Tuesday, September 27, 2016

The God of Jazz by Varian Krylov



TITLE: The God of Jazz: Fugue, Concord 

AUTHOR: Varian Krylov 

COVER ARTIST: Bey Deckard 

LENGTH: 117,450 words 

RELEASE DATE: September 16, 2016 

BLURB: After years struggling to realize his dream of directing a feature film, on the final night of his fundraising campaign Godard is on the cusp of having everything he ever wanted. The man he loves is upstairs waiting for him, and he's just a few dollars short of his GoFundYourself goal. 

Then everything falls apart. 

His personal and professional life in ruins, when his old nemesis from film school offers to fund his dream project if he's willing to shoot it in Spain, Godard knows it's a deal with the devil. But he also has nothing left to lose. 

Among the labyrinthine streets of Barcelona's Barrio Góthico, the city's vibrant music scene, and the sun-gilt beaches of the Costa Brava, Godard begins making shooting his dream project and putting his life back together, largely under the domineering gaze and deft touch of Ángel, the god of jazz. 

But Ángel is keeping a secret, and a deal with the devil always comes at a price. 


Ángel tutted. “Greedy, impatient boy.”
“You keep calling me boy. How old do you think I am?”
“I don't care how old you are. You look and feel like a boy who thinks he's seen everything, tasted and touched all the delicious things of this world, because he can't imagine anything could exist beyond the frontier of his enormous ego.”
Stunned, I went still, trying to come up with a reply to his unsolicited therapy session. Five seconds later, though, I forgot all about putting him in his place as he wet the tip of his index finger in the rivulet of pre-cum sliding down my cock, puddling in the trimmed thatch of my pubes, and slid the digit into my hole. I gasped and grunted, clinging to him, burying my face in his neck, rigid, writhing, racked with pleasure, stretched to the breaking point.
“Are you going to give in so easily?” Taking utter possession of my cock, my balls, and my asshole in sanity-shattering synchronicity, he caught my bottom lip between his teeth, licked, sucked, then we merged in a ravenous kiss as he tapped and prodded my prostate and I erupted in a blinding orgasm.
When I came back to myself, still quivering, still catching my breath, Ángel was watching me, his expression rapt, his eyes honed in on mine. When I realized his finger was still inside me, my sudden sense of utter vulnerability blossomed at the center of my chest like a rare flower, beautiful and possibly poisonous.
I gasped and tensed as he slid his finger part way out, then drove it in to the hilt again. Even spent, my dick going limp, I couldn't wait for that angel of jazz, that bronzed demi-urge of the beach to take me. To lead me into my bedroom and put me on my hands and knees, or to bend me over the dining table, to plow me until I heard him cry out and felt him shudder as he collided with the same shattering oblivion he'd driven me to. But he didn't push me off his lap, or lift me and carry me to the bed. He just grinned and said, “Your turn, guapo.”
I shuddered at the thrill and the loss as he pulled his finger from inside me. “I have lube and condoms in there.” I gestured toward my bedroom.
No follamos hoy.” He leaned in, closing the few inches between us and whispered, “We are not going to fuck today.”
“Oh.” I hoped I didn't look and sound as confused and disappointed as I felt. Was I boring him? Was he just not that attracted to me? Or maybe he had something. Maybe not HIV, but Hep B, or herpes. “So...you want me to...”
“Use your imagination.” Cocky grin.
I almost laughed. It's not like I'd ever needed step-by-step instructions. But since I hadn't pulled the trigger with any of the guys who'd hit me up on Grindr, this was my first time fooling around with anyone other than Michael in over five years. And I was a little thrown off by Ángel so firmly and utterly taking control, then doing a one-eighty and giving it up the second I came. And, yeah, let's be honest. I was a bit intimidated after he'd given me one of the top three orgasms of my life and left me a quivering puddle of bliss with little more than a hand job.
But screw whatever weird insecurity was making a rare appearance. I wanted to undress that beautiful man. Touch him. Taste him. Just the thought made my spent cock stir to life again.
Before I did all the sexy things I wanted to do to Ángel's beautiful body, though, I had to ask the unsexy question I hadn't had to deal with since Michael and I decided to be monogamous. “Are you...”
He grinned and waited. “Am I what?”
Whew. That had been easy. Unless there'd been some kind of communication gap. Meaning lost in translation.
“You don't believe me? If you're afraid, I can send a text to my brother. He can go into my apartment and send you a photo of my latest test results.”
I laughed. Okay. Nothing lost in translation. “That's alright, I'm satisfied.”
“That makes one of us.”




Growing up near Los Angeles, I spent much of my time frolicking in the Pacific Ocean and penning angst-twisted poetry. Now I'm living in sunny Spain writing pathos-riddled fiction. Ironically, two of my favorite things are traveling, and swimming in the ocean, despite increasingly intense phobias of sharks and flying.

I've always loved the music and substance of words, always loved writing in well-worn notebooks by hand, tapping at the keys of the computer, and, of course, conjuring up stories.

And from my earliest memories, I've always been fascinated—maybe obsessed?—with sex and sexuality.

In my writing, sex is the medium, the expression, and the tool of discovery for my characters' insecurities, the needs that drive them, the comfort they can't live without, the joy and relish of life that makes each of them intense, strange, and alluring.

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