HUNTER DANE - THE ORIGIN STORY

WHERE ON EARTH DID THEY COME FROM?

I was happily exploring the world of m/f sexuality, when Detective Sergeant Hunter Dane entered the RiverHart world in Desire for Bliss. I’d been a cop, so he came naturally. I knew what his offices looked like. What his weapon of choice was.
I was surprised when Avia recognized him from the cover of an eBook she’d read. But I recalled a cop I’d known who did pose nude for stock photos. He never had to work off-duty like a lot of the guys. And he’d get hooked up to be an extra or have a few lines in a locally shot film. Since it had a basis in reality, I left it in.
After Bliss, I wrote a series of shorts featuring different characters from the RiverHart world, exploring other aspects of sexuality. But I never thought of writing m/m. It isn’t that I rejected it; it just never occurred to me.
I knew Hunter was a switch, that he switched between Dom and sub. I knew which of the prosecutors was the Domme. I’d begin with Hunt at work. Establish him as the Alpha male in the bullpen. Then have him seek out the Domme.
When I sat down to write, Hunter was in the shower. I have bits and pieces of story that I write down in no particular order that come to me, sometimes. I thought this was that. The transitional scene between the end of the day and meeting the woman.
It wasn’t.
Sometimes writing is like being possessed. I wrote the first two-thousand words in one long stream of consciousness. Or unconsciousness. It ended with “I dropped to my knees.” And I knew the title.
And I thought, I can’t write this. It freaked me out a little bit. A lot. Every time I opened On His Knees to work I was terrified. What the fuck am I writing? This was the first time in years I’d felt compelled to write a specific thing.
Even knowing I could not write this story, I knew Hunter could. Cam could. I just got the hell out of their way. When they’d finished, it was mine. To research and clean up and do the things you do when rewriting. I kept thinking I can’t publish this. It was Cam who said, “You have to.”
Matchstick Men was a no-brainer. I’d always wanted to do a detective series. Hunt and Cam are my Sherlock and John. Chez is Mrs. Hudson, I think. But Scene and Not Heard can’t be the Diogenes Club. Too much talking!

(On His Knees is free on Instafreebie thru July 31. Matchstick Men is on Kindle Unlimited. AND - bonus while they last DESIRE FOR BLISS is also free right now in a review push! <-- that's m/f, billionaire erotic romance

MEET THE MATCHSTICK MEN

Hunter Dane

Hunter Dane pulled his chair far back from the table and slouched back insolently, crossing his long legs at the ankles of his black cowboy boots, his arms folded across his nicely muscled chest. He left his leather jacket on, presumably to hide his weapon.

T.J. wondered what the game was, as she appreciated the flopping over his forehead hair, his beetle brows and deep-set gray eyes. It was the mouth, though, that made the face. Full lips. Pouty. Over a strong square jaw. He looked like a young Marlon Brando with a two-day stubble.

THE OPENING OF ON HIS KNEES

There's not enough hot water on the fucking planet.

The scalding water cascaded over his bent head and the panther tattoo across his shoulders to snake in thick rivulets along the rigid muscles and valleys of his back and buttocks. He didn't need to see the sharp-shadowed outlines on his body to know his muscles remained taut, the ligaments and tendons stretched. And no amount of time under the shower was going to change that. Not after today's scene.

Detective Sergeant Hunter Dane didn't usually dwell on crime scenes. At a scene, he engaged his intellect and accessed his instincts while keeping sentiment at bay. In the scene but not of the scene. His mantra - a paraphrase of a paraphrase from Scripture. Something else he didn’t dwell on, anymore.

But sometimes the data clanged against his senses and echoed suffering in the blood-scented air. Every fact pooled in his gut, settled in his bones and wound around his spine. He knew that if not exorcised, they'd claw at his insides until his stomach bled, his heart stuttered or his mind imploded.

Fuck it.

He banged a fist against on the valve handle. The water cut off abruptly, leaving him shrouded in a blanket of warm fog.



Camden Snow

FROM ON HIS KNEES


HUNTER: 
Tonight, I wasn't looking for a pink, frilly sub. Once inside the club, I’d known what I was looking for. The realization shallowed my breathing.
I was looking for Cam. Camden Caulfield Snow. Earner of five Gold and two Silver winter Olympic medals, his classic blond beauty graced a billion drink cups and a thousand Tumblr blogs - a Norse god in the guise of unpretentious youth.
If he was here, he'd be holding court near enough to watch the entrance. The "holding court" was not intentional. Cam was simply not arrogant or vain enough to believe he deserved a fandom. He was, in spite of his ridiculous name for a winter sport Olympian, modest, self-effacing, open. A gentle soul morphed with a supremely competitive, athletically gifted, Alpha male.
Only his steel blue eyes gave evidence of the Dom who took whomever he wished, whatever way he wanted, with a look and a nod.
Except for me.
Hunt Meets Cam

HUNTER:

It was an early summer evening, the sun half set. I was making my way to the door with one of the club’s boozeless Bloody Marys to find a deck chair and keep an eye on whoever came up the stairs. Decide what I wanted after sunset.
The door opened before I could touch it. He paused, backlit by the setting sun. Golden. Glowing. Idealized male beauty wrapped in an invisible cloak of incredible power. He was so careless of it. He scanned me and grinned. As if the sight of me delighted him. No one grinned here. Not with genuine pleasure.
He passed close to me, still scanning. It was the kind of moment that called for locked gazes and hardening cocks. Instead, he happily looked me over like a pastry display and he was deciding which succulent treat to select.
Cam was all of twenty-one. Fresh from deep powder and Olympic triumph. Exuding health and vitality and bonhomie and danger.
I wanted to give him everything, simply because he existed. And looked at me.
He reached out and put a hand on the side of my neck, his thumb skating lightly along my jawline and down, across my larynx. My insides turned to water.
Don't pick me. Please.
His eyes narrowed a little as if he'd heard. His hand tightened - scarcely, definitely - and withdrew.
"Kneel for me when you’re ready," he said. And was gone.
from On His Knees

CAM:


"You're a hell of an investigative tool," Hunt told him.
"I finally impressed you with my computer skills?" Camden Snow, holder of eight Olympic medals, grinned.
"You impressed me the first second I laid eyes on you," Hunt told him. "Like some Norse god of sex and youth come down from Valhalla. ... You wouldn't remember."
Cam kept fast-forwarding his way through the visual record, stopping occasionally to screencap a departing member.  "I walked into the club my first time and you were coming out with a drink in your hand. I barely made it inside when we were all of a sudden, like, six inches from each other," he said, capturing another member's exit.
"It was like stepping into the path of an oncoming tornado. Huge and dark and dangerous and seductive. I touched you. I had to, before I fell into you and disappeared. I really, really wanted you on your knees with my dick in your mouth, just so I had something to anchor me to the ground. I was so damn hard, so fast."   
The screen froze. His eyes closed for a moment, voice husky soft with memory. "You needed me, bad. Even then, I could see it. Right there in front of me. How beautiful it would be to make you suffer. How easy to get lost in your pain.  You were magnificent."
from Matchstick Men