Storm Warning

By Alex Winters

The only force stronger than the approaching hurricane was their hidden desire for one another...

Beck Carlson is prepping for the approaching storm when a random voice offers to help. Beck is more than surprised. After all, he thought he was alone in the Purple Pelican condos, everyone else having evacuated in the advance of Hurricane Ellen. Instead, a handsome ginger waif, Ford Wilson, pokes his head out of his front door, limping along in a big plastic boot after a recent skateboard accident. Bruised and battered, he’s been unable to prep for the hurricane.

A native Floridian who’s seen his share of storms, Beck takes pity on the sexy skater boy, sharing his own hurricane supplies and showing him the ropes as Ford hunkers down for his first Category 3 storm. After the two part ways for the duration, Beck feels bad, returning with fresh supplies and offering to weather the storm in Ford’s condo. A nervous Ford gratefully accepts, locking them both inside for a whirlwind romance as intense as the approaching storm, and just as dangerous...

PUBLISHER NOTE: Contemporary Erotic M/M Romance. Suspense. 21,000 words. All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Luminosity Publishing LLP
• Release date: Dec 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9780463303177

Alex Winters

Alex Winters is the pseudonym of a busy restaurant manager whose curious young staff would love nothing more than to follow him around the dining room reading his steamiest, most romantic passages aloud! When not writing romantic holiday stories of various heat levels, he enjoys long walks with his wife, scary movies and smooth jazz. Visit him at www.awintersromance.com to see what stories are brewing up next!

Book preview

STORM WARNING

An Erotic Novella

ALEX WINTERS

The only force stronger than the approaching hurricane was their hidden desire for one another…

Beck Carlson is prepping for the approaching storm when a random voice offers to help. Beck is more than surprised. After all, he thought he was alone in the Purple Pelican condos, everyone else having evacuated in the advance of Hurricane Ellen. Instead, a handsome ginger waif, Ford Wilson, pokes his head out of his front door, limping along in a big plastic boot after a recent skateboard accident. Bruised and battered, he’s been unable to prep for the hurricane.

A native Floridian who’s seen his share of storms, Beck takes pity on the sexy skater boy, sharing his own hurricane supplies and showing him the ropes as Ford hunkers down for his first Category 3 storm. After the two part ways for the duration, Beck feels bad, returning with fresh supplies and offering to weather the storm in Ford’s condo. A nervous Ford gratefully accepts, locking them both inside for a whirlwind romance as intense as the approaching storm, and just as dangerous…

PUBLISHER NOTE: Contemporary Erotic M/M Romance. Suspense. 21,000 words. All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.

STORM WARNING

An Erotic Novella

ALEX WINTERS

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LUMINOSITY PUBLISHING LLP

STORM WARNING

Copyright © NOVEMBER 2022 ALEX WINTERS

Cover Art by Poppy Designs

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this literary work may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without the written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

ONE

Beck

Do you need a hand?

I glance at the kid in the doorway, peeking his head out shyly. He’s got a bandage on his forehead, a scrape on his chin, and a pretty good shiner under his left eye. I crack a grin and nod at the corner of the hurricane shutter I’ve been struggling with for the last five minutes or so.

About time you asked, I grunt with a wink, watching as he limps out of the doorway, a shiny black boot on his left foot, a fresh scrape on his knee only half-covered by a thin tan bandage, a sharp contrast to his smooth, pale skin. You’ve been watching me for the last ten minutes.

Five. He grins bashfully, nearly knocking over a wicker chair as he stumbles forward, the boot making it hard for him to do much without holding onto the metal railing in front of Unit 7. Only five.

He’s an inch or two shorter than me, reaching for the free edge of the shutter with long, pale fingers that are clearly not used to manual labor. His lips are full and curled into a playful grin. I was kinda hoping you’d get it done yourself by now, actually.

No shit? I huff, helping him hold it in place and then sealing down the last corner with a quick "vroot-vroot of my trusty cordless drill. I did the other six apartments all alone, where were you then?"

Look, man, you’re gonna get canceled if you keep making fun of my handicap this way.

I glance around at the deserted condominium, all the units empty save for his. And mine, of course. By whom?

He grins, sticks around, and watches me reach for the last hurricane shutter. The one that’s gonna go right over his kitchen window. Your helper, I guess.

Well, grab that end, helper, and we’ll see who’s getting canceled…

He struggles to hold the thin but awkward shutter and stay on two feet. Well, one, anyway. The leg with the boot is all but helpless. All the same, we wrangle the shutter into place with the last screw and, apparently, the last of the cordless drill’s juice. It sputters to a stop just as the screw goes flush with the composite shutter, as if it knew my day was ready to finally be over.

The kid slumps into the wicker chair in front of the door, wriggling his narrow butt around on a No Place Like Home throw pillow. See, you needed me after all.

I lean back against the railing across from him, hot and sweaty from the last of the hurricane preparations. The humidity must be hovering around 400% at this point, and the storm is still hours away. I roll my eyes and nod at the chair he’s sitting in. I assume you’re Chevy, the nephew Miss Tilly is always bragging about.

He sits a little higher, apples of blush in his lean, hollow cheeks. Ford, he says with a droll expression.

I chuckle. I know, I’m just givin’ you the business for not helping me sooner.

Dude —he points to his boot like it absolves him of all sins— I already told you…

I ignore him and nod toward the door. Fine, I’ll forgive if… you offer me something to drink at least?

He chuckles, wriggling his boot once more. Sure, I mean… obviously. But, do you mind… getting it?

I roll my eyes and drift past him and through the screen door, into Milly York’s unit. I know the place like the back of my hand, even with whatever new embellishment her young nephew has made in her absence: a lighter shade of tortilla on the walls, low-slung leather furniture and not much of it, mismatched end tables featuring rustic wood and wrought iron legs. And plants. Lots and lots of plants.

The hell happened in here? I tease, leaning in front of the open fridge. Make that… the mostly empty fridge. Where did all Milly’s big, bulky 1970s furniture go? And the clown paintings? And the doilies?

He calls in through the screen door. I’m staging it. Aunt Milly wants me to try and get it ready for sale, so…

I stand at the screen door, a cheap tall boy can in each hand. She’s selling finally?

He holds up a hand, like maybe I should slow my roll. "She’s thinking about selling it, actually."

I inch through the door with