Cutting Out

Sequel to Cleave

Hours after stepping off the yacht where they had their mock wedding, real life intrudes, and arguments arise between Sloan Driscoll and Trent Hamilton.  Seeking relief at his BDSM club, Trent bumps into an old army buddy who tells him things are different now that DADT has been repealed.   Meanwhile, Sloan receives a frantic call from ex-lover, Cole Fujiwara, who tells him that his twins and ex-wife have been kidnapped. Cole asks Sloan for help but makes him promise not to include Trent in the rescue attempt.

Trent considers the opportunity to resume a career cut short, and despite Sloan’s threat to postpone the wedding, he leaves for the Middle East as an independent mercenary while Sloan rushes to aid Cole.

In Tokyo, disturbing revelations draw the former couple together, and old feelings are rekindled. Despite this new understanding, neither man makes a move.  Sloan is focused on rescuing Cole’s family without jeopardizing his relationship with Trent, while Cole must prepare himself to survive disappointment if Sloan chooses to segue into married life as a military spouse.

Cover Artist: Anne Cain


Chapter 1

THE MINUTE I saw the furrow between Trent’s eyebrows, I knew there was a problem. When we’d left for P-town four days ago, most of the details of our over-the-top ceremony had been worked out to everyone’s satisfaction. Trent had grumbled throughout the negotiation but was convinced to allow the extravagant affair when Max showed him the staggering amount the paparazzi were willing to pay for this once-in-a-lifetime photo op. After all, we were the first celebrity couple to hop on the new right-to-marry train that had gay New Yorkers standing outside city hall in a frenzied need to join the mainstream. Now Max wanted to change everything.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” Trent snorted disapprovingly, having taken one look at the Regency wear Max had conjured up at the last minute. “There’s no way in fucking hell I’m wearing tights on my wedding day,” he continued, following up his defiant proclamation with a loud slam. He’d barricaded himself in his study and wouldn’t unlock the door despite my best imitation of Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory.

“Trent,” I begged, knocking like a demented woodpecker. “Let me in. Please? Trent… will you open the fucking door!”

After five minutes, the lock turned and the door swung open, revealing one pissed-off Dom. He’d changed into his club leathers while I was trying to get his attention and looked more formidable than ever. Before I could protest, he cut me off. “Not another word! Max isn’t subjecting us to more ridicule than necessary, Sloan. It’s bad enough you’ve agreed to be Little Lord Fauntleroy, but I absolutely refuse to look like some foppish duke to appease this sudden surge of Britishmania that’s swept the country since the royal wedding. NO. FUCKING. WAY!”

He punctuated every word with a finger poke to my chest, but I remained undeterred. “It could mean a condo overlooking Central Park.”

Trent scowled. “Since when has money been so important to you?”

“Honestly? I couldn’t give a rat’s ass, but I owe Max big-time and he’s pushing for this.”

“You’ve made him a bloody fortune over the years. Why do you think you owe him?” Trent demanded. “And while we’re on the subject of modeling, you should be the first to know I’ve about had it with the whole experience.”

“Wait—what?”

“Max can take his agency and shove it.”

“Come on, Trent. Be reasonable.” How could I explain my complex relationship with a man who’d taken me under his wing over eight years ago and turned me into a household name? I’d been nothing but an insecure cutter, underweight and miserably confused, until Max showed me that underneath the bones was a beautiful person. America had fallen in love with me, and in the process, so had Max. He’d been my lover for a very brief time, but beyond that, he’d been the mentor I’d never had, the brother Junior could never be, and the best friend anyone could ask for. I would have done anything for him, which included facing the wrath of my soon-to-be-legal husband.

“Reason has nothing to do with it!” he snapped. “I’m tired of catering to the high-and-mighty Max.”

“I know you don’t understand why I feel the way I do when it comes to Max, but it is what it is. Consider this your wedding present to me if nothing else. I would be eternally grateful.”

“No,” Trent said adamantly. “I won’t put on a powdered wig or one of those repulsive beauty marks. I’d do almost anything for you, Sloan, you know that, but don’t ask me to look like a fool on the most important day of my life.”

“Even if I lick your boots and promise a long session of bondage as your reward?”

Trent paused, appearing to consider my offer, then shook his head. “No, I’m sorry.” He brushed past me and headed toward the front door.

“Where are you going?”

“I need some time at the club to cool down.”

I turned away and let him walk out the door. There was still a part of me that hated the idea of Trent continuing his role as Dom at Wilde, the BDSM club where he and Max had first met. We’d argued about it on the yacht on our way to Provincetown, and it had almost ruined our expedition, but he’d convinced me that his need to dominate and inflict pain on a willing sub was an integral part of his makeup, and at the time, I’d accepted that as gospel, especially when he swore that sex wasn’t involved. So long as he didn’t fuck any of his subs, we were good. Still, the vision of him in black leather wielding a whip and getting turned on by a stranger made me clench my teeth and want to scratch the eyes out of his submissive-for-the-hour without an ounce of remorse. Then again, I took comfort in the fact that he would come home to me, randy and ready for a good, long session of rough pounding. It would be my reward for allowing him to have his own space.

I shrugged in resignation, hoping his time at the club would put Max’s request into perspective. Why was Trent making such a big deal over this anyway? We’d already had our private commitment ceremony, exchanging the most meaningful vows meant only for our ears. They were too personal to share with the world, and I wouldn’t have wanted to, even if Trent had insisted we reenact that special hour. Why not give the onlookers the circus instead?

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