Their Boy by Cara Dee
Title: Their Boy
Genre: Gay Romance
Pairing: BDSM/Daddy Kink/Age Gap
Amazon Universal: http://mybook.to/theirboy
Left all alone in the world—and in a very big house—after the loss of his parents, Kit Damien has struggled to find his place in society and in the kink community he longs to be a more active part of.
Daddy Doms Colt and Lucas have been a happy, committed couple for eight years. But two Tops need a bottom, and their quest for a Little to make their lives complete has led them to Kit’s empty doorstep.
But just as with his physical wounds, Kit’s emotional scars won’t heal overnight. Colt and Lucas must challenge him at every turn to force him to open up and let them in, to let them use their own individual methods to make him whole again. Together, the three will embark on a journey to learn about true love, growing up, the importance of sprinkles, and the rules of The Game that can make them all winners.
“Oomph.” Eyes screwed shut, I flew back a foot or two and rubbed my nose. “Sorry.” Ouch. It actually hurt. What the hell had hit my nose? I cracked one eye open, and the first thing I saw was a dog tag glinting in the light from the ceiling.
It was a freakishly tall man… A freakishly tall Colt Carter.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated. Picking up the paper towel from the floor, I avoided making eye contact and sidestepped to the trash can.
“No worries.” His voice was a low drawl that drew my gaze to his whether I wanted to or not. I swallowed hard. Seeing him up close for the first time was heaven and hell at once. He was dangerously sexy and daunting. Much older than me. Cutting features, trimmed beard, green eyes that looked too calculating for my liking.
I looked away again and fidgeted, wondering how to get past him. He was blocking the exit.
“You buy clothes just because you think they’re cool, don’t you?”
Well, they should be functional too…
I furrowed my brow, and I made the mistake of looking up once more.
He folded his arms over his chest, causing the fabric of his tee to stretch around his biceps, and nodded at my chest. “Why else would you choose a design with that jet on it?”
I glanced down at the print on my T-shirt, then up again. “The Raptor is an outstanding fighter,” I told him matter-of-factly.
He cocked a brow. With a shake of his head, he left the doorway and walked over to the urinals. “Outstandingly expensive, sure. Most of the time, they collect dust while someone else’s gotta do the work.”
What was his problem? This was a sore topic for me. We all had our hobbies, and he’d just kicked the door in to mine.
“Doesn’t erase the fact that it’s the king of the sky,” I replied.
He had his back to me where he stood, so I couldn’t see his expression. I heard his snort, though. “King of the sky,” he muttered, seemingly to himself. “Maybe not the best thing to say around F-16 pilots—you know, the real kings up there.”
I sucked in a breath. The F-16 was my favorite plane in the whole world, but this wasn’t the best place to have that conversation. I was in the way. He was relieving himself. If he wanted to chat about fighter jets anywhere else, I’d be happy to. Perhaps he was a fellow military nerd like me. I could talk about planes and tanks for ages in my online community.
“I didn’t say the Raptor was my favorite plane,” I said stubbornly. “Have a good day.”
My hand was on the door when he spoke up again.
“Which one would that be?”
I suppressed a sigh, flustered and uncomfortable. “The F-16.”
“Now that is a great thing to say around F-16 pilots.”
Okay, now he was irritating me. I was not having a discussion about fighter jets in the men’s bathroom with a man who could probably crush me like a bug.
“I’ll make sure to do that if I meet one,” I replied curtly and walked out the door.
I heard his chuckle right before the door closed behind me.
“You just did, kid.”
I froze in place and widened my eyes.
When the doorbell rang, I stuttered a curse and took a shaky breath. Great start, stuttering before I’d even opened the door. This could only get worse. I skidded out of the kitchen and ran a hand through my hair. Then I adjusted the collar on my shirt—crap, should I have put on a tie? No, this was casual. I was pretty sure. Fuck.
“Please like me,” I whispered, reaching the entryway. After wiping my hands along my thighs, I opened the door. And my heart stopped. No, no, no, no! Why was he here? Why, oh, fucking why?
I barely registered the polite smile on Lucas’s face. I was stuck on the damn fighter pilot. Colt stood there, with a freaking USAF ball cap on, and he was eating sushi from a to-go container.
My cheeks felt like they caught on fire.
Lucas snagged my attention when he removed his sunglasses, and then I was kind of trapped in his steely gray eyes.
“It’s good to see you again, Kit.” Lucas flashed that infectious smile I remembered from the munch, and I swallowed dryly.
“Y-you too,” I stammered. No, seriously, shoot me! I took a breath and stepped to the side so they could enter.
“I hope you don’t mind I brought Colt,” he replied as he passed me. “He was curious.”
I gnashed my teeth and mustered a tentative glance at Colt, who flashed me a faint smirk and chewed on a piece of sushi.
“I had to see the Raptor kid again.” His smirk widened, and he walked past me too.
I was toast. This was not what I signed up for.
I’m often stoically silent or, if the topic interests me, a chronic rambler. In other words, I can discuss writing forever and ever. Fiction, in particular. The love story—while a huge draw and constantly present—is secondary for me, because there’s so much more to writing romance fiction than just making two (or more) people fall in love and have hot sex. There’s a world to build, characters to develop, interests to create, and a topic or two to research thoroughly. Every book is a challenge for me, an opportunity to learn something new, and a puzzle to piece together. I want my characters to come to life, and the only way I know to do that is to give them substance—passions, history, goals, quirks, and strong opinions—and to let them evolve. Additionally, I want my men and women to be relatable. That means allowing room for everyday problems and, for lack of a better word, flaws. My characters will never be perfect.
Wait…this was supposed to be about me, not my writing.
I’m a writey person who loves to write. Always wanderlusting, twitterpating, kinking, and geeking. There’s time for hockey and cupcakes, too. But mostly, I just love to write.