Ava writes 3 things that I absolutely LOVE… Regency period, Erotic Romance with some D/s elements, and Male/Male. How can one go wrong with this combination? The answer? One can’t. 

She has generously gifted us with four yummy excerpts which I will post over the next two days. She said I didn’t have to use them all, but… Yeah, I’m using them all!

Bound by Deception
Genre: M/M BDSM Regency-set historical erotic romance
Length: Novella
Author: Ava March  www.AvaMarch.com  
Now Available at Loose Id:  http://www.loose-id.net/detail.aspx?ID=806


Lord Oliver Marsden has a secret. He’s been in love with his childhood friend for years, though Vincent’s never shown an interest in him beyond friendship. Ruggedly handsome, wealthy, and successful, Vincent is everything Oliver is not. And Vincent doesn’t prefer men.

Then Oliver discovers Vincent hires a man during his visits to a London brothel. Desperate to be with Vincent, Oliver orchestrates a deception, switching places with the brothel’s employee. When Oliver arrives at the bedchamber, he’s in for another surprise. Restraints and a leather bullwhip? Apparently Vincent isn’t as conservative as he appears.

Lord Vincent Prescot has a secret of his own. One kept locked away and only indulged once a month. But this month’s appointment is different. The mysterious man is so perfect, so beautiful in his submission, rousing protective instincts Vincent can’t deny. Yet he refuses to believe he might truly prefer men, for it could mean the end of his hopes of earning his father’s respect.
Will betrayal destroy them or will they be bound together by deception?

Publisher’s Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, BDSM theme and content, including bondage and spanking, male/male sexual practices


Rolling onto his side, Oliver reached for the top drawer of the bedside table and slid it open. The early morning sunlight seeping through the slits in the threadbare brown velvet drapes provided enough illumination for Oliver to see. But he didn’t need the light. His fingertips skimmed over the objects in the drawer, stopping when he encountered the distinctive ridges marking the veins on the shaft of the black marble dildo.

He set the dildo on the table beside the bottle of oil he hadn’t bothered to put away last night. Flicking the blanket aside, he lay back on the bed. The fire in the grate had burned out sometime during the night, but the chill April morning air did little to cool his already heated skin. He licked his palm then reached for his hard cock. It was the way he had started and ended every day for the past week, since he had last laid eyes on Vincent at White’s. His hand on his prick, stroking himself to orgasm. And after the dream he had last night…there was no way he could begin this day any differently than all the others.

That dream had been so vivid and crisp, so authentic, that when it woke him a few minutes ago, he had actually been shocked to find himself in his own bed, alone, without Vincent.

Closing his eyes, he fondled his cock as he sifted through the memories, those snippets of scenes from the dream, trying to decide where to start.

The brothel. That masculine, tidy bedchamber. Vincent, fully dressed and standing beside the large bed, arms crossed over his impressively broad chest as he appraised a naked Oliver.

Are you good at following orders? The deep cultured rumble of Vincent’s voice sounded in Oliver’s head.

 “Yes, milord,” he muttered.

I don’t recall giving you permission to touch your cock
Oliver snatched his hand to his side, left his prick resting on his lower belly. His breathing quickened. One time with Vincent and he was already addicted to the heady sense of anticipation. The added thrill of waiting, of being at another’s mercy, being forced to proceed at their pace.

Good boy. Then the hard command seeped back into his voice. Do you want me?


What do you want?

 “You. Your cock in my arse. Please, milord.”

Ah, you must be very, very good to earn that reward. First, you must show me how much you want me. Touch yourself, Oliver.

Reaching down, Oliver cupped his ballocks, dragged his palm roughly over his sac then up to his shaft. His grip firm, he picked up the familiar rhythm. He stroked the length, flicking a finger over the needy head, spreading the leaking fluid.

He ran his other hand up and down his abdomen, sweeping over the quivering muscles, pausing every now and then to deliver a hard pinch to his nipples. Lost in the decadent sensations, his head tipped back, his lips parting. He lifted his hips, rocking into each stroke. Faster and faster, his hand flew along his cock, chasing the climax teasing the edge of his mind. The muscles in his thighs trembled. His entire body drew tight. The orgasm coiled down his spine, gripped his bollocks.


Gritting his teeth, Oliver heeded the command. It hurt, in the most intense pleasurable way, to be left poised on the verge, teetering on the brink. Impatient and needy, his cock throbbed, sending heavy, quick pulses throughout his body in time to the rapid beat of his heart. He bit his lower lip, forced himself to remain still, to resist the almost unstoppable urge to touch his prick. Just one stroke. That was all it would take for him to come.

Are you ready for my cock?

“Yes, yes, please, milord.” The whispered words rushed out of Oliver’s mouth.

Then prepare yourself.

He snatched the glass bottle from the bedside table and poured a generous amount on his palm. Bending his knees, he spread his legs, feet planted on the mattress. He reached down under his thigh and oiled his entrance. Swirled his fingertips over the puckered skin then eased two of them inside. Scissoring his fingers, he stretched himself, prepared himself. His movements quick and efficient, to hold off the eminent orgasm strumming his senses. Then he coated the dildo, his hand slipping over the cool black marble. The width so substantial his fingers barely enclosed it. He had more than a few such toys in the bedside table drawer and this one most closely matched the dimensions of the real man’s cock. The crown wasn’t quite as broad and the length nearly an inch short of Vincent’s, but the shaft matched in thickness.

His arse tingled, eager and ready for that first amazing thrust. Holding the dildo by the flat circular base, he closed his eyes and waited for a moment. Let the anticipation build, let his nerves coil tighter and tighter. Sweat pricked his brow. A drop of precum leaked from his cock, dripping onto his skin. His ballocks clenched, drawing up so tightly it felt as though his testicles were trying to get inside his body.

Good boy, Oliver. Vincent’s voice was soaked in sin, low and luxurious. You want me, don’t you? Tell me.

“Yes, fuck me, Vincent, please,” Oliver said, the words hitching in his throat.

He positioned the dildo at his entrance then pushed. One long thrust, just as Vincent had done. Determined, persistent, demanding complete submission.

A wince tightened his brow, his mouth opening on a soundless cry of pleasure. He gasped for breath. Grabbed the blanket by his hip and gripped it tight. The intense stretch as his muscles worked to accommodate the intrusion caused a flush of raw heat to sweep over his skin. He shoved it deep, bottoming out, the base pressing hard against his flesh. It wasn’t quite as long as Vincent, and he craved that extra inch, the one only Vincent could provide.

Releasing the blanket, he pinched one nipple, twisting hard. Sharp sensation radiated across his chest. He arched his back and grabbed his cock, stroking furiously as he picked up a matching rhythm of hard, relentless thrusts. With each stroke, the veins along the marble shaft teased his hole, just as Vincent’s cock had done. His ballocks ached with a need to be touched. His nipples smarted, reminding him of the sweet luscious pain that was only a twist away. Damn it, he didn’t have enough hands.

“Beg for my cock. You want it, don’t you? Tell me.”

He could almost feel Vincent’s broad chest pressed against his, the heavy weight of his body, the heat from his skin, the warmth of his breath as he spoke those words into Oliver’s ear. He turned his head, searching for those firm lips, wanting to feel them against his own.

“Yes, I want you, Vincent. More…please,” he begged in broken tones.

If the real Vincent saw him now, like this — knees drawn up to his chest and ramming a big dildo in his arse…

© Ava March 2008

I need a really cold drink now!

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