Testing Lysander Read online

  Table of Contents

  Legal Page

  Title Page

  Book Description

  Dedication

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  New Excerpt

  About the Author

  Publisher Page

  Testing Lysander

  ISBN # 978-1-78651-668-8

  ©Copyright L.M. Somerton 2018

  Cover Art by Cora Graphics ©Copyright June 2018

  Edited by Sue Meadows and Rebecca Scott

  Pride Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Pride Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Pride Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2018 by Pride Publishing, UK

  Pride Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.

  TESTING LYSANDER

  L.M. Somerton

  Feel the fear and do it anyway.

  Extreme photographer Lysander Brock is accustomed to challenging places and situations but nothing can prepare him for the journey that his dominant lover, Kyle Dawson, takes him on.

  A commission to photograph the cloud forests of the Colombian Andes becomes the cover for a dangerous mission to expose a terrorist group. Brock and Lysander must negotiate treacherous terrain, a hazardous climb and unexplored caves to achieve their goal.

  When Lysander is captured and tortured, he has no expectations of rescue. He understands that his life comes second to the mission but Kyle has no intention of leaving his beautiful, submissive lover in the hands of a madman. Kyle can deal with the intense pressure of fighting lethal enemies but the guilt of pushing Lysander into a life he never asked for is much harder to accept.

  Lysander and Kyle journey together into a life of adventure, dominance and submission, and an uncertain future.

  Dedication

  To finding your passion

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  National Geographic: National Geographic Society

  Mars Bar: Mars, Incorporated

  Virgin Atlantic: Virgin Atlantic Airways Limited

  Deep Impact: Paramount Pictures

  Max Payne: 20th Century Fox

  Die Hard: 20th Century Fox

  Miami Dolphins: National Football League

  BMW: Bayerische Motoren Werke AG

  Indiana Jones: Paramount Pictures

  The Orchids Hotel: The Orchids Hotel, Bogata

  3 Cordilleras Mestiza: 3 Cordilleras Brewery

  Wanderlust: The Haymarket Group

  Stanley Knife: Stanley Black & Decker Inc.

  Moët: Moët & Chandon

  Maglite: Mag Instrument, Inc.

  Cessna: Cessna Aircraft Company

  iPod: Apple, Inc.

  Mini: Bayerishe Motoren Werke AG

  Wuthering Heights: Charlotte Brontë

  Range Rover: Tata Group

  Aga: Aga Rangemaster Group

  Outdoor Photography: GMC Publications

  Shutterbug: Ten: Sports and Entertainment Group

  Sharpie: Newell Rubbermaid

  Hobnobs: McVitie’s

  Jeep: FCA US LLC

  Chapter One

  “You need your head read, young man. You treat photography like an extreme sport.”

  “And your bedside manner needs some work, Doc.” Brock winced and gritted his teeth as another needle punctured his flesh.

  “Would you rather I patted your head and gave you a sugar lump?”

  “Is that what you did in the army?” Brock often thought that his doctor forgot he was now dealing with delicate civilians.

  “Most squaddies would run away screaming at the sight of a needle if it didn’t mean disciplinary action. I often wish the same principles could be applied to my patients here.”

  Brock squirmed. “I don’t remember vaccinations ever being this painful and I’ve had enough of them over the years”

  The doctor grinned. “Baby. Okay, that was the last one. You can pull your trousers up.”

  He peeled off his gloves and threw the used syringe into a special bin that his nurse held out for him.

  “You may experience some flu-like symptoms over the next twenty-four hours, and you’ll probably get some localized bruising, but if you feel any worse than that, give me a call. When are you traveling?”

  “Ten days’ time.” Brock smiled and got to his feet. “Then I’ll be out there for four weeks. I know I should have come in sooner.”

  “Yes, you should. Still, better now than not at all. Well, good luck. Stay safe. Bring me back another picture for the wall in reception.”

  Brock pulled the consulting room door closed behind him but still overheard the doctor as he said, “Colombia! I don’t know whether he’s brave, stupid or just too young to know any better!”

  Brock waited for the nurse to respond, but nothing happened.

  “Linda! Quit mooning over him and get the room ready for the next patient.”

  “But he’s so gorgeous, Doc. I could definitely be tempted to get unprofessional with him!”

  Brock winced. Not in this lifetime.

  The doctor chuckled. “Forget it! He’s more likely to go for me than you.”

  There was a groan. “Oh, for goodness sake, I know it’s a cliché, but I’m going to say it anyway. Why are all the pretty ones either married or gay? That is a serious loss to womankind.”

  Brock shook his head, stepped away from the door then headed for the exit. He didn’t mind the comments. Linda said the same thing every time she saw him, and, as he used his brother’s house a lot when he was traveling, that was frequently. Outside the surgery, the weather was doing its best impression of a tropical monsoon, though without the heat. The rain beat down onto pavements already awash after days of continuous downpours. In the distance, thunder rumbled ominously and the sky had a threatening purple hue that spoke of more rain to come.

  Brock looked up just as lightning split the sky. The rain got even harder. He turned up the collar of his waterproof coat and grimaced at the trickle of cold water that immediately slid down his neck. In seconds, his hair was soaked and plastered to his head. He hunched his shoulders and lengthened his stride toward home—though it wasn’t strictly his home. He was just house-sitting while his brother, sister-in-law and two young nephews spent their annual fortnight’s holiday on one of the Balearic Islands�
��he couldn’t remember which one.

  Brock spent such a lot of time traveling on photographic assignments that he’d never bothered to get his own place. When he was in England, he spent the time with his brother’s family or returned to his mum and dad’s rambling old place in Northumberland. Their house was so big, and they were both so busy with various pet projects and charities, that he could probably have lived there full-time without them even noticing his presence. Brock smiled to himself at the thought—he was very fond of his eccentric parents.

  He soon arrived at the edge of the new estate where his brother’s house sat on a decent-sized plot, halfway down a tree-lined avenue. Despite the miserable weather, he felt uncomfortably warm and was glad to make it to the sanctuary of the front hall, where a small puddle gathered around his feet as he stripped off dripping outdoor clothes and boots. Feeling progressively worse, he caught his reflection in the hall mirror and grimaced. His skin appeared clammy and his hands shook a little.

  “Bloody vaccinations,” he muttered. He climbed the stairs slowly, passing a number of his own framed photographs, and headed for the guest room bed. “Better just sleep it off.” He grabbed a towel from the en suite, gave his hair a rub then stripped to his underwear. Drawing the curtains, he frowned at the sheets of driving rain. He could just make out the shape of a man sheltering under a tree opposite the house. “Blimey, he must be soaked.” Despite his desire to get into his comfy bed to sleep away the after-effects of his inoculations as quickly as possible, Brock shrugged into his dressing gown then went back downstairs to the hallway to grab an umbrella. If the guy had to be outside, at least he could stay a little drier. By the time he went to the front door, the man was gone. Had he even been there, or was it a side-effect of the injections the doctor hadn’t warned him about? He trudged back to the bedroom, finished pulling the curtains closed then took off his robe. He slid gratefully between cool sheets as his body reacted to the cocktail of drugs swimming through his system. Sleep came quickly and he drifted into dreams of distant jungles and the amazing pictures he would take.

  * * * *

  Outside, under the dripping tree, Kyle Dawson shifted uncomfortably. He had just been treated to a glimpse of the most tempting body he’d seen in some time and his cock had started dancing to its own tune despite the cold, damp conditions. He shook water droplets from the caped shoulders of his long, waxed coat and tilted the brim of his hat forward a bit further. Kyle knew exactly where the subject of his observation had been that day, indeed for the last two weeks, though today was the first time he had gotten close to Brock’s home.

  He closed his eyes and recalled the details of the file he had been given. Lysander Brock, known as Brock to his friends—parents clearly had a thing for Shakespeare because his brother’s name was Ferdinand. Six feet tall, blond hair, blue eyes—stunning blue eyes in Kyle’s opinion—one-hundred-eighty pounds—all completely edible—aged twenty-five. Permanent address listed at his parents’ home in Northumberland. Professional photographer with work published in every travel and wildlife publication worth reading. Very well-traveled, with skills that included caving, climbing and hiking. Currently unattached. Two previous boyfriends known, neither particularly serious.

  Or deserving, Kyle thought grumpily.

  He pictured the photo hidden in his inside pocket and licked his lips. He knew he should be maintaining a cold, clinical approach to the task ahead but, for Christ’s sake, this guy was stunning and there was no harm in dreaming. After all, he’d been chosen for the job specifically because he was also gay. His bosses had thought he would blend in better if he needed to follow his quarry to gay pubs and clubs, though, in the end, that had not been necessary. Lysander Brock led a very quiet life when he wasn’t working.

  “You’d have no chance, you idiot,” Kyle muttered under his breath, “even if you weren’t about to ruin his day.”

  He looked around to make sure he was unobserved then crossed the road. The appalling weather worked in his favor, as very few people were out and about. Confident that there was no one around to witness his swift journey across the garden and, through the unlocked gate, he slipped down the path at the side of the house and into the back garden of the property. Tall hedges and mature trees shielded it from the neighboring houses, giving him all the time in the world to pick the lock on the door and slip into the kitchen.

  Kyle found the back door key on a wall hook. He relocked the door, slid the additional bolt shut and tucked the key into his pocket. Taking his time, he removed his wet coat and hat and hung them over a chair. The layout of the house was stored in his head so he moved confidently to the front door to set the deadbolts. Secure in the knowledge that Brock would not be able to run, he crept up the stairs and peered around the door of the guest bedroom. Kyle had to bite down on his lip as he saw the young man in the bed, sound asleep. Brock had pushed the covers down to his hips, one arm was flung out to the side and his smooth, hairless chest rose and fell gently as he breathed. His face was a little flushed but, other than that, he seemed at peace. Kyle resisted the temptation to pull the covers down a little farther, backed away then crept downstairs to the kitchen. He took one of the chairs set around the kitchen table and turned it so that he could face the door to the hall then he settled down to wait.

  * * * *

  When Brock awoke, it was already very dark. For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was then it all came back, along with awareness of a pounding headache hammering at his temples. He climbed carefully out of bed, trying not to jog his head too much, and stretched.

  “I need aspirin. Lots of aspirin,” he whispered, and felt his way along the bed to the door. He didn’t bother to dress—he was wearing a pair of dark gray trunks and had no intention of doing anything other than taking painkillers, swallowing a glass of water and returning to his cozy bed.

  After a quick visit to the bathroom, he fought momentary giddiness and descended the stairs, gripping the banister. The darkness was soothing and he didn’t need lights to find his way around, so he made it to the kitchen where he grabbed tablets from a drawer without too much fumbling. He took a tumbler from the draining board then pulled open the door of the fridge to get a bottle of water. The bright light from the fridge’s interior lit the room with a blue-white glow, giving shape to the dark figure seated in a chair across the kitchen units from him.

  Glass shattered across the tiled floor as Brock dropped the tumbler.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  He groped for the knife block but soon realized that it was gone and there was nothing else to hand that he could use as a weapon.

  “Please calm down, Lysander. I don’t intend to hurt you unless I have to.”

  The voice was deep, sonorous and scarily calm.

  “How do you know my name? Who are you?” Brock felt extremely vulnerable, semi-naked in the company of an intruder who had a clear advantage over him.

  “Come over here and sit down. Then I’ll tell you.”

  Brock shook his head and edged away then he turned and ran for the hall. He yanked at the front door but it was locked and there was no sign of the key to release the deadbolts. The stranger followed him into the hall and now stood blocking any other escape route. Brock turned and pressed himself back against unyielding wood.

  “There’s nowhere to run. The back door is locked too. Now, come and sit down.”

  His voice betrayed no sign of impatience, but there was an edge to his tone that suggested the man was used to being obeyed. Brock tried to calm his pounding heart and played for time. “Can I at least put some clothes on?”

  “No. I like you just the way you are.” The intruder examined him from head to toe, pausing a little too long in the middle. “Nowhere to hide any sharp implements.” He gestured at the kitchen door and waited for Brock to move.

  The gap was narrow and Brock was forced to brush against him, the skin-tight fabric of his trunks rucked up to expose the curve of his ass and he t
hought he heard a hiss of frustration behind him.

  Brock sat at the kitchen table and tried to ignore the sensation of cold wood against his thighs. He winced as the light went on, remembering the reason he had come downstairs in the first place.

  “Would you like those painkillers now?” the intruder asked, placing a fresh glass of water and the tablets on the table.

  Brock nodded. There was no need to refuse them just for the sake of being awkward. He swallowed the pills and kept his hand wrapped around the heavy glass, thinking it might provide a useful weapon.

  “I’m not going to be able to trust you, am I?”

  Before Brock could react to the words, the stranger produced a pair of rigid handcuffs, pulled Brock’s arms roughly behind the chair and locked his wrists into unyielding metal bracelets.

  “Better. Now we can talk without me wondering what you’ll try to brain me with.”

  Brock tested the security of the cuffs but they were bruisingly tight and he soon realized that struggling was futile. His captor sat and smirked at him, though his eyes seemed to drift hungrily downward at regular intervals.

  Brock took the opportunity to take a good look at the man opposite him. He was tall, maybe a couple of inches taller than his own six feet, and more heavily built—very muscular. He had short, dark hair and smoky gray eyes. No beard, but enough stubble to suggest that shaving once a day would not be enough. Brock had to admit that he was very good looking, even with the scar that ran from the corner of one eye, down his cheekbone. Dressed all in black, it was clear that he was in good shape. Arms jutting from rolled-up sleeves were firm and tanned, dusted with dark hair. Against his will, Brock’s dick gave a little jerk. It obviously didn’t care about the circumstances and knew what it liked. He peeked up into amused eyes.