Copper Script

by K.J. Charles

Lord above, that man needed relief. He clearly wasn’t joyless—if he hadn’t been playing along by the end, Joel would eat his hat—but talk about self-control, a thing Joel respected more in the breach than the observance.

“No, wait.” “What?” “Well—finish your drink. That’s decent Scotch.” “Shame to waste it,” Joel agreed automatically. It tasted like most Scotch to him, which was to say burning leaf mulch, but he settled back and sipped at it.

It was absurd. You couldn’t get hot for handwriting. And yet he had, a response deep in the flesh, squeezing his lungs and tightening his groin. He’d sunk into the hand and felt all that discomfort and self-control to the point of pain and those bottled-up longings, and he’d wanted nothing more than to pop the writer’s cork.

May I say I’m grateful?” “No. I don’t want your gratitude, your thanks, or your obligation,” Joel said. “I simply want wholehearted admiration of my courage, integrity, and intelligence, which can be demonstrated by a good shagging at any time.”