C*ck Blocked: Blockers (A MM Gay Romance Series), #1

By K.C. Kassidy

It's not easy being someone you're not. 

 

Grayson Darling is suddenly the new Hollywood "it" guy and needs a break from stardom. As an American actor turned heartthrob, Gray rose to superstar status as a romantic lead on a popular streaming service – but it's getting harder to hide who he really is. 

 

To his legions of female fans, he's a handsome, single and straight man. 

 

But it's all a made-for-TV lie. 

 

Needing a holiday during the show's summer hiatus, Gray books a stay at a rural Ireland B&B, where he hopes the scenery and solitude will spark creativity to finish his first screenplay. And allow him time to figure out who and what he wants to be to the world. 

 

Gruff and steady Niall O'Reardon wonders if this is all life has to offer him now that he's retired from the Gaelic football league and has taken over his family farm in Boyle, Ireland, where hard work is simply a fact of life. A place where dreams get shoveled up along with the sheep muck. He has no illusions that he'll find the perfect love or start a family someday.

 

Until his new handsome American B&B guest shows up, messing with his ideas on what love is supposed to be, giving him hope that he can have it all and that perfect isn't just a fantasy.

 

But choices must be made, and the truth has consequences. And hearts and reputations are on the line and need to be protected.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ten28 Publishing
• Release date: Jun 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393943402

K.C. Kassidy

K.C. Kassidy is the pen name for award-winning author Sierra Hill, writing in the MM, gay and LGBTQ romance genre. Her first published gay romance will release in early summer 2021. 

Book preview

Chapter 1

Grayson

Faking an orgasm is easy.

It’s a necessary part of the acting craft when an actor must shut off their own personal feelings to make room for the character’s truth to be seen on film.

But faking an orgasm with a woman who despises me as equally as I loathe her is nearly impossible. Especially when her mouth leaves a sticky peppermint residue over my lips from the Mentos she constantly pops in her mouth between takes. All thirty-five of them.

And the smell of peppermint makes me gag. Or perhaps it’s just Fiona, my co-star.

"Let’s have another go. I’m not feeling your desire for one another. Grayson, show me how much you want her."

Our show’s director, Mills Bloomfield, chirps from behind the camera completely oblivious to the desire Fi and I both share. The desire to strangle each other, that is.

Hmm, now there’s a thought. Maybe we can turn this into a BDSM scene, and I can cover her face with a handkerchief and add a ball gag for good measure.

"And…action."

I take my cue and say my line for what seems like the millionth time today.

Oh, my darling…my sweet, Rosemary. I pause for dramatic effect, drawing a feather-soft line down to her exposed breast (completely fake, by the way), circling the distended nipple, which I’m sure the cameraman is currently narrowing in on in his shot. You are my one true love. Across time and space, wars and peace. During times of prosperity and through all of life’s hardships. Wherever I go, I will always be with you.

I take her hand, as outlined in the script, placing it over my naked chest. Do not forget that my heart beats for you. And it belongs to you. Forever and ever, my darling.

I crash my mouth to hers, breathing through my nose and willing myself not to puke at the smell.

I’ll tell you one thing. It takes a whole lot of talent, discipline and the ability to get into a character’s head, that you may not fully relate to, to be a good actor.

A character like Jonathan Levy, for example. I play the romantic lead, an American Army Captain in a WWII epic love story stationed in England who falls in love with a beautiful British widow, played by my Mentos-eating, fire-breathing dragon of a co-star, Fiona Lennon.

The show was picked up after the pilot five years ago and has been on the air for the past four years. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t count my lucky stars at how fortunate I was to have been cast in the lead role. It’s done remarkable things for my celebrity status.

It’s also been hell for my personal life.

Because guess what? Millions of women around the world have fallen in love with the strapping and timeless TV hero, and they don’t want to ruin the image of their favorite character by learning that the actor is indeed a queer man hiding behind a straight façade.

It’s why things are the way they are. On purpose and strictly for my career and my fans.

And the Fiona thing…well, to be fair, it hasn’t always been this difficult to work with her. For a short time, we were together and romantically linked. I may be gay but to protect my career, I have played the part of dutiful straight lover when I’ve had to, even though women have never done a thing for me.

Dating a female costar was a great cover; sending photogs spinning their wheels and chasing down answers to questions about our off-set relationship and sparking rumors that we were in love. It was great for the show’s ratings, but not so great for me.

It was also very unfair to Fiona, who I know I hurt in the process.

The problem with on set affairs is that the show often lasts longer than the relationship. And I became tired of trying to appease her and listen to all her endless blathering and insufferable insecurities. I called it quits after the first shoot of the second season.

Now I’m stuck fake-fucking a woman who would gladly poke my eyes out with her sharp, red-painted nails if it didn’t mean she’d be violating the clause in her contract that ensures ‘respectful relations both on set and off with coworkers, crew, producers, writers, and directors.’ Since that includes me, we have to play nice, or as nice as one can get when you’re in bed together.

I bend over my fake naked lover, her delicate arms swung behind my neck, her stank breath blowing in my face as my fingers gently stroke over her jawline, as outlined in the script. Fiona’s long blonde hair falls across the pillow, the set lights gleaming in an ethereal glow.

Jonathan, my love. I worry I may never see you again once you leave. Please, promise me you’ll return when the war is over. I can’t go on without you.

I promise you, my darling. I’ll always be with you.

With a dramatic pause, I lean in and kiss her full on the mouth in the exact manner in which the intimacy coordinator has mapped out. Lips parted. No tongue. Eyes closed.

"And…cut! Mills calls from his director’s chair as the air on the set suddenly crackles with relief. Or maybe that’s just my own relief. That’s a wrap, folks. Brilliant work everyone. Now, let’s go out and celebrate the grand job everyone did this season."

Thank fuck.

The minute Mills shouts the words from over the camera lens, Fiona bites me hard on my bottom lip and pushes me off her chest.

Jesus, Fi! That fucking hurt. Your vampire teeth probably scarred me. I complain, jerking away from her to wipe off the red of her lipstick with the back of my hand, checking to see if she drew blood.

She grunts unapologetically. So do your knobby knees in my crotch, Gray. Now get the bloody hell off of me so I can leave, you wanker.

I roll over on my side so she can extricate herself haughtily from my presence, her on set PA rushing to her side to offer up her robe and slippers, as well as her phone and a cigarette, which she lights up immediately even though the set is smoke-free.

She doesn’t give a fuck.

She’s Fiona Lennon, and no one would dare tell her it’s forbidden.

I seem to be the only bloke who isn’t afraid of her sharp claws and long reach in this business.

God, you smell of liquor, she grumbles, scowling at me from over her shoulder as I throw my legs over the opposite side of the bed. I turn and shrug.

There’s not enough booze in the world to get me through a love scene with you, sweetheart.

She scoffs angrily, flipping me off as she and her PA walk off to the dressing room. I hear her let out a fucking arsehole as she leaves the studio, and I let go a ragged breath, feeling all the tension of the past eight months sliding from my shoulders like a slow-moving avalanche. Unearthing a fresh blanket of relief.

To say Fiona Lennon’s and my working relationship is strained is an understatement. But on this final day of our shoot before a three-month summer hiatus, I won’t allow her grating personality to get the best of me. I have the next three months to do what I want, free from cameras, crew, lights, and love scenes.

The break will also allow me to make a decision about my life. Before we began shooting this past season, I had my agent add a clause in the contract that the writers would end the season with the uncertainty of Captain Levy’s future and return. Which is precisely why the season finale is setting it up for my character Jonathan’s departure back to the frontlines.

A terrific job of foreshadowing.

This way, they can kill me off if I decide not to return for the final season. It gives me a weird thrill to know I have control over the future of Captain Levy.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve loved this show and the opportunities it’s given me. I’m Hollywood’s it boy at the moment, and I’ve loved every minute of it. Except when I haven’t. Having to hide my truth from the world is exhausting. Almost as exhausting as dealing with the wrath of Fiona every single day.

I’ve learned that regretting my decisions in life, however, is a useless act because life is never perfect and always a little messy. If you don’t make mistakes along the way, you’ll never find the bright spots and you’ll never learn the truth about who you are or who you’re meant to be.

Accepting this role five years ago took me from a modeling career and small-time indie roles and catapulted me to a worldwide overnight sensation.

But as they say, all good things must at some point come to an end. The end is in sight, and I have my eye on the future where I can live out and proud and focus on a screenwriting and producing career.

Some days it feels like just yesterday when I received the casting call from my agent, Simone, informing me that I had been offered the role of a lifetime. A part in a scripted WWII period romance called, A Return to Home, adapted from the bestselling romance novel.

I’d gladly left Hollywood and moved to England, where the show was filmed and became an instant hit on one of the largest streaming services around. The book had already brought legions of female fans who were madly in love with their fictional Captain Levy. Almost overnight, I rose to stardom.

My exploits became tabloid fodder, capturing the hearts of millions of women, all of whom fantasized about their favorite romance hero. The media at press junkets devoured my love life and history, eating up every fake story I cooked up and handed to them on a silver platter.

Fiona, too, fell for my lies and my deceptive charm.

While our fling crashed and burned in the end, it at least gave me one very important shot. It provided me with the headlines I needed to divert the interest in my sexual conquests away from the one thing that would ruin my potential future opportunities in the business.

The truth behind my sexual orientation.

The fact I learned about myself when I was thirteen years old and that only a few very close people in my life know about.

That I am a gay man living in a straight man’s world hidden in plain sight.

Perhaps that’s what makes me such a fantastic actor. I’ve fooled everyone.

But I know that one loose thread can unravel it all in a blink of an eye.

Which means I continue to keep my head down and my eyes focused on the future. Not on my love life.

Chapter 2

Niall

What the bloody hell is this gibberish? I can’t read a word of your handwriting. It’s worse than young Michael’s.

I flap the notepad paper toward my sister Nancy, or Nan for short, who casually leans over the small reception desk in the entry of our farmhouse, her wild red hair in disarray from her morning chores. A wee child could write better than you.

She snorts at this and snags the paper from my fingers, perusing it with a quick glance before tossing it on the desk, not granting me the respect of handing it back to me.

Geoffrey Lancer, you feckin’ eejit. Maybe it’s you who can’t read. I always thought you were a bit soft in the head from all that football. She snickers and taps her pointer finger against my noggin. Which, to her point, has suffered a few blows over the years out on the pitch.

I growl menacingly as she strides into the attached kitchen to wash all the gunk left over from the livestock feed now embedded underneath her fingernails. It’s a common hazard of running a small farm. You’re bound to be plagued with the odiferous stench of animal and barn when you work outdoors as we do every day.

Besides the sheep, chickens, and a few dairy cows, we also run a small Bed & Breakfast on the outskirts of our hometown of Boyle. The place has been in our family for generations, passed on from my great-great grandparents all the way down to my sister and me. It was just in the last year when we took over the day-to-day management from my Da. Under his stubborn scrutiny and often obstinance over the changes, we’ve modernized and adapted the daily work to make the process easier for the two of us to manage. The chores and B&B are shared equally amongst Nan and me, but she, her husband and family live in their own home down the road.

It was the perfect time for me to help out full time after having my fun as a young lad playing in the Gaelic football league since I was out of school.

I’d always planned on running the farm, mostly because it was what was expected of me as the son in the family. I just hadn’t planned on being single without a family of my own in my early thirties.

But thank God I love my older sister otherwise, I might have gone mental. She’s a lovely woman with a heart of gold, but an organized inn owner, she is not.

I point at the handwriting once again, although she’s retreated to the kitchen and can’t see it.

There is no way this says Geoffrey Lancer. It looks like Orgy Pancer.

Nan laughs boisterously as she returns to the desk, mixing a bowl of cookie dough in her hand, shaking her head in that way only sisters can do. With loving patronization.

Ya only wish it said orgy, my horny brotha. Which only confirms what I’ve suspected for the past year.

I raise my eyebrows and toss her a glance, her finger wagging in my face.

And what’s that?

She gestures lewdly with her fist. That you need to get the stink off ya, stop wanking in your bedroom alone and get yourself a proper lay.

My Da uses this moment to walk through the front door, making the sign of the cross as he does—a custom amongst good Irish Catholics—stomping his Wellies on the rug and removing his hat to hang on the hook on the wall.

We’re hiring a maid? he asks as I lock eyes with my sister, and we burst out in laughter at my dad’s interpretation of what she said. To say his hearing has diminished recently is an understatement.

He’s also been losing his balance a helluva lot more over the time I’ve been home. Damn fool won’t allow us to move him in here with me, choosing instead to remain in the small cottage by the creek.

Don’t be daft, Da, Nan replies after her laughter subsides. We can’t possibly afford a housekeeper. That’s Niall’s job now. I was simply telling my brother here that he needs to get himself a proper shag.

Nan moves toward my dad to assist him with removing his coat, hanging it on the hook along with his hat, which he’ll likely forget to pick up when he leaves. She turns sideways to give me an eyebrow raise.

"Don’t listen to