’s reaction to him.
“Get out.” His voice shook, so Wes tried again. Louder. Clearer. With more conviction. “Get the fuck out of my house, now.”
Jayce barked a laugh that didn’t reach anywhere near his eyes. “No.”
“You son of a bitch!” Wes advanced on him with angry steps. “You have no right. None. This is my house and if you don’t leave I’m calling the cops.” Six months. One fleeting taste of heaven and his body still hardened in remembrance.
Jayce leaped out the chair at the mention of the cops, stalking Wes with the gun in his hand. Wes braked, fists clenching and unclenching. He didn’t think Jayce would shoot him, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Hard, gray eyes pinned him in place and Jayce stood inches away.
His musk of heat and the hint of a woodsy cologne reached out and touched Wes in his throbbing groin.