Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Jerking Iron by Nya Rawlyns: Review, Guest Post, & More!

Jerking Iron
(Bad Boyfriends, Book 3)
by Nya Rawlyns

Genre: MM, Action/Adventure, Romance
With his business empire under fire and ready to collapse, Kane and his partners turn to unlikely sources for help.

Nick Lopez is a wounded warrior, an undercover major crimes cop caught in the crossfire when he brokers a deal between competing rival Miami crime families. When his best friend, David Black, calls him for advice, Nick sees it as an omen. Sometimes it’s better to get out of Dodge and live, so he quits the force and heads north.

Jace McClune has seen and done too much as a vice cop. His last undercover assignment was his undoing, leaving him with an intervention but no resolution. Thomas Kane has friends in high places and when he hints the mob’s fingerprints are all over the attempts to take over his businesses, the precinct brass see this as a good way for Jace to get his head on straight with a babysitting job.

Jace and Nick pair up for a simple sting operation, but they soon discover that under the layers of betrayal and lies runs the threat of a new operation—one that takes the skin trade to new levels of perversion. Neither man is prepared for the mutual attraction that simmers to a rolling boil as it becomes clear that the only way they can cut to the truth is to allow Jace to sink once more into the dangerous underbelly of the city.

They’re about to find out why a man you could not break was a man worth breaking...
Location, Location, Location
I Heart New York—the Big Apple—and all its sleaze and tease and excitement. You know the quote from Star Wars, Episode 3, where Obi-Wan and Luke stand on the cliff overlooking Mos Eisley and Obi-Wan says: You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.

What better description of the city could there possibly be?

Lucky for me I live nearby and can partake of that villainy with just a bus ride, adorned with sturdy shoes (and a certain amount of ‘tude that says “not a tourist”). I’ve prowled the canyons for years, ever the visitor, never the native. There’s white noise, a background din, the heartbeat of nine million souls, a tower of Babel. You’d be hard-pressed to hear your native tongue, the rhythms salsa’d, fluid and fast. A beat beat beat and the press of flesh, and you try to avoid the impossible, the footprint shrunk to nothing.

Concrete rises and falls, uplifting, splattered with unmentionables and you tiptoe and jig, eyes lowered at your peril.

The cop in the cop car—irritated at the cabby as his yellow vehicle turtles and approaches the corner, cautious of the mob poised to rush forward—activates the burp of a bullhorn, expletives hurled, but the cab creeps and crawls and horns screech and blare, and the cop in the cop car hurdles past and yellow makes its turn, and you all surge into the blank space left by his hesitation.

They call it Hell’s Kitchen, it’s on the map that way, but you follow your nose and on every side curry and marinara and the sweet rankness of heady scents teases forth belly growls, and saliva drools and pools, until you can bear it no longer, but the gal at the podium is haughty and inquires, nose high and disapproving. But no, there’s no reservation, so would you mind waiting outside? On the uptilted, cracked unmentionables, and you’re summarily dismissed and you grin and move on.

Cross against the red, always against, it’s a contest, a test of wills and the high notes tickle and tease. The hoity toity beckon up and down the cross streets, wrought iron rails step down into caves of gastronomic delights, but you want simple fare and the pub draws closer, and your thirst is almost too much to bear.

It’s dark, polished, mirrored, tall table’d, stool’d and narrow. A cherub greets with a saucy grin and bids you welcome, and you struggle to squeeze into your grazing allotment. She brings a tall glass of deep auburn richness and the first sip goes down smooth, chilly, and gulping it flows and fills the empty places. It’s followed with peasant fare in royal presentation, a largesse of richness, milky white, mounded and torched. Tense peaks of whipped potato shelters savory, herbed and petulant goodness. You load your fork and tongue the fullness as the harsh hail of day yields to the tease and promise of evening.

This glorious landscape is the backdrop, the pulse of Bad Boyfriends, breathing life into the good, the naughty, the nefarious who are the denizens inhabiting this world. Some call it Gotham, others call it hell, all call it home. For undercover vice cop Jace McClune, it’s etched on his skin as a reminder of his poor choices and dangerous addictions. For ex-Miami PD Nick Lopez, fresh off a confrontation between rival gangs, it’s a reminder that sometimes you can run but you can never hide.

When two strangers who’ve given up everything to protect and serve are thrown together into the underbelly of the city, the one thing they realize is that the only way they’ll survive is to have each other’s backs.

But that’s not all they’ll have…
Heat level: wipe your brow
Jace McClune has a lot to atone for and the brass found a perfect way to make him pay for his peccadillos. After sketching out a half-assed plot to deal with incursions against the escort agency and look into possible mob connections, Jace retreats for a breath of fresh air and to get away from the ex-cop giving him fits.

It’s too bad, Nick didn’t get that memo.
The baby carriage and the presumed illegal turned the corner and disappeared from sight. I looked up at Lopez, way way up. Back on the porch it hadn’t hit me how big the man was. Easily three or four inches taller than me and built like a brick shithouse. When he leaned forward, watching the woman vanish around the corner, his arm brushed mine. 
It seemed deliberate. My cock hoped it was. My cock was way too interested in tall, dark and deadly for its own good. If I’d had one more inch to scoot right, I would have. As it was, he had me pinned against the wrought iron railing, pinned good and solid. 
Good like … handcuffed to the iron filigree, yeah, that kind of good. Nick Lopez was temptation on a stick and the last thing I needed in my life right now. In fact, make that never. It was in my best interests to back away from entanglements and figure a few things out before I opened up to anyone again. 
Lopez looked down on me, a grin tickling the corners of his mouth. It was a nice mouth, pouty full, outlined with deep grooves, probably from fatigue, but not completely. The man had a few skeletons in his closet. You could see it in his eyes mostly—flat, dark to the point of black. Cop eyes. Eyes that gave nothing away. The man’s soul wasn’t there. That’s how I knew he had secrets. His eyes looked like mine when I got up the guts to look at myself in a mirror. 
I didn’t do that often. The mirror didn’t lie, and it told stories, the kind of scary shit you used to threaten kids who misbehaved. Beware of the boogey man. 
Nicolas Lopez and me … we were those boogey men. Damaged. Sent out to pasture, or given a time out in a corner. Or worse yet, handed over to a bunch of civilians in a grudge match with a competitor looking to improve the bottom line. 
Lopez might have answered while I was in la-la-land so I wiggled my butt on the concrete step and considered my next steps. 
The bastard wasn’t taking the hint. He asked, “Which one’s your car?” and scanned the street. Tilting his chin toward the left, he indicated a battered Jeep with a cloth top in dire need of replacement, and offered unnecessarily, 
“That’s mine. Just came out to get my kit.” 
“Don’t let me keep you.” 
He wasn’t moving so I stood up, using the railing to hoist my aching body into a semblance of upright. The Lieutenant had taken me to the woodshed, but the objects of my pleasures had taken a different kind of toll once we’d moved past safe words. It was a good thing nobody had made me strip or go to the doc. They wouldn’t have appreciated the artistry the brute squad had rendered on my scrawny frame. 
There was an abrupt flash of kindness in the man’s eyes and a hitch to his shoulders that indicated he recognized the masquerade. I offered a hand to help him up. He took it. 
Mistake. Big fucking mistake. It was like we’d bonded with super glue, skin-to-muscle-to-bone. Left hand to right. Holding hands. Fingers entwined. 
His thumb did a sweep on the heel on my hand, then along the wrist, circling it, the movement delicate, almost like it was in my imagination, but it wasn’t. We both stared at those hands, hands that weren’t his or mine. Hands that were ours, and … holy hell, that did not compute. 
Stepping down, he tugged at my arm. I followed, though my body screamed no, my head pounded out a rhythm of duck and run, and my cock did a happy dance in my jeans. It was the ultimate conflict, yes, no, maybe, a St. Vitus jig with me hopping to some cosmic force. 
I’d felt like a marionette enough times in my life to know when it was time to take back control. The last time I’d lost it, lost the ability to say no, to focus and come to grips with temptation, was what had led me to this stairway of shame and a big man, a thug of a man, feeling me up. 
If I’d known then what I knew now… I hadn’t just ventured out of the closet. I’d smashed the damn door into kindling. I should have put a mile between me and Nick Lopez from the get-go. Or better yet, I should have said adios and taken my badge and service revolver and told His Lordship, Lt. Homophobe, to stick it up his virgin ass.  
I’d even provide the lube.
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

JERKING IRON takes readers for a ride on the dark side.

While undercover Jace McClune discovered the world of BDSM. While the role of submission calls to the darker side of his soul, the last journey he took into subspace was with a dangerous Dom known for pushing well beyond the limits of safety.

Nick Lopez is on the run. After an assignment that nearly cost Nick his life, the request to help a friend with his flailing business couldn't have come at a better time.

Paired together to investigate the shady business practices of a rival who is threatening Bad Boyfriends' escort services, the attraction between them is instantaneous. As the case turns into a dangerous game of tiger vs. mouse, Jace and Nick will have to trust each other in order to make it through alive.

Well written, with a dramatic edge and dark plot line, JERKING IRON explores the underbelly of extreme BDSM practices and the human sex trade. With emotional characters, unexpected twists and steamy sensuality, this is one book you'll want to read with the lights on!
$1.99 at ARe for a limited time!
Nya Rawlyns is the pseudonym of a writer who cut her teeth on sports-themed romantic comedy before finding her true calling in the wilderness areas (both the urban jungles and true mountain vistas) she has visited but calls “home” in that place that counts the most: the heart. She writes M/M erotic romance because her good friends deserve to have their amazing stories told.

She has lived in the country and on a sailboat on the Chesapeake Bay, earned more than 1000 miles in competitive trail and endurance racing, and taught Political Science to unwilling freshmen. When she isn’t tending to her garden or the horses, the cats, or three pervert parakeets, she can be found day dreaming and listening to the voices in her head.
Social Media/Books: Twitter - About Me - ARe/OmniLit
Click the banner to follow the tour!

No comments:

Post a Comment