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CHAPTER 1

"Garrick, I'm freezing! Can we please go back inside now?"

Tristan's pleading was falling on deaf ears. He knew that repeating himself would be useless. When Garrick was in one of his painting trances, there would be no shifting him. Tristan sighed in frustration. As much as he adored Garrick, there were times that his lover could be the most infuriating man on the planet.

Tristan shifted his position slightly and succeeded in gaining some attention.

"How many times do I have to tell you to keep still, Tristan? You fidget like a four-year-old." Tristan watched with amusement as his lover's expression went through a progression from annoyed to affectionate to mildly sheepish guilt. "Sorry, I'm doing it again aren't I? I can't help it — you look so fucking hot. Five more minutes, then we can go. I promise."

Tristan rolled his deep brown eyes dubiously. He doubted that Garrick would ever be able to stop being so demanding when he painted. It was a part of who he was.

Tristan considered what an outsider would see if someone were to come upon the two of them unexpectedly. It was early October and the woods around Faversham Park were vibrant with a riot of colour. Every shade of gold, orange, red and yellow competed for prevalence in the canopy above them. There was little warmth in the autumn sun, but the light flickered through the trees, turning leaves to glowing jewels all around.

Beneath Tristan's bare — and very cold — feet, a thick carpet of dark green moss skirted the spreading trunk of the ancient oak he was positioned alongside. His long, slim legs were encased in soft, antique brown leather trousers, which sat low enough on his hips that the initials 'G.B.', branded just above the bone, could clearly be seen. He was naked from the waist up, pale skin taut across the toned muscles of his slender frame. His nipples felt tight and hard from the cold, and were aching a little in a way that he thought might be pleasantly relieved by a warm tongue and soft lips.

He shivered, not solely from the cold, and focused on Garrick's dark, tumbling waves and sculpted cheekbones. He was so gorgeous that Tristan could almost forget the wide leather collar Garrick had locked around his neck. Almost, but not quite — it was just too uncomfortable. About three inches wide, it was very stiff, forcing him to keep his head up. The small gold padlock that held it closed rested on his skin, just heavy enough to ensure that he could not ignore its presence. His dark brown, copper-streaked hair stirred in the breeze as he rested his weight against the gnarled bark of the tree and steeled himself for a longer wait.

When they had come out that morning, he'd been wearing a loose, cream cotton shirt that Garrick had chosen for him. Then he'd asked Tristan to unbutton it while he'd paced around looking for the right angle to paint from, and finally he'd said, "It's no good. Take it off. The image will work much better that way."

"Don't try and pretend that this wasn't always your intention, Garrick. I can see right through you," Tristan had objected.

Garrick had just given him an evil grin and held out his hand for the shirt. Tristan had been shivering ever since.

Finally, Garrick put down his brush and straightened up. "Okay. That's enough for today." Tristan waited expectantly as his beautiful boyfriend crunched through the fallen leaves towards him and gathered him into his arms. "If you didn't look so beautiful, I wouldn't get quite so absorbed."

Garrick handed him his shirt and a warm pullover, then turned to pack his kit away.

"So the fact that I've been freezing my butt off for hours is all my fault?" Tristan rolled his eyes, dressed quickly and went to help. "I'm soaking in a hot bath when we get back. I'm frozen."

Garrick twitched one eyebrow slightly. "Is that an invitation?"

"Maybe. Now, can you please unlock this collar? It's bloody uncomfortable."

"No."

"What do you mean, 'no'?"

"Does that really need translation? I want you to keep it on for a while. It looks amazing."

Tristan opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again. Arguing with Garrick over something like this was a pointless exercise in frustration. Thank God they had no house guests. At least there was no one else around to witness his humiliation.

As soon as they had got back to the house, Tristan headed to the main bathroom, one of the real luxuries that Marcus Balen had installed when he'd bought the place. The huge marble tub was sunk into the floor. It had a heavy brass mixer tap on one side and a showerhead the size of a dinner plate hanging above it.

Tristan turned the taps fully on and poured a generous amount of bath oil into the flow. Steam rose, clouding the air, and a light vanilla scent filled the room. Tristan began to strip off his clothes as the door opened behind him. Garrick was only wearing his black jeans and they were hanging open at the front. Tristan averted his eyes and turned his back. Garrick never wore underwear, and Tristan didn't want to give him any encouragement by looking interested. He slipped off the leather trousers and stood in his undershorts, waiting for Garrick to speak.

"Take them off. I want to see you in that collar and nothing else."

Tristan didn't move. "I am not getting into the bath with this thing around my neck."

Garrick settled into the wicker chair in the corner of the bathroom. "Do as you're told, Tristan. Turning away from me doesn't help you. I know exactly what you're hiding."

Tristan bit his lip as Garrick's tone caused his rock-hard cock to stiffen even further. He couldn't help himself — knowing that Garrick was in the mood to play always melted any resistance he might pretend to put up. He slid his underwear down and stood still, steam coating his body with a light film of moisture. Behind him Garrick shifted in the chair and Tristan glanced over his shoulder to witness a lascivious smile. The man looked positively predatory, as if he wanted to take a bite out of him.

"Turn around." Garrick snapped out the order impatiently and Tristan obeyed, his eyes downcast and cheeks flushed.

His erection stood proudly from its bed of soft, curled hair, shimmering from the moisture in the air and the gleam of pre-cum coating its tip. He looked up shyly and caught the expression of lust that was painted on Garrick's face. His nipples hardened and the ache spread to his groin. Naked but for the leather locked around his neck, he felt deliciously vulnerable. Garrick stood, allowing his jeans to fall so that he could step out of them. His rigid cock bounced, then settled. Tristan could hardly drag his eyes away from the sight.

Two steps brought Garrick eye to eye with Tristan. He ran one hand over the collar. With his other hand, he circled Tristan's dick and squeezed firmly.

"I'll take it off now if you agree to let me put it back on after our bath, and then wear it for the rest of the day."

"And if I refuse?" Tristan pushed the words out between clenched teeth as Garrick began to slide his hand up and down, painfully slowly.

"Then it stays on anyway, bath or no bath."

"That's no choice, Garrick! Take the fucking thing off."

That got him a hard slap across his damp ass. "I love it when you get feisty, but it's not going to get you anywhere, my love. Just give in gracefully." Garrick's deep, sensual voice made the hairs on the back of Tristan's neck stand up.

He growled his frustration and pushed himself against Garrick's body. "Fine. Have it your way."

"Oh, I'll definitely be having it my way, but let's warm you up properly first."

He used a tiny key to release the padlock, then unbuckled the collar. It slid free and he massaged what Tristan guessed were the red marks left behind. Tristan couldn't help but lean into the soothing touch, and a small sigh escaped his lips as Garrick moved away with a knowing smile.

Garrick stepped gracefully into the tub and sank into the water, then leaned his head back on the rim. Tristan climbed in and sat at the opposite end, enjoying the feeling of delicious warmth spreading through his cold muscles.

Garrick's eyes flickered open. "No, no. Come here." He splashed water impatiently in Tristan's direction, as his boyfriend swivelled around and shunted backwards until he could rest on Garrick's chest. "That's better."

Garrick took a large natural sponge from the side of the bath, dipped it in the water then began to rub and squeeze it over Tristan's chest, around his neck and down his back. He reached forward and pushed it softly up and down Tristan's bent legs, then wrapped it around his cock and squeezed, eliciting a groan of pleasure.

Tristan tried to ignore the slim thighs to either side of him, but as Garrick enclosed him in his arms and kissed his neck, he couldn't resist stroking the slick skin. Garrick nuzzled his neck and moaned softly as the warm, scented water swirled around them. He delved into the water and grasped Tristan's slippery cock, pulling him firmly back so that Garrick's erection slid between Tristan's cheeks. The bath oil added lubrication and after some resistance, Garrick slid inside Tristan's body with a satisfied sigh.

For a while they sat locked together, enjoying the intimate closeness. The water supported Tristan's body, and as he and Garrick breathed in unison the natural rhythm started waves that caused him to rise and fall. He could feel the warmth of the water and Garrick's heat inside him. Garrick turned the shower on and instinctively they stood under the steaming spray. Gentle movement turned to punishing thrusts as Garrick drove himself deep into Tristan's receptive passage, an arm around his waist, the other hand pumping Tristan's cock roughly. Tristan pushed back, urging him deeper, and cried out as he felt the benefit of repeated contact with his prostate. Garrick exploded inside him and at exactly the same moment his body spasmed and coated Garrick's hand with creamy warmth that the shower spray sluiced away.

After they'd shared a lingering kiss, Garrick poured shampoo into his hand and lovingly washed Tristan's mop of hair before turning to allow Tristan to return the favour. There was something intensely intimate about this simple act, and as he massaged foamy lather into Garrick's long, dark locks, Tristan felt the depth of their love. He couldn't imagine Garrick allowing anyone else to do this for him, and that made him feel very special.

"Hey, dreamer!" Garrick's deep voice broke into his reverie. "How about a towel?"

Tristan suddenly realised that the shower was off and a warm, fluffy towel was already wrapped around his own shoulders.

"Sorry! I was just ..."

"I know you were." Garrick smiled and Tristan melted all over again. One smile and he was lost, blushing like a schoolboy with a crush. He reached for another towel and used it to pull Garrick towards him until they were close enough to touch.

"I love you so much," Tristan whispered shyly.

"I should bloody well hope so." Garrick grabbed his discarded jeans and headed for the door, then paused once he'd opened it. "I love you too."

Early that evening, Tristan was in the kitchen preparing dinner. Every so often he liked to cook, even though they were well catered for by the housekeeper. Garrick was hopeless with anything more complicated than a salad, but he loved to eat the meals that Tristan prepared.

Tristan was experimenting with a seafood lasagne, creamed spinach and garlic ciabatta, and the kitchen was full of delicious aromas. Merlin, Garrick's enormous black cat, was paying detailed attention to the preparations from the vantage point of a nearby chair, and had already been rewarded with some prawn scraps. His purr was a deep rumble that vibrated through the air, and he radiated contentment.

Garrick slipped into the room and sat down, putting his feet up on the chair next to him. Merlin affected disinterest for a few seconds, then strolled up Garrick's legs as if they were a footbridge to his lap, where he immediately curled into a purring mound.

"You're putting on weight, furball. Tristan's been spoiling you again, hasn't he?"

Garrick stroked him with an absentminded air, then fixed Tristan with his pale green gaze. "How would you feel about having a few houseguests next weekend?"

Tristan shrugged. "It's fine with me. Who are we talking about?"

"That's the problem. Frankie and three other friends from London have invited themselves down. I can get rid of them if that's going to make you uncomfortable."

Frankie was Garrick's biggest fan and just wouldn't accept that he was off the market. In his eyes, Tristan was a minor and temporary inconvenience, nothing more.

"Perhaps seeing us together for a couple of days will get him off your back. Let them come — we can poison them with fresh air and exercise!"

"You are a lot more tolerant than I am. If he was constantly chasing you I'd be bloody furious."

"You get mad if the postman talks to me — and he's married with three kids." Tristan smiled affectionately.

Garrick scowled at the teasing. He openly admitted that he was ridiculously possessive when it came to Tristan and he clearly had no intention of changing. He manhandled Merlin off his lap and stood. "I'll go down to the cellar and get some wine."

As he disappeared, Tristan gave the cat a conspiratorial grin, threw him another prawn and went back to his cooking.

* * *

Garrick muttered under his breath as he walked down the flagged basement corridor to the cellar door. He could quite happily have skipped dinner, dragged Tristan upstairs and given him a thorough lesson in respect. However, that could wait. The meal looked fantastic and he loved it when Tristan cooked for him. A nice bottle of chilled white wine would complement it well, and he wanted Tristan relaxed enough to agree to putting that collar back on. Garrick would never force him if he really protested, but Christ, he was unbelievably sexy with it around his neck.

The cellar door was low and arched, with a heavy iron latch. He lifted it up and pushed the door open. It creaked dramatically and would have made a great prop in one of those haunted house movies. Garrick winced at the thought — he'd had enough of ghosts to last a lifetime.

Cool air from the cellar washed over him, and he peered down into the gloom. There was a torch on a ledge inside the door because there were no lights down below, and it was pitch black. The beam split the darkness, lighting up ancient wooden shelving, as he descended the stone staircase. Rows of dusty bottles sat cradled in their racks, and he picked his way carefully between them. Younger whites were, inconveniently, right at the back and he ran the torch up and down the shelf so that he could read the labels.

He was just reaching for a bottle when there was a resounding crash from the direction of the stairs as the cellar door slammed shut.

Garrick dropped the torch in shock and it went out, leaving him in absolute blackness. He dropped to his knees to grope around on the ground and banged his head on the corner of the shelving. He cursed when a trickle of warm blood slid into his eye. As he scrubbed at the stickiness a scratching noise sounded from the other side of the room and every muscle in his body froze.

They'd never had a problem with mice or rats at Faversham — Merlin's voracious appetite saw to that — and this sounded bigger, anyway. His hand brushed the torch and he snatched it up, leaning against the wall as he fought to get it back on. The scratching was getting closer and closer. His heart was pounding and his imagination conjuring all kinds of wild images. Why wouldn't the fucking torch work?

The noise suddenly stopped, but the silence was even more unnerving. There was a rush of air and Garrick yelled in pain as claws raked his chest. He lifted his arms to protect his face and the torch came on, flooding the cellar with light.

There was nothing there. Nothing. Garrick grabbed a random bottle and ran for the stairs. He yanked the door open and lurched out into the passage, then leaned against the cool wall, breathing heavily.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." He slammed the door shut and tried to calm down with a few deep breaths. There was a mottled old mirror farther along the passage, and he went to check out the damage to his face. A wild-eyed reflection stared back at him. There was a small cut above his eyebrow and a dried rivulet of blood leading from it. His chest was on fire, but when he plucked up the courage to look down at the damage, his shirt and skin were intact. He could feel every inch of the slashes but there was nothing there. What frightened him most, though, was the sudden flash of blue that lit up his eyes in the reflection.

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Excerpted from "Black Dog"
by .
Copyright © 2012 L.M. Somerton.
Excerpted by permission of Totally Entwined Group Limited.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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