Professional Distance: Thorne & Dash Book 1
Author: Silvia Violet
Cover Design: LC Chase
Release Date: 11.28.15
BLURB: Thornwell Shipton is wealthy, uptight, closeted, and an incurable workaholic. A tragic love affair left him terrified of relationships, so he tells himself sex is better scheduled and paid for.
Riley Dashwood is young, easy-going, and comfortable in his own skin. He’s a passionate baker and an aspiring chef, working as an escort to save up for culinary school.
They’re clearly made for each other.
When Thorne hires Dash, it’s lust at first sight. After a few scorching nights together, both men start to wonder if what’s between them is more than physical, but their age gap and resistance to romance make them afraid to change their professional relationship to a personal one. Dash pushes Thorne to admit he wants things he’s denied himself for years. Kinky things. Soft, caring things. Things that force him to open his heart, not just his body. To move forward, one or the other must take a risk and ask for what he really wants.
EXCERPT: Thorne’s workweek was just as bad as he’d expected it to be. At least, the memories of Dash and the anticipation of what was to come once he was back in town on Friday made it bearable, more than bearable actually. He’d jacked off every single night in the hotel, thinking of Dash while he finger-fucked himself and pretended it was Dash’s cock inside him.
That afternoon, he’d had a final tedious meeting with the client who claimed to want his advice but argued with him every fucking step of the way. A delay at the airport did nothing to ease Thorne’s annoyance. His neck and shoulders ached with tension by the time he landed in Atlanta. He couldn’t wait to see Dash. After coaxing, pushing, and manipulating clients all week, he wanted to let go and concentrate on nothing but pleasure. He was so eager to be held down, forced, and used that he had to move his jacket in front of him to hide his hard-on as he stood in the taxi line.
He reached home with barely time to clean up and change before Dash arrived. When he emerged from the shower, he slipped on his plush terry robe, another one of the luxuries he afforded himself. The robe had cost more than some of his colleagues’ suits, but he had the money, and he loved the feel of the soft fabric against his skin. He figured there was no need to dress since he hoped to be naked within minutes of Dash arriving. This time he wasn’t going to let Dash distract him. He was going to get down to business right away.
The buzzer alerted him to a visitor before he had a chance to pour himself a cocktail, but that was fine—even the best bourbon was no match for Dash.
“Mr. Dash is here to see you, sir. Shall I send him up?” Michaels asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
Thorne frowned at the agitated state of his stomach. Butterflies. Fucking butterflies. He’d hired this man, and he was—oh fuck, why’d he have to think of that—twenty years younger.
Dash knocked, the same two sharp taps as last week.
Once Thorne let him in, Dash eyed him appreciatively. “Dressed for the occasion?”
“And why shouldn’t I be?” Thorne asked as he pushed the door shut.
“It’s a good look for you.” Dash’s gaze traveled down Thorne’s body. “You have beautiful feet.”
“Is that a thing for you?” Thorne asked, wiggling his toes.
Dash laughed. “So you can be playful after all.”
Thorne snorted at his impertinence.
“And my thing is whatever my client wants.”
Thorne raised a brow, challenging him.
“It’s not a particular fetish of mine—though I appreciate beauty in all forms and places—but I aim to serve my clients’ needs.”
“Or to tell them what those needs are.”
“Is that what you’d like me to do today?” Dash asked. He seemed to grow a few inches taller as he let the commanding persona settle over him.
Thorne ignored him. Dash had his messenger bag with him again, but he was also carrying a white paper bag that smelled of cake—rich cake.
“What’s that?” Thorne reached for the bag.
Dash slapped his hand away. “It’s a surprise for later.”
Thorne frowned. “Why do I feel like you wanted to tack ‘if you’re a good boy’ on to that sentence?”
Dash laughed. “Maybe I did.”
“I told you I—”
“Don’t do submissive. And I told you I wasn’t so sure you didn’t.”
Thorne hated how right Dash might be. “Look—”
Dash held up a hand. “I have an idea for tonight. Would you like me to run with it and see where it takes us, or are you going to wrestle control?”
Why the fuck did that sound so sexy—grappling with Dash, fighting for who would be on top. “Is both an option?”
Dash grinned. “We’ll have to see.”
“Worried about an old guy’s stamina?”
“You don’t seem the least bit old to me.”
Dash’s statement caught Thorne off guard, because it wasn’t made in the same playful tone. It sounded serious, heartfelt. Or maybe Thorne’s brain was too clouded by lust to tell. “I’d like to hear your idea.”
Dash set the paper bag down on the coffee table and unzipped his satchel. He pulled out a plug—not the giant vibrating one that had caught Thorne’s attention the week before—a basic one that was large enough to make a man really feel it but not scare him.
Thorne inclined his head toward the plug. “I like it so far.”
“Then turn around.”
Thorne almost protested. But he was the one who’d insisted they get right down to business.
“Kneel on the couch and brace yourself on the back.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Silvia Violet writes erotic romance in a variety of genres including sci fi, paranormal, alternate history, and historical.
She can often be found haunting coffee shops looking for the darkest, strongest cup of coffee she can find. Once equipped with the needed fuel, she can happily sit for hours pounding away at her laptop. Silvia typically leaves home disguised as a suburban stay-at-home-mom, and other coffee shop patrons tend to ask her hilarious questions like “Do you write children’s books?” She loves watching the looks on their faces when they learn what she’s actually up to. When not writing, Silvia enjoys baking sinful chocolate treats, exploring new styles of cooking, and reading children’s books to her wickedly smart offspring.
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