Because of a deathbed promise to his father, Elijah Peck reluctantly left his friends and successful career in Bridgeport to return to Willowby, Connecticut, the small town of his upbringing, in order to run the antique shop that had been in his family for generations. Now, in just the span of two years, Eli has morphed into a social recluse, isolated in what he believes is a stuffy, suffocating nowheresville. With no thriving gay community at his disposal, and with his entire existence wrapped around the store he never really wanted, Eli's devoted little time to his personal needs. As a result, instead of acting like a man in his mid-thirties, living out his own dreams, maybe even finding love with the right guy, he often feels like just another item in his shop -- a dusty, moldy antique that has seen better days.<br><br>But all that starts to change when a stranger moves to Willowby.<br><br>One night outside his shop, Eli has a chance encounter with Neville "Gray" Grayson, a wickedly handsome musician who's purposely left the bustle of New York City in favor of quiet country living. Eli is instantly drawn to Gray, and the flirtatious jazzman stirs dormant feelings inside Eli, reinvigorating his hopes for a brighter future. Not only does Gray make Eli feel attractive for the first time in years, but also makes him appreciate small-town life in a way he never has before. And Eli can't help but wonder if Gray's presence also offers the promise of finding much-needed companionship, sexual fulfillment, and perhaps even love ...

When the Jazzman Sings

Gray looked up at me. His ever-present grin had disappeared, replaced by an expression of profound solemnity. “I want you so fucking badly, Eli. I hope you have no plans for the remainder of the day.”


“N-none what-whatsoever,” I gasped.


“Good.” He gave my knob a quick suck. “Then tell me everything.”


“I want to know what you did last night.” He kissed the head of my cock. “After I left you on the sidewalk.”


“I want a vivid step-by-step replay—”


Another kiss, this one gentler, breathier, lingering.


“—Or rather, a stroke-by-stroke retelling of how you toyed with this tasty dick. How and where you touched your sexy body—”


He tongued up another bead of pre-cum and ran his hands under my T-shirt, up and over my six-pack and along my treasure trail of fur.


“—How hard or soft you jacked this beautiful prick—”


Chapter 21