A New Amsterdam Free Read by Kelly Wyre

“The Raquelle Christmas”

Ties in with Winter’s Knight



Strength bellied by slenderness and perfect manicuring slid around Shea’s wrist and held him in place more effectively than shackles. Shea Ollivander bowed his head.

“All right,” Shea whispered. “I’ll stay, Luke.”

Shea turned toward the rival, companion, protector, and eventually the friend of Shea’s life. Prince Luke had terrified everyone they’d known, either through the reputation of his corrupt father, Mayor Hendrick Gray, or through his own determined quest for power.

But not a shred of that perilous, imperious beauty remained in the man huddled between crisp thousand-count sheets, in a palatial apartment crowning the Northern Spire of Magellan Circle: an unthinking gift from an unloving father for a son who wanted nothing to do with him. Magnificent, richly appointed, and enormous, the living space was perfect for a single man who entertained for political reasons.

And lonely. Compared to the warm chaos of his parents’ farmhouse and a family who loved their gay son, this place, for all its wealth, seemed so lonely to Shea. Sighing, Shea sat on the edge of acres of bed, running his free hand through his crew-cut hair.

“Lie down, Luke,” he commanded gently, and was all the more surprised when Lucian, who ordered everyone else around, did as told. Lucian’s midnight hair spilled over white pillows, exhaustion-bruised eyes flickered, and Lucian’s features were cold, sharp enough to be chiseled from ice.

Longing rose in Shea to touch Lucian, but habit stayed the impulse. Shea had loved Lucian since fourth grade, but hiding it was second nature after watching Lucian successfully seduce prom queens, beauty pageant participants, and bad girls. The garbled story of the dramatic death of a
cross-dressing prostitute who called himself Raquelle seemed unreal. Perhaps a beautiful boy who acted like a girl could capture Lucian’s heart. Shea had no illusions about being the kind of beauty Lucian wanted, even on Christmas, such a gift seemed impossible.

Gently, Shea tucked Lucian in. Shea took his watch and glasses off one-handed, setting them on the nightstand, before toeing his shoes off onto the Persian rug. Lifting the covers, Shea swung in, expecting warmth, but found Lucian trembling with cold.

“Luke, sweetheart.” Shea slid against cool cloth, and, without thinking, embraced Lucian.

To his shock and dismay, Lucian started to cry.

In all the twenty-some years they had known each other, Shea had never known Lucian to cry: not broken relationships, not a snapped femur, nor batterings by his father had ever squeezed a single tear from Lucian Gray. A warm trickle tickled Shea’s throat, and he pulled Lucian closer, smelling cheap whiskey, the sourness of consequence, stale sweat, but underlying it all was
the rich pure scent of Lucian.

“I… f-failed… Shea…” Lucian stammered between sobs. “He died, and I c-couldn’t do a-anything…”

Firmly reminding his body that he was comforting a friend, Shea cradled the grieving Lucian and held the one man he truly loved through the long night.


Winter’s Knight by H.J. Raine & Kelly Wyre

Lucian shoved aside prickly hedge branches and walked into a small clearing. A large oak stood on the far side, and the topiary blocked the breeze on three sides and opened onto a view of the golf course. A stone bench stood between the tree and Lucian, and Shea sat hunched forward on it, the amber light of a cigarette glowing between bare fingers.


Approaching carefully so he didn’t slip on the slick pavers, Lucian counted the handful of stars above the halogen glow of the lights over the fifteenth hole. He blew fog in a long sigh and sat next to Shea, who said nothing. Lucian shivered, the chill of the bench seeping through to numb ass and legs. He inched closer to Shea, who glanced at Lucian with the same unfamiliar, unreadable mask Lucian’d seen Shea don at Leaf.


“Thought you quit,” Lucian whispered, not wanting to disturb the peace with real volume. He plucked the cig from Shea’s grasp and sucked a sweet, deep drag of nicotine nirvana.


“Never knew you’d started,” Shea said, bemusement replacing the empty expression.


Smoke swirled, and Lucian crossed his legs toward Shea. Their shoulders brushed, and Lucian thrilled at how this casual touch out of a million others was different. “One does all sorts of things in the name of self-management.”


“Yup.” Shea stole the cigarette back, thick fingers brushing Lucian’s slender ones, and the coal glowed bright before he slumped, running one hand through his hair. “All kindsa things. Rubbin’ worry stones, chewin’ on pencil stubs, rerollin’ fag ends, drinkin’ tequila by the case, heck… studyin’ applied mathematics and game theory, somethin’ big enough to make my brain beg for mercy.”


Lucian nodded in the seconds it took to follow all the examples and find Shea’s train of thought. There were usually several running on tracks that didn’t necessarily converge. “Find anything that worked to keep you in line?” he asked.


“Buryin’ the thought six feet deep and runnin’ over the grave site with a John Deere 6D, but you… it’s… oh Lord.” Shea took another drag and ground the stub out under his heel. “You were nice to me in there. It’s fuckin’ frightenin’.”


“I hope it’s not such a change,” Lucian muttered, still deciphering Shea Speak. He didn’t dare hope that Shea’s nebulous references to needing distraction from something impossible that Shea wanted had anything to do with him. Lucian’s ego liked the idea, but his better sense and experience scoffed. After all, what in the world could Lucian provide that no one else could for Shea?


And he denied the calm voice in the back of his mind that pointed out that if Shea was Lucian’s reason for living, the reverse wasn’t entirely impossible. It also said something about the fact that if Lucian had kept his feelings to himself for years, the only other person alive who might be as skilled at doing that would be Shea. Lucian wished Shea hadn’t stubbed out the cigarette.


“You whispering to me is a helluva change,” Shea drawled. “Especially when we used to shout insults across the Debate Team floor, or get by Mr. Miller’s club restrictions with a low mutter of name calling while playing speed chess, or, I still remember the time we were in that fuckin’ City-wide Spelling Bee.” Lucian chuckled, and Shea joined in. “The looks during the final round when we had to screw up twice to be called out. We went eight rounds with all the other kids’ parents wantin’ to kill us both, and, God, how they screamed when you decided you weren’t going for State after you won. I’ll remember how to spell ‘promiscuous’ and ‘sacrilegious’ to the end of my days.”


Lucian laughed outright. “As will I.” His hand moved in slow motion, stroked the rough nap of Shea’s jacket sleeve. “As will I,” he repeated, so quietly that there was barely a tendril of breath as evidence.


Shea shivered. “You like this…” He shook his head in disbelief. “I’ve seen you pull this act with so many others, shining every lumen of your attention on them so that they catch fire for you and only you. It’s like watching a cold winter star gleaming bright, and everyone gathering to the miracle.”


Lucian didn’t answer, unsure of what to say or what any of this meant or if the meaning mattered as much as the saying. Shea didn’t sound beleaguered like he often did when recounting their childhood rivalries, and he didn’t sound accusatory like he usually did when talking about Lucian’s conquests. Irritated, exasperated, maybe a hint of jealous — those were all normal emotions in the course of this kind of conversation.


Instead, Shea sounded small, confused, maybe lost. Like a man who woke up from a dream in a stranger’s bed and was both terrified and thrilled to be there. Lucian wanted the good and none of the bad, and with his heart thudding in his chest, he shifted until he was pressed against Shea, thigh to shoulder. “Keep speaking like this, and I’m going to start thinking the idea of you and me isn’t new to you, either, sweet Shea.”


“And if you keep saying that damned nickname without the condescension, I’ll…” Shea swallowed.


“Let me touch you more than I am, perhaps?” Lucian asked in his lowest, silkiest voice. His cock stirred, and desire drowned most of his higher brain functions. Lucian leaned until he could smell Shea’s aftershave. “I can be slow for you.” Lucian paused. “I could be many things for you that I’m normally not.” The click of Shea’s throat was audible. “So maybe you’ll let me start with your hair?”


“M-my hair?” Shea stammered.


Lucian recognized the effort for equilibrium and enjoyed that Shea had to try and find it. “Yes. I’d love to know what it feels like.”


“Oh. I keep forgetting to cut it, and the boys give me shit about that, but…” Shea tilted toward Lucian. “Sure? Go ahead.”


“Thank you,” Lucian said and stood so fast that Shea started to tip and righted himself.




Lucian nudged Shea’s knees wider and stepped between them, his waist level with Shea’s head. When Shea started to draw away, Lucian chose that moment to slide all ten fingers from Shea’s cheeks to temples and into thick curls. Shea gasped, broad chest arching and eyes widening.




Get your copy of Winter’s Knight on Torquere Press or Amazon:








Kelly Wyre & H.J. Raine- The New Deal

At the time of this post, the links were not active to the book. No cover available at this time.


Rough denim rubbed against Maxwell Clark’s lips, and he mouthed the hardening cock he could feel beneath the fabric. Clark kept his hands behind his back at his lover’s instruction, grip digging into the flesh above his elbows. Fingers raked through Clark’s hair and tightened in warning. The professor didn’t actually say stop, however, and Clark dragged teeth along the thick line straining the front of Daniel Germain’s jeans.

Buttons popped and clattered to the floor as Daniel ripped open his dress shirt. “Damnit, Clark, when I asked you to wait for me on your knees, this isn’t quite what I had in mind.”

Clark chuckled, and Daniel groaned as Clark dug deeper, the jeans growing damp. Daniel tugged again at Clark’s hair, twisting just the way Clark liked. “Though I do love your sense of initiative,” Daniel murmured, and he let go of Clark to rip apart his cuffs.

“Just keeping myself occupied in full service capacity, Sir,” Clark said around a smile, while Daniel impatiently shrugged out of confining work clothes. Clark had lost his shirt, shoes, and socks on the way up the stairs after the dinner that had led to a brief negotiation of the games that would serve as a damned fine dessert. He expected his pants would follow in short order, and impatience swirled beneath the knowledge of protocols to observe and procedures to follow. Daniel didn’t like to wander too far from the outlined beating path.

Still, it didn’t hurt to hurry some of the details along, and Daniel wasn’t exactly complaining. Clark caught the tongue of Daniel’s belt between his teeth and yanked it to the side to undo it. Warm hands fell to Clark’s shoulders, and Daniel’s legs spread for balance. “You do have a talented mouth, love,” Daniel said. “Finish and then stand for me.”




Get your copy of “The New Deal” at Torquere Press or Amazon:







Kelly Wyre & H.J. Raine-Excerpt: Shot in the Dark

Situated conspicuously under a spotlight in almost the dead center of the room was a man in a floor-length dark duster and a hat. A black cowboy hat, in fact, with silver banding that caught the light. Ellis whistled to himself in astonishment and admiration, and dodged his way across the busy floor.


Clark had his back to Ellis and was shaking hands with a man in a waistcoat and slacks. “Yeah, I know, I know,” Clark was saying, turning. “Meeting somebody.”


“Lucky kid,” the man remarked. Clark laughed, caught sight of Ellis, and his expression changed into predatory recognition. Beneath the long coat, Clark wore a pair of black pants with a dull sheen that were so snug they left absolutely nothing to the imagination. They were tucked into combat boots that came up to mid-calf. He wore a chain belt with a huge silver buckle, and his upper torso was bare except for a black harness with flat silver studs that criss-crossed his sternum.


“Enjoy,” the man said, and Clark clapped him on the shoulder before strolling to Ellis in long strides.


Ellis considered falling on his knees right then and there. “Sarge,” he said, instead, and couldn’t help but compare Clark’s splendor to his own camo pants, dress boots, and t-shirt. “I…. wow…”


“Was just thinking the same thing,” Clark replied, eying Ellis from face to feet and back again. He tipped the brim of his hat with a boyish grin. “Howdy?”


Ellis smiled, instantly put at ease by Clark, even in these surroundings. “Hey. Yeah. You do that right.” Ellis sighed happily. “And look better’n I’d ever dreamed with that harness thing.” He reached out and hesitated just before touching one black leather strap.


“Thank you.” Clark caught Ellis’ hand, squeezed it, and lowered it without letting go. “Still up for this?”


Ellis met Clark’s eyes. “Yes, Sarge. Want it bad.”




Get your copy of Shot in the Dark at Torquere Press or Amazon








Kelly Wyre & H.J. Raine bring us: Excerpt: Hearts Under Fire

Gay? Clark blinked. Of course Clark was gay. The bartender went still for a moment — a leftover from training that taught him that moving when confused or startled could get one killed. He replayed the conversation, forced the bullshit bits about his eye and the past away from his thoughts, and finally caught up to the rumor business.

Under normal circumstances, Clark thought he might be more upset that somebody got him off his game — even for a split second or two. But some weird additional heat was mixing in with the desire to get this man alone in a dark room and learn what his skin tasted like.

“Oh? Do you?” Clark said as he leaned back in and brushed his thumb over the back Daniel’s right hand. “I’ve acquired a taste for it myself.”

“Have you, now?” Daniel asked. He caught the wandering hand with his left and tried to turn it over. The lightness of Clark’s skin against the darkness of Daniel’s hand fascinated Clark, and want stirred in Clark’s bloodstream and groin like some grinning cat poised over a cornered mouse. Clark hummed and pressed his thumb into Daniel’s palm for a light squeeze with a hint of very short nail. Clark relented and let the other man move his hand as he liked.

“I guess I’ve had a taste for it ever since I remember,” Daniel said. He spread Clark’s fingers on the bar and traced the life and health lines as if divining things from Clark’s skin. “That is part of my trepidation over the wedding. They’ve never physically beaten me up about it, just tried to get me to date more girls.”

Clark found it was harder than it had any right to be for him to follow Daniel’s words instead of the trails of fire igniting on Clark’s skin. Mentally, he chastised himself for getting so worked up. Then he chastised himself for chastising himself over feeling something good.

Truly, it was one long game of punch-for-punch in Clark’s head sometimes.

“‘More girls?'” Clark repeated, refusing to look away from Daniel’s face. He relaxed his arm and hand with effort. “Implying there were girls to season your taste early on?”

“Mmhm,” Daniel hummed, brushing his thumbnail against the Mound of Mars under Clark’s thumb. “Beauty is still beauty, as are intelligence and courage. Though I admit that my aunt was just beside herself when I was dating a girl who was graduating summa cum laude.”

“I’m sure,” Clark agreed, grateful for the new information to distract him from the urge to full-body flinch from the casual touches. Calculating, he rolled his fingers and stroked the underside of Daniel’s wrist. “I’m sure they’ll all be glad to see you. Sounds like the kind of family that wants you to be happy above all else.” Touch, drag, press of fingertip, and Clark’s heart beat faster.

Daniel squeezed Clark’s hand and released him. “I don’t know about happy, but they’re always there when I need them. That’s a good thing.”

Clark watched Daniel grab the beer and empty it with one last, long pull. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, struggling with an internal wrestling match that started when Daniel let go of him. He instantly regretted the loss of contact and chided himself for it. It wasn’t sudden, so Clark didn’t think he’d offended. But something was off.

“Having that kind of support is rarely a bad thing,” Clark commented, trying to sort through the Daniel-flavored consternation.

“Indeed,” Daniel said, finishing the sandwich. The furrow was back between Daniel’s brows, and Clark shook his head, bemused, before reaching to cover Daniel’s entire hand with his own.

Giving an affectionate squeeze, Clark leaned closer, playful again. “You’re thinking hard enough to make my head hurt.”

Daniel blinked and then laughed, the smile reaching the corners of his eyes. The effect took Clark’s breath away.




Get your copy of Hearts Under Fire at Torquere Press or Amazon:








“Project Unrequited” By Kelly Wyre


“Project Unrequited”

By Kelly Wyre

New Amsterdam Extra Starring Clark and Lucian



After the owners’ meeting, Maxwell Clark walked down a flight of steps into the stone corridor that encircled the underground BDSM club, Break. He didn’t make it ten paces before he heard footsteps behind him. A second later, and a faint touch grazed his elbow.

“Taking the scenic route, Clark?” Lucian Gray asked, tossing his suit jacket over one narrow shoulder.
“The Jag’s parked in the back lot. Faster this way.”
“I see. Well, good that I caught you, as I have a request.”
“You usually do,” Clark said, with a smile at the mayor’s son. Lucian was always neck-deep in intrigue, and Clark liked being in the inner circle. It gave him the chance to help the other man and sometimes to protect him.
“What a foul implication,” Lucian said with mock distaste, matching Clark’s stride.

“But accurate.”

“Perhaps,” Lucian conceded, chuckling.

“But you know I’m your man. What do you need?”

“I’d like an update on a certain personage near and dear to me,” Lucian said as they rounded a corner.

Clark glanced at Lucian, surprised. He knew exactly the personage Lucian meant. There was only one individual “near and dear” to Lucian whom the man didn’t speak to directly. “Oh? Finally making your move?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Lucian replied with just enough confusion and disdain that, for a second, even Clark doubted what he knew.

“Of course you don’t,” Clark said. His tone turned serious as he asked, “Is there trouble?”

“I’m not aware of any,” Lucian said archly. They paused next to the doors opening onto a tunnel that led to ground level.

“Then you’ll have an update on Project Unrequited by mid-week.”

Lucian put a hand into the pocket of his tailored slacks and fixed pale eyes on Clark. “There are so many more suitable uses for such a talented tongue.”

“That an offer?”

“More a casual observation.”

“Like how I’ve noticed that you’ve not made anyone cry recently?”

A thin, dark brow arched to a widow’s peak. “Nor have you.”

“True,” Clark said. “But I’m not the one with the tear quotient to fill.”

Lucian made an unkind sound, but stepped closer. “You’re every inch the dominant I am.” Lucian paused, thoughtful, and Clark braced. “Though just once I’d love to see how you play when you’re not merely putting on a show.”

Suppressing irritation, Clark held Lucian’s gaze. “Now that sounds like an offer.”

“Oh, no.” Lucian shook his head, long hair swishing. “Would never want to cross swords with you. I know my role, and the desire’s just a whim.”

Not knowing if Lucian meant that they were both doms or that they worked together, Clark shrugged. Lucian was the king of double-talk. “Like how I wish you’d tell the guy how you feel?”

Lucian’s smile was bitter frost. “Enjoy your night, Maxwell.”

“You, too, Luke.” Clark watched Lucian retrace their path, and then headed home to whiskey and sleep.


Author Bio:

Kelly Wyre enjoys reading and writing all manner of fiction, ranging from horror to romance. She used to work in advertising but is now happily chained to her writing desk and laptop. She believes she’s here to tell stories and to connect people with them. She’s written several novels, novellas, and short stories and has no plans on stopping anytime soon.

Kelly relishes the soft and cuddly and the sharp and bloody with equal amounts of enthusiasm. She’s a coffee addict, an avid movie lover, a chronic night owl, and she loves a good thunderstorm. Currently Kelly resides in the southeastern United States.

Connect with Kelly:

Twitter: @kelly_wyre


Fan Page

Tumblr (NSFW!) 

Google Plus
Amazon Author Profile

Kelly Wyre is here with a bit of Amsterdam



By Kelly Wyre

Story on a prompt: “Any of your New Amsterdam characters and a paintball.”

Starring: Clark, Daniel, Heather, Jeffrey, and Lucian




Clark stilled the terrycloth towel on the bar that marked his domain and eyed the group of men gathered around a table in the middle of Glow. Suits and summer wool and Italian silk, oh my. Clark whistled to himself, noticing and rather enjoying it when Heather flanked his right and Jeffrey his left. There was a certain amount of safety in numbers, and Clark was sure neither of his employees was above using him as a human shield.

“You know you’re gonna die, right?” Heather muttered, ostensibly putting dirty dishes in the sink.

“Nah,” Clark replied, mouth barely moving. His target was approaching the optimal position.

“He hasn’t yet,” Jeffrey put in, resting on his elbows and not even bothering to appear otherwise busy. It was an hour until last call, and most of the patrons were gone, except, of course, the ones doing dirty business on neutral territory.

“Preternatural good luck does not last forever.” Heather crossed arms over her polka-dotted corset and red mesh shirt.

“True,” Jeffrey conceded. They watched several of the stuffy men stand, shake hands, and head for the exit. Three men remained, however, like the sitting ducks they were.

“And should this night be so fortuitous, I call dibs on Clark’s personal liquor cabinet,” Heather said.

“Fine. I get the leather goods.” Jeffrey picked up a pen off the bar and started doodling on a coaster.

“I want the Jag.

“No way!” Jeffrey cried.

“You can’t even drive a stick,” Heather pointed out, exasperated and fascinated by what Clark imagined had to be his audacity and bravery, and not, say, his sheer masochistic death wish.

Jeffrey’s grin would do the devil proud. “Then I get Daniel. And the professor’s stick.”

“Children, as amusing and comforting as it is knowing where all my worldly possessions will go after I leave this mortal plane, do a man a solid and shut up so I can calculate trajectories.” Clark retrieved his weapon from beneath the bar, loaded the ammunition, and waited. The target glanced over one shoulder, not suspecting a thing. “And by the way?” Clark muttered, taking aim when presented a bulls eye of spine and shoulder blades. “Nobody touches the good professor’s gearshift but me.

“Spoilsport.” Jeffrey replied, but in a hushed whisper. He gaped and gasped as Clark pulled back the slingshot’s band and let the paint ball fly. It hit the immaculate Lucian Edward Gray’s back with precision accuracy, exploded in wet ropes, and decorated Lucian’s shirt, shiny waist-length hair, and both Lucian’s mammoth body guards in harmless, obnoxious, neon pink. Lucian spun, reaching for a weapon no longer in its shoulder holster. Clark was crazy, but not stupid. Aaron and Cale were in on the gag and had divested Lucian of the Colt earlier in the evening. Lucian swiped a dainty fingertip through a puddle of pink paint, stared at it, looked up to meet Clark’s eyes, and the expression of sheer, diabolical outrage was worth every single second of the potential impending beating.

“Fuckin’ awesome,” Jeffrey whispered.

“Yeah,” Clark agreed, grinning. “Now… run!”

Lucian snarled, Clark pivoted, and the chase was on through the kitchen and into the alleyway where Daniel was waiting with the car. Ken the cook casually attempted to trip Lucian with a broom, while Heather and Jeffrey cheered Clark onward, and Clark was out the rear exit, over the metal railing around the service platform, and into the Tesla with Lucian hot on his heels. Clark slammed the car door, waving to Lucian’s shaking fist of vengeance with boyish glee.

“Did we have a good time?” Daniel asked, spinning tires onto Twenty-Second Avenue in a getaway that would make Hollywood proud.

Clark collapsed in the seat, heart hammering. “Always. And you owe me a hundred bucks.”

Daniel fetched a folded bill from his front pocket with two fingers, and Clark snatched it. “Pleasure doing business with you, Sir.”

“That’ll teach him to keep you out late on a Saturday.” The sight of Daniel Germain smug and content was even better than Lucian pulling a wet-cat hissy fit.

“One can hope, Sir. One can hope.” Clark caught his breath and ran through happy mental visions of what he could look forward to in his Monday meeting with dear, vicious, vindictive Prince Luke.



Author Bio:

Kelly Wyre enjoys reading and writing all manner of fiction, ranging from horror to romance. She used to work in advertising but is now happily chained to her writing desk and laptop. She believes she’s here to tell stories and to connect people with them. She’s written several novels, novellas, and short stories and has no plans on stopping anytime soon.

Kelly relishes the soft and cuddly and the sharp and bloody with equal amounts of enthusiasm. She’s a coffee addict, an avid movie lover, a chronic night owl, and she loves a good thunderstorm. Currently Kelly resides in the southeastern United States.

Connect with Kelly:

Twitter: @kelly_wyre


Fan Page

Tumblr (NSFW!) 

Google Plus
Amazon Author Profile