Lovers Leap Read online

  Riptide Publishing

  PO Box 6652

  Hillsborough, NJ 08844

  www.riptidepublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.

  Lovers Leap

  Copyright © 2016 by JL Merrow

  Cover art: Lou Harper, louharper.com/design.html

  Editor: Kate De Groot

  Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at [email protected].

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-382-7

  First edition

  February, 2016

  Also available in paperback:

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-383-4

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  If they looked, would they ever leap?

  Good-looking, confident, and doted on by his widowed mum, Michael is used to thinking only of himself. Getting shoved off an Isle of Wight pier by an exasperated ex ought to come as a wake-up call—but then he meets Rufus and he’s right back to letting the little head take charge. Rufus is cute, keen, and gets under Michael’s skin in a disturbing way.

  Would-be chef Rufus can’t believe his luck when a dripping wet dream of a man walks out of the sea on his birthday, especially when Michael ends up staying at the family B&B. Life is perfect—at least until Michael has to go home to the mainland.

  Rufus can’t leave the island for reasons he’s entirely neglected to mention. And though Michael identifies as bi, breaking his mum’s heart by coming out and having an actual relationship with a guy has never been his plan. With both men determined to keep their secrets, a leap of faith could land them in deep water.

  With thanks to Kristin, Susan Sorrentino, and Josephine Myles. And with apologies to Sandown Pier, which I’m sure is entirely safe and well maintained. But honestly, people who go larking about near the water shouldn’t be surprised if they get a dunking!

  About Lovers Leap

  Chapter 1: Dive

  Chapter 2: Surge

  Chapter 3: Jerk

  Chapter 4: Bob

  Chapter 5: Plummet

  Chapter 6: Bounce

  Chapter 7: Drop

  Chapter 8: Escalate

  Chapter 9: Gambol

  Chapter 10: Skip

  Chapter 11: Soar

  Chapter 12: Somersault

  Chapter 13: Lollop

  Chapter 14: Lurch

  Chapter 15: Shake

  Chapter 16: Waver

  Chapter 17: Quiver

  Chapter 18: Wobble

  Chapter 19: Trip

  Chapter 20: Fall

  Chapter 21: Barge

  Chapter 22: Ricochet

  Chapter 23: Plunge

  Chapter 24: Hurtle

  Chapter 25: Clear

  Chapter 26: Rattle

  Chapter 27: Vault

  Chapter 28: Hurdle

  Epilogue: Caper

  Dear Reader

  Also by JL Merrow

  About the Author

  More like this

  Michael stomped along Sandown Pier, his footsteps loud on the wooden boards. The salt-laden wind was blowing right through him, last night’s beer had left him with a headache, and Trix was still talking. He should never have agreed to come on this holiday—for God’s sake, who went to the Isle of Wight in February? Far as he was concerned, there was bugger all romantic about freezing your balls off, and it wasn’t even like it was Valentine’s Day. That’d been over two weeks ago.

  It was time he ended this. Way past time. It just wasn’t working. Couldn’t she see that? Michael wasn’t even certain he was really that into girls, if he was honest with himself, which as a rule he tried not to be.

  Trix had seemed all right when she turned up at his kickboxing club a few weeks ago and they started sparring—she’d punched harder than any girl he’d met, and she had a kick like a pissed-off mule. So he’d invited her out to run with him one Saturday morning, which had ended in some X-rated shower action back at hers. She’d taken him mountain biking, which wasn’t really his thing, but getting frisky in the forest . . . Yeah, he could get behind that. He was bi, she was bi; it was like they were made for each other, right? Perfect for a bit of fun. But the trouble was, when they’d got on the ferry, he’d found out that once she had her breath back, she just never stopped talking.

  Michael was sick of trying to tune it out. He’d been hanging around hoping she’d get the message and dump him, but enough was enough. Time to cut his losses and head on home. “Sorry, love, but we gotta split up,” he said, not waiting for her to finish what she was saying because he was twenty-six already and he might not live that long.

  Trix stared at him, her mouth hanging open and silent for once, and backed off a few steps. “Hey, careful there,” Michael said, cos they’d reached the concrete bit at the end of the pier, where boats could pull in or park or whatever boats did, and the railings were pretty low.

  Then what she’d just been saying finally percolated through his brain: “Michael, babes, I love you so much, will you marry me?”

  “Uh . . .” he started.

  She didn’t give him a chance to get any further. Her cherry-red lips drawn up in a snarl, she ran at him.

  Caught unprepared, Michael didn’t offer any resistance as she gave him a bloody great shove with ten stone of kickboxing muscle behind it. His lower back hit the rail, ’cept it wasn’t a proper rail on this side, just a bit of old chain. It swung taut—and then something gave way, and it wasn’t taut anymore, and he was falling.

  Right off the end of the pier.

  It was a bit nippy that day, and Rufus wrapped his wool coat tighter around himself as he promenaded down the beach and under the barnacle-encrusted supports of Sandown Pier, master of all he surveyed. Well, technically not master of all or, in fact, any of it, but there was no one around to challenge his claim, so he could pretend it was all his.

  Mostly, obviously, it was sand, but that was all right. Rufus would never forget the first time he went to Brighton and was horrified by that quarry pit they had the nerve to call a beach there. No, as the name might tend to imply, they had proper beaches in Sandown. Which was just as well, as some might say there wasn’t much else to shout about, particularly in the winter, when the hotels and most of the shops were shut up for the off-season. Rufus, however, l
iked to think there was a certain desolate charm to the place.

  At any rate, if you wanted to go for a solitary walk on your birthday, and said birthday happened to be at the end of February, you could pretty much guarantee you wouldn’t be overwhelmed by seething throngs of people on the beach.

  It was only the fifth real birthday he’d had, having been born twenty years ago on leap day, February 29. Some people considered it unlucky, but Rufus preferred to think of it as special. Unusual things could happen on a day that only came around once every four years. After all, he’d happened on a leap day, and people were always telling him he was special, although he had a strong suspicion they didn’t necessarily mean it in a good way.

  Today, his firm belief in the specialness of leap days was amply justified.

  There was a man walking out of the sea towards him, just like Daniel Craig in Casino Royale, only he wasn’t wearing little blue trunks, which, given the current temperature, was probably just as well. No, he was fully clothed and sopping wet in the biting wind.

  Rufus stared at the man, wondering whether, in the face of this unexpected birthday present, he ought to reconsider his halfhearted Church of England agnosticism and convert to worshipping Poseidon. And whether the sea god would expect him to sacrifice his firstborn in gratitude, which was likely to prove something of a problem, what with him being gay and all.

  Rufus’s unexpected gift from the gods was tall and nicely broad-shouldered, with a fair bit of muscle—not all of that bulk was due to the Puffa jacket dripping from his shoulders. Dark-haired, although it was probably a bit lighter when it wasn’t plastered to his head with seawater. His eyes were the blue of the bay on a sunny day. Unlike the dull, muddy green it was on this particular day, which was more the colour of Rufus’s eyes. He was gorgeous, this bloke was, in a rough-diamond, macho-man way. He had the kind of looks you’d expect to see on the face of someone brandishing a cutlass and demanding you give up your booty.

  Rufus was ready to give it up all right. No question. This man was literally a wet dream, and he was walking straight towards Rufus.

  Could he be a selkie? Rufus briefly considered the possibility of seal-shifters (a) being real and (b) bothering to turn up on the Isle of Wight. In February. Yeah, get real. Anyway, from the pissed-off expression, this bloke looked like more of a sulkie.

  “You’re late,” Rufus said, unable to stop himself.

  The wet man frowned. Wetly. “You what?”

  “You’re late. The New Year’s Day swim was two months ago. And, just so you know, they usually wear actual swimming gear.”

  One dark eyebrow lifted a bit, causing a trickle of seawater to run a little more quickly down his face. He grimaced and swiped at it with one huge paw. “That what you’re hanging around here for? To ogle the blokes in their Speedos?”

  “No, obviously, because I know what month it is.” Rufus paused, but it didn’t look like he was about to get beaten up in this precise moment. And he was fairly sure he’d be able to run faster than the man in front of him, what with all those wet clothes weighing him down. “So is that what you’re wearing under that lot? Speedos?”

  “You wish.” Then he shivered. “Christ, it’s colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra. You live round here?”

  Rufus nodded. “Yeah. Not far. Queen Street. My parents have got a B&B.” He swallowed, because this was starting to seem like it might be about to turn into one of his dreams or a porno or something (not a lot of difference, if he was honest, most of the time). Was this the bit where the wet guy winked at him and said, Come on then, don’t you want to get me out of these wet clothes?

  What the wet guy actually did was scowl and say, “Well? You just gonna stand there and watch me die of hypothermia, or are you gonna get me somewhere warm?”

  Close enough.

  “All right, it’s this way. Rufus,” he added. “I mean, that’s me. Rufus Kewell.”

  The man gave him the usual disbelieving look.

  “Yes, yes, I know. Mum saw Rufus Sewell in Middlemarch and got totally besotted. Had a signed photo on her bedside table and everything, which I think Dad was amazingly understanding about. Bit of a shame I don’t look anything like him. Rufus Sewell, that is, not Dad. Apart from the height, of course. And the eyes. And the cheekbones, maybe, although actually I think mine are better than his. But as you can see, I’m totally blond. And he’s not.”

  The look went on a little longer. “Michael,” the stranger said at last. “Talk a lot, don’t you?”

  Rufus nodded. Couldn’t argue with that. “Are you here on holiday? Sorry, stupid question.” It had just popped out automatically, like the way if someone said they liked their coffee strong, you always felt you had to ask, Like your men? Well, Rufus did, anyway. “Who comes to the Isle of Wight on holiday in February?” he asked rhetorically, with a self-deprecating laugh.

  “Me, actually. With my girlfriend.”

  Well, there had only been a very small chance he’d be gay, Rufus thought philosophically, although if Poseidon thought he’d be getting any sacrifices now, he was very much mistaken.

  Michael glanced back at the pier. “Ex-girlfriend,” he amended. Then he laughed.

  Rufus perked up. Then he perked straight back down again, because even an ex-girlfriend probably meant Michael wouldn’t be up for having a boyfriend, and even if he was up for it, he didn’t live locally. But god, he was hot. Like everyone’s favourite dark and brooding hero, but with an extra dollop of dark and a great big barrelful of brood.

  “Do you want to come to mine and get dry?” Rufus asked hopefully, because even if, as was almost certainly the case, nothing would come of it, he’d still stand a very good chance of getting an eyeful.

  On the Isle of Wight in winter, you had to take your pleasures where you could find them.

  Michael gave him a withering look. “Does a hobbyhorse have a wooden dick?”

  “Not in my experience, no,” Rufus said politely. “Big childhood disappointment, actually. But I’ll take that as a yes.”

  He led the way along the Esplanade, deserted but for a few dog walkers and an elderly couple, who paused their bent-backed amble to stare myopically as Michael squelched past. “You’ll catch your death,” the old lady tutted helpfully.

  “Christ, how far is this place?” Michael muttered.

  “Not far. Just up the slipway, past the trampolines—at least, there aren’t any there now, but if it was summer, there would be—and we’re almost there.”

  “Jesus. You ever try to walk this far in wet jeans? My bollocks are gonna be rubbed raw by the time we get there.”

  Should Rufus offer to kiss them better?

  He side-eyed Michael’s broad, muscular shoulders and large, capable fists. Probably not quite this soon in their relationship.

  The small car park outside the Eldorado B&B was empty, which was good, as it meant Rufus’s dad and stepmum were still out and therefore unable to ask awkward questions, such as why Rufus was bringing a soaking-wet stranger into the house.

  Although come to think of it, they’d probably just put it down to him being Rufus.

  “This way,” he said. He led Michael around to the side and let him into their large, well-equipped kitchen. The front door, with its Victorian fanlight and antique bell push, was for guests. Meaning paying guests.

  Rufus’s room was upstairs on the first floor, one of the poky ones round the back. Well, that was his room during the summer season. Officially, in the winter, he had the nice big room at the front with the bay window, but he hadn’t quite got round to moving his stuff in there yet this year.

  Given that they had bookings for the Easter school holidays, he was beginning to suspect he might have left it a tiny bit too late to bother.

  Michael looked around. It didn’t take him long. “Bloody hell, it’s like a sodding shoebox with a bed in it. I’ve seen abandoned kittens with better accommodation than this. Your mum and dad not like you, or what?”

>   “It’s cosy,” Rufus said firmly. “Don’t drip on the duvet.”

  “What am I supposed to do with my kit, then? Hang it out the window?” He’d got his jacket off and dumped it on the floor, and was peeling off his sweater, which looked a bit sad and saggy. “Shit. I like this jumper.”

  “Maybe it’ll come up all right in the wash?” Rufus hazarded. “You get all your stuff off, and I’ll bung it in the machine.”

  “Yeah, and then what? Not like I’m gonna fit into anything of yours, is it?” He was down to his jeans now, pulling his see-through T-shirt over his head as he spoke, to display a darkly haired, muscular chest that, yes, was likely to prove a challenge to any of Rufus’s T-shirts.

  Rufus paused for a moment, pretending to be deep in thought while he gazed his fill. “I’ll get you one of my dad’s shirts. He won’t mind.” Well, he probably wouldn’t notice, which came to the same thing.

  Unfortunately, this meant Rufus had to leave the room right when Michael was undoing his jeans. Fortunately, this meant that when he got back to his bedroom, Michael was standing there stark bollock naked.

  He had one foot up on the bed and a hand holding his junk out of the way while he peered at his inner thigh. “Christ, look at that. Rubbed fucking raw.”

  Rufus swallowed, and looked. Well, he’d been invited to. It was only polite. “Yeah, that does look a bit sore. I could get some Savlon cream?” he suggested.

  “Nah, I’m not that much of a wuss.” Michael let go of his junk and took his foot off the bed. His cock fell, thick and long, between his muscular (and slightly chafed) thighs, in front of a pair of heavy, thickly furred bollocks.

  Rufus probably should have realised Michael was giving him a funny look, but in his defence, he was a bit distracted.

  “Oi. Are you perving on my dick?”

  Rufus’s face, which, let’s—hah—face it, had been feeling pretty warm already, went red-hot. “No.” It was possibly the least convincing lie he’d ever told. In a long, sad line of unconvincing lies that went all the way back to “No, I never play with dollies.”