Invited into Your Closet

By Peyton Landry

Lost in a world of sappy romance, bestselling romance author, Miranda Howarth is forced to stray from not only her innocent genre but from her comfort zone while writing what she never imagined she would – erotic gay romances with nothing hidden under the covers.
Miranda’s new love interest, criminal lawyer, Spencer Hayes, can fulfill Miranda’s wildest dreams, blanketed with the romance she covets, and he has the ideal circle of friends to provide Miranda what she requires professionally.
Introduced to Corbin Macintyre and Mark Castille, a sexy, successful gay couple, Miranda navigates a world she knows nothing about to salvage her writing career, but the couple is exactly what Miranda needs to make her romance sappy and her erotica pop.
However, Miranda’s saviors are the snag in Spencer’s strategy. His long-time friends hold every one of his secrets - secrets that will spear Corbin and Mark squarely in the heart when they are forced to choose sides as Miranda’s fairy tale unravels on the steps of their protected Victorian home.

Invited into Your Closet is a steamy work of blended m/m and m/f set in Toronto, Ontario and the Niagara Peninsula.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peyton Landry
• Release date: Nov 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781775083405

Peyton Landry

Peyton is the author of the Blurred Lines Series of blended erotic romances, mixing LGBTQ and straight love stories into one steamy book. She is married and lives in southern Ontario with her high school sweetheart, two teenagers, and two rescued cats. She enjoys writing while outside, lounging in a Muskoka chair no matter what the Canadian weather brings, and her love of Canada and hockey keeps her novel settings genuinely Canuck, and the score usually in favour of the Maple Leafs.

Book preview

Title

To Mom: You always knew.

Acknowledgments

In the grand scheme of things, a few words, no matter how beautiful, will ever express my gratitude to the many people who have pushed me through this wild ride of getting this first book out there.

Sandra Depukat, as an editor, I couldn’t have found anyone so blunt but knowledgeable in what I needed to get this done right - you killed me, but in a good way. Thank you, thank you.

To my many early beta readers, you gave me the assurance to keep moving forward with this story.

To Michael Harrison; you shared not only your mind with me while reading, but the knowledge that this story can cross so many barriers and move around the bookstore with ease.

To Linda Brewer, my biggest cheerleader. You have the biggest pom poms, the loudest voice, and the longest whip I have ever experienced. Thank you for getting me to this point with grace.

To my children; you lost ‘Mom time’ while I tackled this, and for that enormous sacrifice in life, I will be eternally grateful to both of you.

To my incredible husband of too many years to count; you spent many hours alone while I chased this uncertain dream. Thank you for giving me the quiet time need to finish this, and the unwavering confidence that I could do this. I didn’t think I could love you more… but I do.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Chapter One

Decor

Miranda Howarth

Dear Miranda,

Thank you for sending me your current work. I trust after our years of working together you’ll understand that my heavy client load and the high volume of submissions I receive means that I’m only able to give my attention to work I feel has strong merit and a distinct voice.

Having considered your most recent manuscript, I’m afraid I don’t feel it is right for me at this time. Unfortunately, you have fallen short on this one. I am accustomed to seeing better from you, Miranda—even with the weak performance of your last two novels. Please believe me when I say I know you are capable of more.

Having said that, history is pushing me to move forward with new, fresh writing, unless you can provide me something that is in the realm of your first books. That’s the quality I’m looking for from you.

I am sorry that this manuscript isn’t the one for me, and I wish you the best of luck with future work. The most I can offer you is a chance to pick from the openings in my list at this time. Last chance, Miranda.

I have holes in my list for an early-nineteenth-century psychological thriller, sci-fi with an erotic twist, male/male erotica, and paranormal (remember, it needs to be dark).

If you do solicit another literary agent, please notify me as soon as possible.

My best wishes only,

Donna Kellwood

Owner and Senior Literary Agent

The Kellwood Agency

I sink my teeth into my lip, feeling the burn. My reaction to the email displayed on the screen of my laptop is one of disbelief. The sensation I experience can only be described as anguish, and I despise the words that have triggered the cutting emotion.

That’s what I’ve been reduced to—picking from the leftovers. The scraps. An award-winning, bestselling romance author has been reduced to the ranks of the scrambling, desperate, unknown writers who are trying to find an open ear and mind for their projects. They are trying to secure what I have, or really, what I had until I opened this email.

I never imagined Donna’s response would be a complete brush-off again, accompanied with a strong push to abandon ship and look for new representation. I really felt I nailed my manuscript this time. Clearly, though, my instincts were off, and now Donna is not even interested in seeing more material or to request a rewrite.

I continue to gnaw on my lip while I reread the limited choices offered in her farewell email. It’s not much of a choice when my niche is soft, cushy romances. I can’t even imagine how an alien has sex, and I don’t do dark and twisted anything, even though Donna loves brooding and alarming writing. A romance between two men is a curious thought, albeit an uninformed one. However, I’m uncomfortable with the erotic piece.

It’s not good, Pepper. I look down at a sad-faced spaniel, whose spring has long since left her aging body. I think I’m out of a job.

Pepper’s soft whimper allows me to believe she knows what’s happening, however I know she’s merely reacting to my mood, not my words. I give her greying chin a firm scratch, brushing through her coiled black hair, and she stretches for me, loving the attention.

I’m hesitant while I dig in my desk drawer, and I produce the clean ashtray and pack of cigarettes that I’m sure are stale—untouched in my desk for two years—but the abnormal sight of polish on my fingernails stops me from retrieving the lighter. I was hoping for a red-hot night, similar to the colour blazoned on my normally nude nails, and I don’t think I will find that while smelling like cigarette smoke.

Nothing like trying to entice a man when I’m unemployed and smelling of smoke. When I get home, I’ll have the cigarette. But the idea that I will allow myself the filthy pleasure after I return causes me to examine my need for the cancer stick in the first place. It’s a reaction to what is out of my control, and a need to feel as I once did, years ago, when I was first published. How I would write my best when immersed in a smoke-filled office, white rings floating around my head as I pounded out page after page of incredible, heart-wrenching material—the stuff that bestsellers are made of. The stuff that sent my first series of four books skyrocketing and my next five novels soaring off the charts. I proved it—I wasn’t going to be a one-hit wonder in the literary world.

At least it didn’t appear I would at the time.

But I tuck my thoughts away. I tuck my frustration, my disappointment, and my tears away when I look at my watch. Plenty of time to wallow when I get back from St. Catharines. Plenty of time to smoke my face off, drink too much, cry too much, and suffer too much in the morning for letting rejection get the better of me.

Chapter Two

Decor

The exclusive bar is busier than when I was here last year. There appears to be as many men as women this time, enough to go around for every slavering, lustful femme fatale in the swanky joint.

After filling out a name tag and a name card, which is attached to a small red velvet box that will welcome the phone number of any man interested in me, I duck into the ladies’ room to avoid any conversation before the bell sounds for round one.

I check my makeup and the folds in the tight red wraparound dress that I chose for tonight, then finger-pick my long, wavy hair. I’m no stranger to speed dating. I know the look needed to attract, and I know how to make a clean exit with no awkwardness and no apologies when the night doesn’t go as planned.

I believe I’m on an even playing field in the looks department with the competition in the confines of the women’s bathroom. My breasts are not huge but are larger than most of the other women’s, so a possible asset tonight. My outfit choice is acceptable if not somewhat bold in colour and short on length, but I can’t change that now, so I try not to worry about the many things it could suggest.

I seat myself at a small table for two, one of many set out by the organisers, and I make an attempt to keep my eyes on the glass of Baco noir that is promptly set in front of me. Having asked the bartender to surprise me with something local, I focus on the bouquet of the blend and hazard a few educated guesses as to which Niagara winery it comes from.

A short, dark-haired man sitting in the chair opposite me alerts me to the fact that we are starting, so I don’t get far into my mental wine tour.

Miranda Howarth, I offer Bachelor Number One and extend my hand, careful not to knock the small ornate black-and-yellow lamp from the edge of the table.

Brandon King. He smiles a sweet if not forced smile while he plays with his name tag, sticking it to his faded green T-shirt while trying to shake my hand.

Nope, he’s not going to do it for me. I feel no immediate sexual pull and no drive to find some. And I cringe. So much for an open mind. I’ve slammed it shut already, and this shindig has only just started.

At twenty-nine, I haven’t experienced a fairy tale romance like the ones I write. I have yet to encounter a true sensual alpha male or live through the swooping in and the overwhelming emotions that occur in each one of my novels. I’ve only ever dreamed about wild sex with someone who has rock-hard, chiselled abs and a penis the size of Italy. I’ve never met a man who can produce an infinite number of erections or bring pleasure of biblical proportions to a bed. I’ve never met a larger-than-life male. I’ve never loved. But is it too much to dream? To hope? Although, my romantic writing has probably jaded my dreams somewhat, because the sensible part of my brain knows men like that don’t exist.

I blush, wondering what Brandon here would think if I told him what I write or what I dream about. I wonder if Brandon knows who I am. It reminds me that I might have to pen my next novel under a different name if I am to gain back beleaguered readers. The idea makes me nauseated.

You’re beautiful.

Um, thank you. I believe I do a good job of accepting the sweet, unexpected compliment.

My sister has a dress like that.

I pout from the odd comment and don’t really know how to take it or what to say.

Bought it at a flea market in Florida. She lives with me. But you don’t need to worry because she won’t be there much longer. She has to appear in four days for sentencing, so she could be gone awhile. I think five to ten is what she said.

Oh? I bring my elbow to the table and casually sweep my index finger back and forth across my lips to keep my mouth closed. But I feel my nose crinkle. I was right. So much for Bachelor Number One.

I sit in silence, listening to Brandon continue on about his sister, and when the time bell interrupts him midsentence, it’s a relief because I think he was about to incriminate himself. I smile again, shake his hand, and wait for the men to shift seats.

That was unquestionably the longest seven minutes of my life. And the most peculiar.

My torture persists when Bachelor Number Two and Three leave me feeling empty, if not somewhat jaded toward my possibilities for tonight—I actually miss Brandon now—so I jazz it up for the arrival of Number Four.

Miranda.

I’m Scott. You are absolutely beautiful, Miranda. It’s nice to meet you.

I shake his hand, finding the bold compliment hard to take from such an attractive man but finding his hand more difficult to manage. Clammy and rather cold, I couldn’t imagine it on my ass.

So what is it you do?

Sales and marketing for a trucking company in Niagara Falls. You?

I’m a romance author.

The noise that leaves his lips is somewhere between a chuckle and a lusty huff. Really? No joke?

No joke. I’m not amused by his reaction, and when his dark gaze finds my breasts embraced by the folds of my red dress, a prickle of irritation slides up my spine.

I’ve interested him, but I can’t shake the idea of his sweaty palms on my skin. And I don’t write autobiographies. I’m not a tornado in bed, and I haven’t done half the shit I write about. I simply have a vivid imagination and the ability to get lost in my own mind, and I know what turns my crank when it comes to the written word.

It’s mostly gay, you know, male-on-male stuff, I tell him to slow down whatever fantasy he’s weaving in his mind.

It’s abrupt when he finds my face again, leaving my breasts alone, and I think his breathing actually stops when he focuses on me.

I hate the lie, but this seven minutes will be pointless. He’s more interested in my body than my mind. The hard, kinky stuff. Sometimes many men, and the odd butt plug for good measure, cuz what guy doesn’t like a fat toy up their ass now and then.

Um… well…

I smirk at his discomfort and thank Donna for the ammunition to ward off narrow-minded men, and Brandon for the balls to be impulsive while we wait, veiled in an awkward silence, until the bell sounds. Which saves us both more horror.

Number Five arrives and I pray I won’t experience more of the same awkwardness from the blond, blue-eyed Adonis who’s now in front of me because this is what I came for. This is what I like. This is what I write. He stirs my libido immediately. He is elegantly handsome. Muscular but lean. And I bet he’s got the groove. I would put money on it.

I offer a pleasant greeting and my hand, eager to touch such a spectacular specimen of manhood. Nice to meet you. I’m Miranda Howarth.

Spencer Hayes.

And the gentleness of his grasp makes my heart flutter and my panties grow moist. I can only imagine what his soft hands would feel like on my ass. Since I can’t ask for a demonstration, simply the image in my head is a wonderful appetizer.

He’s the type of male who does it for me. Tall. Gorgeous. Masculine. If he was a little more real, a little less magazine ad, then I wouldn’t be salivating right now. As it is, the parts warming south of my navel feel pretty good. So I will take it and enjoy the erotic sensation. It’s been a while since I’ve experienced it.

Would you like a refill on your wine? he asks, pulling out the chair and sitting.

Um, no. I’m driving. Thank you, though. I wasn’t expecting the offer. It’s not commonplace for speed dating, so he’s caught me unprepared, but it’s the move of a true gentleman. It speaks to me.

This is my alpha. The one with rock-hard, chiselled abs and a penis the size of Italy—it’s just a guess, but one I hope is true. He, of course, would last many more rounds than I could ever go, and I can almost feel the hours of amazing pleasure he would bestow on me.

I snicker to myself, aware of my mental ramble but still imagining the orgasm he could give me nonetheless. It would curl my toes, and I would throb for days. I’m sure of it.

But he’s not typical speed-dating material. His form of perfect is not what usually shows at the bar. Brandon and his incarcerated sister are much more common. Plus, this is the type of man who should have been scooped up years ago. The kind of man who is never alone. It makes me cautious, but it also makes him enigmatic. Which is never a bad thing in a fairy tale.

The smile offered is gentle, tender, and seemingly honest. I wait for it—the sudden bombardment of information. But it doesn’t come. He simply leans forward, whispering, Do you really write gay erotica?

He stuns me.

Um. Y-You heard that? I stammer, scrambling to remember his name since his name tag is absent. Was it Spencer? Oh my God. Did he hear my butt-plug reference?

He grins a handsome, wide, white grin. I’m embarrassed to admit it, Miranda, but I was eavesdropping. Not to bash the lady to your right, but your conversation was much more interesting, as are you. Plus, I’ve never done this before. I didn’t want to waste a minute of my seven with you.

I stupidly laugh at his pickup line. You’re Bachelor Number Five. You should be an expert by now.

His laugh is deep and rich, throaty. Sexy. Okay. No kinks in my strategy. How about you?

I shake my head, loving the playful tease. No, I’m destined to fail. Most of what I told Bachelor Number Four was a lie. I needed to shut him down.

When I pick up a slight trace of Spencer’s scent, it makes his persona all the more arousing. I would love to kiss that dark fragrance from his smooth skin. I’d like my skin to smell like that after he’s rubbed his incredible body against mine.

Well, ask me anything. I will try not to embellish, and I will leave with my tail between my legs if you don’t beg me to put my number in your box.

I can’t help it. I laugh again, and I hate it. I loathe my wild laugh. But his mischievous comment makes me wonder again what’s between his legs. Rapture? I know I feel delight warming between mine. And the idea of his soft hands on my ass really comes alive in my mind.

Not a lot of self-confidence, huh, I scold, sharing my own humour and shaking my head, which allows my long, dark hair to sweep across my full breasts. However, his gaze doesn’t waver from mine for a peek.

I like to think that I have just enough to please. And his smile slips to something as frisky as the comment.

Okay. I will work with that, and I will attempt to be truthful as well. What is it you do?

Lawyer. Criminal. All trial.

Well, he’s polished, well groomed, with not a blond hair out of place, so he looks the part. It impresses me—and makes me worry about Brandon.

Where are you from?

Toronto originally. Barrie for a while. Now in Jordan Station.

Do you always give such abrupt answers? I raise my brow in question. I thought as a trial lawyer you would be long-winded.

He shakes his head, leaning in again, allowing me another moment to enjoy his mysterious, sensual scent. We have five and a half minutes left. I don’t want to waste them. It’s a short amount of time to impress a beautiful woman. Actually, I’d prefer if we simply moved on to something else.

I blush. And I know it, too. I would love to ask him move on to what? but I don’t dare. We don’t have much time, and I have a lot of questions. It makes this feel a little like a game show, and it’s far from boring.

Do you come from a large family?

He hesitates, looking confused by my question, but he quickly gathers himself. Three sisters, two happily married.

Local?

Ah, no. He pauses again, studying my face as if questioning why we are still sitting here, doing this. They live in Barrie.

Do you like dogs?

No problem with them. You have one? he asks while the focus of his intense blue eyes never falters from my face.

I nod. Pepper. A spaniel. She’s eleven, so she’s slow. I got her as a rescue a few years back.

He bites his lip and pauses as if he’s stumped for something to say. So, what is it you really do, Miranda?

I didn’t entirely lie, I say, nibbling my lip, wondering what his would feel like on mine. I write. I’m published, but I don’t write gay erotic novels. I write romance for women.

I watch for the understanding of what that might mean—that I’m an insecure, lonely, single woman who can’t play with herself enough.

It must be great to know your talent and creativeness is welcome and enjoyed.

It wasn’t what I was expecting from him, and I scrutinize his expression before my next disclosure because I can’t believe I’m going to share it with him.

I’m at a dead spot. Not a writer’s block, more of an end-of-the-line ultimatum…

And?

I can’t explain it, but he seems legitimately interested in my problem.

I dropped out of university after my first series of novels hit big. They were exactly what the market was looking for at the time. The next novels after the series were just as strong. The ones after that, good but slower, and my last two tanked. I’m going to lose my literary agent if I can’t produce the type of work I did a few years ago. She was suggesting I change my genre to gay erotica. Dirty, smutty—you know, change it up. But it sounded more like get lost. I laugh, even though it’s not funny.

You don’t think you can do it?

I shrug. I haven’t got the first clue about that lifestyle. I don’t know if I could make it appealing enough for anyone to purchase it. I’m a born-and-bred, picket-fence, white, middle-class, straight female who has never known a gay anything—male or female.

If you’re talented enough to get a number of your books published, then I’m sure you can translate that out of your current genre.

I shrug again despite his encouraging smile, and I keep my mouth shut this time. How the hell did we get to career counselling and motivating me out of my comfort zone? But it’s more than Donna did, and I’ve worked with her for years, which is why her rejection stung so badly.

Maybe I could help you. I know someone who’s gay.

He’s caught me unprepared again, and I become skeptical of his interest in me, his stunning looks, his pristine, grey three-piece suit, and his expensive dress shirt, all ironed and starched. Again, he’s not typical of what drops into a speed-dating night at Cleo’s. He’s not the usual type of man interested in me, either. But I realize my eyes have narrowed in my study of his appearance. I’ve never been one to keep my feelings off my face, so I fight to school my expression.

You don’t believe me, he comments, picking up on my doubt. I mean it, Miranda. I could help you. The man’s a friend. He’s openly gay and in a committed relationship. They live in Cabbagetown in Toronto. Both successful. I met him through the rock-climbing club I belong to.

The bell sounds, but he doesn’t move. The next bachelor in line steps to the side of our table and clears his throat. Still, Spencer doesn’t move. He stares at me, his stunning sky-blue eyes glued to mine as if waiting for something.

And I feel it. It’s not the little flutter that tickles your chest when you’re attracted to a man, or the one that comes with a slight flood of excitement and desire, like I had when he first sat down. This is the one that takes your breath away, the one that makes you burn and crave something more. The one that says I want to spend time with you—naked.

I hadn’t been aware of how powerfully I was feeling it until now because I was dissolving into work mode and then found myself tumbling into suspicion.

Spencer stands and taps the table with his fingertips to get my full attention, and he waits, as if hoping for something more from me. But I don’t have a clue what. And I swear I hear him mutter, Come on, want more.

I’m sure it’s my mind playing tricks, but I’m unsure because his intense gaze stays fixed with mine, muddling my brain until he finally breaks away, considerate of the woman to my left who is waiting for him.

I’m not as polite. I can’t bring myself to pull my gaze away from him to focus on the gentleman who is now seated in front of me waiting for my attention. And I already smell the new guy. His eau de toilette is nasty.

I’m Miranda, I state, not raising my hand for a handshake since I don’t want this guy’s smell on me. And there’s no reason to impress Bachelor Number Six. I’ve already found what floats my boat. And what a nice ass he has. The suit certainly flatters his masculine frame as he turns to sit at the table next to me.

When Spencer makes it clear he will not insult the woman in front of him by looking at another, I decide I should consider it noble, but I don’t like the idea of being overlooked. It’s the same with my writing. I don’t want to be forgotten.

I’m a writer, what do you do?

Nice to meet you, Miranda. I’m Paul. I’m in banking. I own a house on the brow in Hamilton. Stunning view, but my lakefront in Muskoka is better.

Oh yeah, I know the type. Look at my huge bank account because I have a small dick. Why do they always have to be like that? Insecure and hiding it with money. His money doesn’t impress me.

I’m loaded as well. I take a huge swallow of my wine, almost finishing it. I can’t believe I just said that. What the hell is wrong with me? And his smile is weak because I’ve threatened him and his masculinity.

Like I said, I’m a writer. Erotic sci-fi romance. I love it when I can make aliens go at it for hours while they bounce around the universe. My lie ends on a snort that I can’t hold back since I found it funny. I’m sure I’ve lost my marbles.

Spencer’s soft laugh to my left causes me to risk a peek. He’s laughing at something the redhead said, but his sideways glance tells me he’s heard my lie as well, and he thought it was funny, too. He’s eavesdropping again, and I love it.

Maybe you’ve read some of my work while relaxing lakefront in Muskoka?

Paul shakes his head. What are you implying?

Wow. His outburst is angry and draws the attention of those sitting around us. Spencer looks to Paul, seeming concerned, and I see his lean body tense.

The protective vibe radiating off Spencer sends a cold shiver up my spine, and my pelvis aches with the idea of it. Alpha move all the way.

Despite my enjoyment of Spencer’s hasty and unexpected need to protect me, I decide to appease Paul. I don’t know him, and I don’t want his rage to explode on me.

I wasn’t implying anything, Paul. I’m sorry.

I don’t read twisted sex or garbage romance! Excuse me.

With that, I’m left sitting alone while everyone else is paired off. God, I feel like an ass. It’s overwhelmingly embarrassing. I’ve seen women walk away, but never the man.

I hide my embarrassment of being abandoned, but Paul’s declaration that I write garbage upsets me. It takes talent to write intimate acts between people. Anyone can write wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, but what I do, what I pour onto a page has feeling, a rhythm, and a cadence to it that excites not only me as a writer, but my readers, too. Whether it involves two people or more, there is always an expectation that the romance stirs a reaction. An emotional one. A sensual one. A sexual one. It takes as much skill to write a quality romance as it does a crime thriller. Just as much planning, character development, plot, and storyline. It takes just as much skill and effort to get an agent to ask for more of your work, to see more of the novel, not just the opening fifteen pages.

I sit in silence and finish my wine, and I avoid the glances flying around the room from my sudden abandonment until the bell sounds and the men rotate. I notice Spencer look to me again, and I lower my head, wishing I could skip what’s left of this and simply move on, as he said. I should have found the confidence to ask what more was when he floated the idea. Out of character for me or not, I should have vaulted onto more when I had the chance.

Miranda, I say to Bachelor Number Seven while I watch Spencer move further away to sit with an attractive blonde.

"Shawn, but I know who you are. My ex would read you all the time. Your book jacket