Jaleel and His Three Suitors: Storybook Editions, #3

By Romeo Preminger

When Jaleel meets William, he realizes what he's been missing as a kept boy living off a wealthy, older man. But their plans to run away screech to a halt when William is wrongfully arrested in a set up engineered by a jealous ex. Now, Jaleel will stop at nothing to vindicate his true love and bring his enemies to justice, even if he has to get his hands (and other parts) dirty along the way.

An erotic romp based on "The Lady and Her Five Suitors" from The Arabian Nights.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Romeo Preminger
• Release date: Jul 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463848234

Romeo Preminger

Thanks so much for checking out my page. I go by Romeo because I'm holding down a not-so-steamy day job while writing steamy gay stories. So I have to be a bit cagey in my bio, but I do love interacting with readers. I've been fascinated by the psychology and emotionality of gay relationships ever since I had my first crush as a teenager, and I think the truth is love and attraction can be a hot mess. When two men get together, it's triumphant, transcendent, and life-affirming while also scalding, stupefying and even enraging at times. That's the kind of relationships I write about because the journey to happily-ever-after isn't all pretty, and when it comes to love stories, the more drama the better, right? I write three series that each have their own flavor and texture in addition to standalone high heat level romances. Guilty Pleasures Editions is a branded series of high octane romantic thrillers. The Arizona series is a Southern gothic set in the 1980s and 1990s. Last, Storytime Editions are retold fairytales with lots of humor and graphic sex. Otherwise, what I can say about myself is that I'm married to a great guy, and I believe in happily-ever-after. Scratch me a little, and I might tell you more!

Book preview

Chapter One

ISHALL RECOUNT to you a most delicious and naughty tale from my youth.

You must understand first, at the tender age of twenty, I was a young queen at the height of delectability living in New York, a city which has no scarcity of admirers of gorgeous, nubile types.

I had thick, curled locks of shiny, black hair and the face of an Islamic cherub. My body was slim and taut, the result of very little effort on my part in fact, and I was blessed with an exceptionally pert and well-shaped derrière, which earned me compliments far and wide. My irresistibility was a curse sometimes. In the warm weather months, I was afraid to step outside in a pair of stretch cotton shorts lest some derelict follow after me, making the filthiest of propositions.

Well, I suppose I couldn’t blame them. But it had gotten to the point where it took me ages just to walk crosstown, having to acquiesce to this and that stranger begging me to step into an alleyway to sample my wares.

Meanwhile, I had my sights set on a gentleman of a certain caliber with the means to treat me like the well-bred, tasty morsel I was. Through various sorts of networking, I earned the affections of a very successful cardiologist, and three months later, he insisted that I move in with him. He lived in quite an exclusive building on Park Avenue, and for me, at the time, location was everything.

Alas, Doug was not such a handsome catch. He was fortyish with poor skin, wide, ladylike hips, and a regrettable paunch. Furthermore, he was a man of exceeding jealousy. He insisted I forsake my friends and all forms of entertainment in which he could not take part. Thus, I bid adieu to weekday brunches, sunbathing at the park, and spur of moment trips to a notorious men’s spa I’d rather not mention by name. Forget about all-night club hopping. Doug had me home by ten o’clock on a weeknight and not much later on the weekends.

It wasn’t easy, but I found I could tolerate those flaws for a while considering the lifestyle he afforded me.

I could not abide a life without extravagance, having grown up a pretty boy in a wealthy Arab family. My father was a diplomat, and we had our family compound back home and a five-bedroom Fifth Avenue apartment in New York. He had since disinherited me due to my family’s provincial ways. The final straw had been when my mother came home early from her weekly Koran study group whilst I was entertaining a pair of promising, young basketball players from N.Y.U.. They really were the nicest of fellows, but it did not make for the best of introductions—my poor amma walking in on them with their boxers about their ankles, and me betwixt, indisposed, bent over our French serpentine sofa. We’d only just gotten started on me coaching the two on their double team defensive penetration.

Well, it was my sixteenth birthday, and how was I to know the woman who hosted my mother’s study group had suffered a gallbladder attack? In any case, it shouldn’t have been that shocking. I had given my parents unmistakable clues to my precocious nature.

At eight years old, I would dress in veils and don my mother’s rouge and mascara to perform belly dances for my cousins. At twelve, I set up an enterprise in a curtained nook of the local hammam through which passersby could dangle themselves just so and receive the talents of my mouth. I was not ashamed of who I was, but after that fateful spring day—my personal salute to March Madness, I’ll call it—I was cut off by my family completely.

I was a penniless, young beauty, out on the streets. It was far too squalid for my tastes. Thus I had made it my campaign to land myself a rich husband, and after several years of tragic affairs, I thought I’d hooked the perfect benefactor. But I was quickly learning the being a kept boy was not the key to my happiness.

You see, not long into my cohabitation with Doug, I was quite distressed, languishing in his penthouse apartment with nothing to do while he worked long hours at the hospital. I was a bird in a