Love Is Always Write Volume 4

middle of writing a preposterously long novel, she realized she's a hell of a lot happier when the guys in her stories get together and live happily ever after. She hopes to continue the adventures of Simon and Jay, but in the meantime, her novella, Handsome Beast , a modern re-telling of Beauty and the Beast, is now available through Amazon. A short story, "Comfort and Joy" will be available in December of 2012. JJ lives and works in New York City; if she's not writing or working at her day job, she's at the barn with their four horses, out in the wilds of New Jersey. Her cats are jealous, but they've learned to live with it.
    You can visit her website or email her at [email protected] . She blogs on Tumblr and has an author page on Goodreads , too.
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HARD RIDE
    by Danni Keane

    Hot, bare-chested twink sits on a motorbike, the sunlight gleaming on his impressive six-pack.

    Dear Author,
    I like a big, hard, hot, thumpin', throbbin' monster between my legs.
    Come and ride it and tell me what you think.
    Sincerely,
    Justin

    genre: contemporary
    tags: age gap; twinks; bears; British; humor; car sex; motorbikes
    word count: 10,919
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    HARD RIDE
    by Danni Keane
    This was true love.
    The faint smell of leather, the smooth rumble of power vibrating his body, the intoxicating knowledge that this was his . The only thing that was his anymore. Since the divorce and for a long time leading up to it. She'd taken everything. His daughter, his home, his youth.
    The only thing she hadn't been able to claw from him with her perfectly manicured nails - something he'd also paid for - was his meagre pension plan. She'd thought it was no use to him. What is security worth for someone with an empty future?
    So he'd blown the lot on his dream. A BMW E30 M3. Diamond Black. Thirty-grand worth of pure classic cool. And it was worth every penny. Because when he heard the indecent purr the engine made when he put his foot to the floor, he was Nico, all round badass, motherfucking pimp. He smiled to himself. Well maybe not quite. But at least he wasn't Nick, thirty-seven-year-old divorced gay dad of a kid that hated him.
    Nick kept his eyes on the road as his fingers fumbled with the radio. Nico wouldn't turn it down. He'd pump the bass right up, cruise round the 'hood, windows down. But Nick's 'hood was suburban Surrey and he'd end up with an ASBO. Besides, he wanted to listen to something less grating. It wasn't because he was getting old. After all, it wasn't the thumping music he objected to. He even quite liked it on days like these; windows up, pounding beats competing with the pelt of rain against the windscreen. It was the inane chatter between songs he couldn't stand. He'd rather listen to the annoying squeak that accompanied each sweep of the wipers. He really needed to get them replaced.
    Nick squinted through the continuous fat raindrops exploding against the windscreen. The inadequate wipers smeared them into a wet trail which made visibility even harder. A sea of lights shimmered before his eyes, blurring into a hypnotic red haze, until his trance was broken by two bright flashes of amber. Some smart arse had switched his hazards on. Nick's foot, already on the brake in anticipation, slammed down hard. His eyes flickered up to the mirror, momentarily fixing onto the exasperating grey hairs at his temples, before a black streak filled his vision, the rider of the motorbike behind him not about to roll to a stop. The car jolted with the impact, and Nick froze in horror as the motorcyclist tumbled forwards over the handlebars, landing with a heavy thud onto the back of the car.
    The shock of adrenaline pumping through his veins kept him in his seat for a few moments, as his brain tried to decipher what had just happened: the hazard lights, the streak of black, the motorcyclist. Shit . The motorcyclist.
    Nick unbuckled his seatbelt and pulled at the door handle. A gust of wind whipped the door open.He staggered towards the back of the car to find a crowd of people already gathered there helping the motorcyclist to his feet. The man wobbled a little before patting himself down, probably running through a mental checklist of body parts. He grabbed the flame-covered helmet and yanked it off.
    It was a young guy, early twenties Nick reckoned. Good looking, trendy, with an earring, and tight, tight jeans slung low on slim hips. Young and reckless. Probably only just got the L-plates off, which might