When American in London Sam Lorne loses his prized drawing pad after a theatre performance, he’s crestfallen – but disappointment soons turn to steamy intrigue when a handsome, incredibly rich stranger shows up at his place of work the next day with the pad in hand and an invitation to dinner.
Julian Rathbone, lordly British billionaire with an arresting presence and a starkly dominant manner, has Sam wrapped around his little finger – but does Julian have a secret? Why does Sam feel strikingly compelled to obey his every word? And is that a flash of yellow he catches in his date’s dark eyes?
A gay supernatural erotic romance story featuring an alpha wolf who’s lord of all that he surveys, a dominant/submissive relationship, and the explosive passion of a new-minted omega submitting to his alpha, My Gay Lover Is A Werewolf Alpha Billionaire is exquisite opulence and searing heat at every turn.
Targeted Audience: Adult
Taylor Lake is a dreamy young woman who pens, from her home in Scotland, a bevy of adult fantasies sure to surprise and delight. Her speciality is the short story: steamy, layered with passion, but not lacking for interesting characters and a tart plot.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
A fascination with the alluring, romantic darkness of the supernatural has always been with me, and this story explores those elements in the framework of a more wholesome boy-meets-billionaire story. Power and wealth, romance, mixed with feral heat…it’s an exciting combination!
Read more, including a sample from the book
Sample from Book:
“How do you know I’m gifted?” I asked, with a game smile, my blue eyes shining with pleasure. “I haven’t written anything the public’s read yet.”
“Why, I perused your drawings, of course.” His dark, sharp eyebrows lifted, knowingly. I coloured, my already-ruddy cheeks turning pink. There had been a few pieces of art between those pages that featured some decidedly adult imagery – of the sort that did nothing to disguise the deep, hungry, unapologetically passionate interest of the artist in the male body. In wistful moments, my pen had traced out every arc, curve and thick-lined element of the Adonises and Rafaels of my private mind.
“I know, I know,” he said, sympathetically. “But they were really very good. I could hardly resist.”
“I’m not saying you necessarily should have…” I said, haltingly, and my hand found the back of my neck, rubbed there. I was painfully aware of my shirt’s slightly loose fit, my black H&M slacks. He looked so damn good in that fitted suit, which traced the lines of his broad chest, masculine shoulders, with a charcoal grace.
“What I really wanted to ask you,” he said, undeterred (clearly, Julian Rathbone was a man used to getting what he wanted and ploughing through any obstacle in his way), “is if you would be interested in dinner with me at La Roux tonight.” There was no upwards inflection on the end of that sentence. He’d almost casually mentioned it, his resonant voice stating the fact that he had asked rather than simply asking.
He fixed me with his smoky eyes. Barely hearing myself say it, I said yes.
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