Today we are thrilled to spotlight K.A. Mitchell’s final installment in the Bad in Baltimore series, Bad Behavior. Take it away Ms. Mitchell!
Thanks so much for having me on the blog.
David Beauchamp wasn’t supposed to get a book. I gave him one of my “generic” names, David, a name that I never would give to a character I’m planning to write about. I didn’t think about his name, just his nickname. Actually, for awhile, there was a pretty good chance he would die in Bad Attitude. He only lived because he needed to cause more trouble for Gavin.
Imagine my surprise when he started turning into a character with a distinct voice and personality. One I couldn’t ignore. Even then I had no idea I’d be writing about him falling in love in a 24/7 D/s relationship. But in David and Tai’s case, the heart wants what the heart wants.
But in the beginning, neither is sure of what’s going to happen.
After Tai lays down a challenge, this excerpt shows how Beach responds.
Bad in Baltimore: Book Five
In a lifetime of yes, no is the sexiest word he’s ever heard.
After one too many misunderstandings with the law, wealthy and spoiled David Beauchamp finds himself chained to the city by the GPS and alcohol sensor strapped to his ankle. Awaiting trial, cut off from usual forms of entertainment, he goes looking for a good time—and winds up with his hands full, in more ways than one. The situation only gets more complicated when he’s summoned for a random drug test and comes face-to-face with the dominant man who took him for one hell of a ride the night before.
Probation Officer Tai Fonoti is used to handling other people’s problems, but he’s horrified when one of the extra clients his boss dumps on him is the sweet piece of ass he screwed the night before. It makes getting a urine sample a pretty loaded situation. Tai’s unique brand of discipline has Beach craving more. But while Tai relishes laying down the law in the bedroom, the letter of the law stands between them and kinkily ever after….
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Bad in Baltimore Series
The words rumbled against Beach’s ears from inside his head, driving him fully awake, unable to drift back into his dream.
After rolling from bed, he staggered to the bar, a tumbler and bottle of Pappy Van Winkle in hand before he remembered the damned anklet. Treasuring a sniff of the caramel-praline scent, he put the bourbon carefully back on the bar and filled the tumbler with orange juice from the fridge. Naked but for the damned anklet, he pressed his forehead against the black glass separating him from his balcony.
I could have you strip off every stitch for me and put you out of the car. Public nudity didn’t hold a great deal of shame or interest for Beach. The thrill of hearing those words in his voice had been from the command. The implication that by following the order he might earn that grudging praise, hear that voice telling him it was good or sweet. That was what sent warmth rushing through his veins as surely as if he’d been sipping seventeen-year-old bourbon and not orange juice. Beach slid the door open and stepped out into the hot July night.
Five floors up and at 3:00 a.m., there wasn’t much potential for exhibitionism. No lighted boats prowling the harbor. But the buzz under his skin drove him back inside for his phone. Framing his nude body with the harbor at his back, he snapped a picture and keyed in the number for T. Samuel Fonoti with the text Ready when you are, Sir.
But his thumb hesitated over Send.
Beach knew only too well the futility of chasing a high. One perfect moment was all you got, and then things went downhill quicker than a knife fight in a phone booth.
But this, whatever this was, they’d barely scratched the surface. There were words for it, words he shied away from naming. Words he’d uttered with disdain or mockery for people who felt the need to complicate sex with silly games and costumes, when fucking was as simple and natural an act as breathing.
But what had happened, what he wanted to happen, touched more than just the happy pleasure parts, though they were certainly involved, he noted with a glance at his half-hard dick. Beach wasn’t one to be counted on for deep thoughts, but standing naked on his balcony at 3:00 a.m. seemed to dredge them up. Staring at the black water of the harbor, he had to admit those dizzying moments under the thrall of the other man’s authority had touched what Beach could only call his soul.
No way in hell was he going to have a bare taste and then spend the rest of his life wondering what might have been. He pressed Send as if he could reach through the phone and touch the man on the other end.
The thought tugged at his guts, then lower. If Sam—Sir?—were here now, if he sent back a hot demand…. Beach dropped the phone on the glass table and grabbed his dick, thumbing the slit to work out some precome. It wasn’t the risk of getting caught driving him but the imagined presence on the phone. Faster, tighter. Even if it burned. He shivered at the idea. How much sensation, how much pain would there be in chasing this high?
The thought of pain was almost always enough to send Beach running in the other direction, but all it did right now was make his dick harder, drag his nuts up.
If Officer Fonoti called back, Beach could be waiting. Aching for it. He yanked his hand away like his dick was on fire, clenching his fist in frustration as the smooth build to orgasm turned into a knotted mess in his balls.
“Now would be good,” he whispered at his phone.
This was crazy. Sweating on the balcony with a chafed, aching dick when there was lube and air-conditioning on the other side of the glass. He was the only person in Baltimore awake.
His phone vibrated against the tabletop, and Beach dove for it.
K.A. Mitchell discovered the magic of writing at an early age when she learned that a carefully crayoned note of apology sent to the kitchen in a toy truck would earn her a reprieve from banishment to her room. Her career as a spin-control artist was cut short when her family moved to a two-story house and her trucks would not roll safely down the stairs. Around the same time, she decided that Ken and G.I. Joe made a much cuter couple than Ken and Barbie and was perplexed when invitations to play Barbie dropped off. She never stopped making stuff up, though, and was thrilled to find out that people would pay her to do it. Although the men in her stories usually carry more emotional baggage than even LAX can lose in a year, she guarantees they always find their sexy way to a happy ending.
K.A. loves to hear from her readers. You can email her at firstname.lastname@example.org. She is often found talking about her imaginary friends on Twitter @ka_mitchell.Blog GoodReads Twitter Website Amazon Library More Reviews