Cover by MiblArt Design
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Taylor Ritchie has hated Christian Roquefeuil ever since they were both interns at the New York fashion company, House of Romano. Taylor is ambitious, talented, and a sociopath who had been nursing a grudge against Christian for years.
When Christian takes over House of Romano, Taylor sees an opportunity for revenge. With the aid of his boyfriend, he intends to not only destroy the company, but to publicly crush Christian at the same time. Together, they begin a dangerous game of seduction where the naïve Christian is only a beautiful puppet to be toyed with. Mike Hastings is a low-level office drone, stuck on the sidelines while Christian falls deeper and deeper into the web that Taylor has woven for him. With the make-or-break Spring collection on the horizon, it might just be down to a cheap suit in payroll to save Christian from the inevitable crash and burn. Naked Ambition is a dark and modern M/M retelling of The Emperor’s New Clothes. Grim and Sinister Delights is a dark romance series based on classic fairy tales and stories. You will find standalone tales of gay romance that range in darkness and kinks. If you dare to take the challenge, read them all to find yourself lost in a classic that you think you know. These stories are for adult readers and may contain morally ambiguous themes. |
No one does dark and twisted quite like Lisa Henry.
- Joyfully Jay
- Joyfully Jay
An excerpt from Naked Ambition:
The funeral was held at the Holy Cross Church, the red-brick façade looking darker in the icy rain. Ribbons of water twisted down the bricks like bloody tears. It was a cold, bitter November morning, which seemed apt, although Taylor was never prone to sentimentality. As many people were buried on glorious summer days as days like these, after all. The funeral was packed with more celebrities than Luca’s last show, and the paparazzi lined the rain-spattered sidewalk outside the church. Taylor walked in with his head held high, Connor at his side.
A few cameras flashed as they passed, and why wouldn’t they? Taylor knew he and Connor looked hot together. They were a good-looking couple: Taylor was a little taller, but not tall enough that he couldn’t borrow Connor’s clothes in a pinch, and Connor was more built because he liked to work out. Connor had that clean cut All-American look working for him, while Taylor was a little edgier, a little more subversive. Connor’s hair was brown with natural golden highlights and a conservative business cut, while Taylor’s was dyed black and cut asymmetrically, shaved close on the left side, while on the right side his bangs were long enough to tuck behind his ear when he worked. It was obvious which one of them worked in fashion.
Inside the church was brighter. Lighting revealed statues of saints in ornate alcoves here and there. Everything was gilt and intricate and overdone—bordering on kitsch in a very Catholic kind of way. Taylor and Connor found a pew in the middle with a few places still vacant.
“Is that him?” Connor asked in a low murmur as they took their seats.
Taylor looked up from the ornate Order of Service someone had handed him. “No, that’s one of the models. The little fuck-slut is blond.”
And then the sea of black parted, and there he was, Christian Roquefeuil. He looked like something one of the Pre-Raphaelites had painted, with those angelic curls, those soulful blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, and that pouty, cock-sucking mouth. He was wearing a form-fitting charcoal Luca Romano suit from this year’s collection, and he looked as mouth-wateringly good as he had the first time Taylor had seen him. Even the circles around his eyes made him deliciously fuckable. He looked pale and fragile enough to break, and Taylor would have very much enjoyed being the one to do it.
“That’s him,” he whispered to Connor.
Connor blinked in surprise. “And he’s not a model?”
Taylor disguised his snort of laughter as a sob, and held his Order of Service up to hide the curl of his mouth.
Christian Roquefeuil, a model? He had the looks, true, but Christian was a total prude. He’d once blushed when Taylor had told him his shirt would look better with a couple of buttons undone. God, how had Luca even been able to bear sticking his dick in a block of ice like Christian? Maybe that’s what killed him.
Taylor watched as Christian was escorted up the aisle to the front pew by Abigail Stratton, Luca’s business partner. Abigail didn’t know a damn thing about fashion design, and the frumpy cut of her black dress showed it, but she knew how to run a business. She’d been Luca’s numbers woman for over twenty years. She didn’t look happy about babysitting Christian, but then Abigail never looked happy about anything. And maybe Taylor was reading too much into her stony expression. She was allowed to be unhappy. Her friend was dead, after all.
Taylor glanced down the pew. Eddie had somehow wormed his way this close to the front, and was already clutching a handkerchief in preparation for what would no doubt by some stellar theatrical tears. He was sitting with some guy wearing glasses and a suit that had clearly been bought from the rack. Taylor thought the guy was from IT, or the mailroom, or payroll, or something boring and unimportant. Mark? Mike? It didn’t matter. Taylor’s lip curled at the sight of the guy’s hair brushing the back of his collar. He couldn’t even get a haircut for today, when there were paps lining the street outside? Some people had no sense of occasion. Even Christian, who looked like he was a heartbeat away from a total fucking breakdown, had styled his hair.
“He’s hot,” Connor murmured, and for a moment Taylor thought he was talking about the IT guy, before he saw that Connor’s dark gaze was still trained on Christian.
“He’s a total fucking drag,” he whispered back, rolling his eyes. “God knows what Luca saw in him.”
Taylor and Christian had started their internships on the same day, both of them aiming at becoming designers. Christian’s designs were dull as dishwater, just like Christian himself. In the beginning, Taylor had been naïve enough to wonder why Christian had even gotten an internship. His work was pedestrian at best, but Luca had said something about Christian having good foundation skills. Taylor, like an idiot, had believed him. Then, after Luca was done with Taylor, he’d moved right on to Christian and it had all made sudden, awful sense. What hadn’t made sense, and what still didn’t, was that Christian hadn’t just been one more fling for Luca. Luca had made him his boyfriend.
For six fucking years that knowledge had burned in Taylor’s gut. Six fucking years, when everyone knew that Taylor’s designs were better, that Taylor was smarter and more creative, and that Taylor was pushing boundaries that Christian didn’t even see, and Luca had chosen Christian because he was prettier.
It burned like acid.
“Careful, lover,” Connor murmured, and Taylor looked down and realized with surprise that he’d torn the cover of his Order of Service, right down the middle of Luca Romano’s handsome, smiling face.
The funeral was held at the Holy Cross Church, the red-brick façade looking darker in the icy rain. Ribbons of water twisted down the bricks like bloody tears. It was a cold, bitter November morning, which seemed apt, although Taylor was never prone to sentimentality. As many people were buried on glorious summer days as days like these, after all. The funeral was packed with more celebrities than Luca’s last show, and the paparazzi lined the rain-spattered sidewalk outside the church. Taylor walked in with his head held high, Connor at his side.
A few cameras flashed as they passed, and why wouldn’t they? Taylor knew he and Connor looked hot together. They were a good-looking couple: Taylor was a little taller, but not tall enough that he couldn’t borrow Connor’s clothes in a pinch, and Connor was more built because he liked to work out. Connor had that clean cut All-American look working for him, while Taylor was a little edgier, a little more subversive. Connor’s hair was brown with natural golden highlights and a conservative business cut, while Taylor’s was dyed black and cut asymmetrically, shaved close on the left side, while on the right side his bangs were long enough to tuck behind his ear when he worked. It was obvious which one of them worked in fashion.
Inside the church was brighter. Lighting revealed statues of saints in ornate alcoves here and there. Everything was gilt and intricate and overdone—bordering on kitsch in a very Catholic kind of way. Taylor and Connor found a pew in the middle with a few places still vacant.
“Is that him?” Connor asked in a low murmur as they took their seats.
Taylor looked up from the ornate Order of Service someone had handed him. “No, that’s one of the models. The little fuck-slut is blond.”
And then the sea of black parted, and there he was, Christian Roquefeuil. He looked like something one of the Pre-Raphaelites had painted, with those angelic curls, those soulful blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, and that pouty, cock-sucking mouth. He was wearing a form-fitting charcoal Luca Romano suit from this year’s collection, and he looked as mouth-wateringly good as he had the first time Taylor had seen him. Even the circles around his eyes made him deliciously fuckable. He looked pale and fragile enough to break, and Taylor would have very much enjoyed being the one to do it.
“That’s him,” he whispered to Connor.
Connor blinked in surprise. “And he’s not a model?”
Taylor disguised his snort of laughter as a sob, and held his Order of Service up to hide the curl of his mouth.
Christian Roquefeuil, a model? He had the looks, true, but Christian was a total prude. He’d once blushed when Taylor had told him his shirt would look better with a couple of buttons undone. God, how had Luca even been able to bear sticking his dick in a block of ice like Christian? Maybe that’s what killed him.
Taylor watched as Christian was escorted up the aisle to the front pew by Abigail Stratton, Luca’s business partner. Abigail didn’t know a damn thing about fashion design, and the frumpy cut of her black dress showed it, but she knew how to run a business. She’d been Luca’s numbers woman for over twenty years. She didn’t look happy about babysitting Christian, but then Abigail never looked happy about anything. And maybe Taylor was reading too much into her stony expression. She was allowed to be unhappy. Her friend was dead, after all.
Taylor glanced down the pew. Eddie had somehow wormed his way this close to the front, and was already clutching a handkerchief in preparation for what would no doubt by some stellar theatrical tears. He was sitting with some guy wearing glasses and a suit that had clearly been bought from the rack. Taylor thought the guy was from IT, or the mailroom, or payroll, or something boring and unimportant. Mark? Mike? It didn’t matter. Taylor’s lip curled at the sight of the guy’s hair brushing the back of his collar. He couldn’t even get a haircut for today, when there were paps lining the street outside? Some people had no sense of occasion. Even Christian, who looked like he was a heartbeat away from a total fucking breakdown, had styled his hair.
“He’s hot,” Connor murmured, and for a moment Taylor thought he was talking about the IT guy, before he saw that Connor’s dark gaze was still trained on Christian.
“He’s a total fucking drag,” he whispered back, rolling his eyes. “God knows what Luca saw in him.”
Taylor and Christian had started their internships on the same day, both of them aiming at becoming designers. Christian’s designs were dull as dishwater, just like Christian himself. In the beginning, Taylor had been naïve enough to wonder why Christian had even gotten an internship. His work was pedestrian at best, but Luca had said something about Christian having good foundation skills. Taylor, like an idiot, had believed him. Then, after Luca was done with Taylor, he’d moved right on to Christian and it had all made sudden, awful sense. What hadn’t made sense, and what still didn’t, was that Christian hadn’t just been one more fling for Luca. Luca had made him his boyfriend.
For six fucking years that knowledge had burned in Taylor’s gut. Six fucking years, when everyone knew that Taylor’s designs were better, that Taylor was smarter and more creative, and that Taylor was pushing boundaries that Christian didn’t even see, and Luca had chosen Christian because he was prettier.
It burned like acid.
“Careful, lover,” Connor murmured, and Taylor looked down and realized with surprise that he’d torn the cover of his Order of Service, right down the middle of Luca Romano’s handsome, smiling face.