Cover Art by Booksmith Designs
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Xander Finch is a top-ranked MotoGP rider, desperate to get back to the circuit after an injury. He’s going stir-crazy in his parents’ house in Ventura while he works on his recovery. Xander has tunnel vision when it comes to his sport—it’s all he’s ever wanted to do in life. When he hires a massage therapist to help speed up his recovery, he’s not expecting the guy to completely flip his universe on its head.
Ollie Baker is living in his car after a disastrous break-up, and jumps at the chance to earn some extra cash through massage. Xander Finch might be hot as hell, but Ollie’s not going there. He’s never going to let some rich guy screw him over again. Besides, Xander’s straight. Isn’t he? When their friendship deepens into something more, Xander discovers that Ollie makes him feel a way that nobody ever has before, and maybe motorbikes aren’t his only passion after all. Navigating Xander’s newly discovered demisexuality isn’t the only challenge they’ll have to face if they’re going to be together, because Ollie’s been burned before. It’s hard for him to trust Xander, to believe that he’s really willing to make room in his life for Ollie as well as his racing—assuming he recovers enough to race at all. Only for Ollie is the third book in the Star Crossed series, where regular guys meet famous ones, and sparks fly. |
"The whole series has been amazing so far but I think this one might be my favourite!"
- MM Romance Reviewed
"Readers looking for a captivating story, filled with strongly defined characters, will not be disappointed... It’s delightful, steamy and has all the feels while being completely believable and authentic."
- Kimmers Erotic Book Banter
- MM Romance Reviewed
"Readers looking for a captivating story, filled with strongly defined characters, will not be disappointed... It’s delightful, steamy and has all the feels while being completely believable and authentic."
- Kimmers Erotic Book Banter
An excerpt from Only for Ollie:
Xander drifted under Ollie’s touch. The guy didn’t look like much—a little short, a little skinny, a little gawky, one of those guys that looked like a half-grown clumsy pup, limbs too big for him. He’d probably spend his whole life looking like he was still growing into himself—but he had good hands. Big, solid hands, with a strong, dexterous touch that was at odds with his awkwardness, and Xander very slowly relaxed under him.
He hadn’t even known how much tension he was holding until it began to lift. Muscles he’d been holding too tight for too long twitched and jerked as they released, and Ollie’s hands pushed strangled sounds out of him. He had the sudden crazy idea that he’d been holding a part of the same breath in his lungs for months since the accident, and at last it was escaping him in a wheezing sigh.
Jesus.
It felt as though Ollie was remaking him, and he fought down the crazy urge to cry in sheer relief.
Ollie dug his thumbs in his shoulders, making a humming sound as he found the knots there. “So what is it that you do, Xander?”
His mouth twitched at the question, because he never knew how to answer it without feeling like a dick. Jesus, he was famous, just not Zane Finch of Static famous. “I race motorcycles.”
It was weird having a conversation with the ground underneath the table. He watched a beetle creep along the gap between two whitewashed concrete pavers. Before Zane had paid to get the house renovated, the pavers out here had been brown and uneven; a tripping hazard, no doubt. The pool area now looked like a resort, or Zane’s Malibu mansion.
Ollie’s hands paused for a moment before resuming. “Oh, wow. That sounds interesting. Are you any good?”
This time the twitch was almost a laugh. “Yeah, not bad. I finished last year just outside the top ten in the world. Unlucky thirteen.”
“Oh!”
“Not a fan, huh? Or an ESPN viewer?”
Ollie’s relief that he wasn’t offended was palpable. “Oh, no, not at all, sorry. I didn’t even know there was a track around here.”
“There’s not. I’m based out of Assen, in the Netherlands, but we tour a lot. I was back home visiting the family when I did this.” His gut clenched at the memory. “Fell off a ladder, if you can believe that bullshit.”
“Household accidents result in three times more deaths than car crashes,” Ollie said. His voice was soft, but not soft enough that Xander had to strain to hear it. It was soothing, despite the subject matter. “Falls are the most common cause of non-lethal household injuries, and the second most common cause of deaths in household accidents after poisoning. I learned that in class.”
“Poisoning?”
“Not like a woman putting arsenic in her husband’s drink,” Ollie said, and Xander snorted because that was exactly what he’d been thinking. “It’s misusing chemical cleaners, or kids getting into the medicine cabinet, things like that.”
He groaned as Ollie worked at a hard knot deep under his shoulder blade. “Jesus.”
Ollie made a sympathetic sound but didn’t let up until he was ready. “Okay?”
He drew a shaky breath. “Yeah.”
Ollie’s next touches, long sweeps of his hands down either side of his spine, were gentler. “The Netherlands. Wow. Do you like it there?”
“It’s a beautiful country. I like it a lot.”
He found himself telling Ollie about Assen, about how old everything was there, and how it still blew his mind sometimes. His apartment on Zuidersingel that was poky by American standards, but was bright and modern, and overlooked Gouverneurspark where he jogged most evenings. He was hardly ever there for any length of time—he spent nine months of every year either packing or unpacking his suitcase—but for the last four years it had been his home base.
“Do you miss it?” Ollie asked, digging his elbow into Xander’s back.
He grunted again. “I miss racing. Don’t really care where I have to live to do it.”
Ollie’s touch gentled, his fingers slipping over the knots in his spine and tracing lines on his back. “What do you love about it?”
“I like to go fast,” he said, his voice cracking a little, because talking about it hurt as much as the most excruciating parts of this massage, without the payoff of the relief that immediately came flooding in. “Always have, ever since I was a kid. Just something about it, seeing how far you can push yourself, and your bike, feels incredible. It’s the greatest feeling in the world.”
The greatest feeling in the world, and a part of him was terrified he wouldn’t get to experience it again. Xander refused to admit to himself that it was even a possibility, but the longer it took to get back on his feet, the harder it was to ignore.
Ollie curled his hands around his shoulders, his fingers digging in like they were seeking entrance between his muscle and bone. It hurt, but it was a different sort of pain than he was used to. This felt transformative. “How fast do you go?”
“Depends on the track and the conditions.” He closes his eyes briefly. “Depends on a lot of things. The top speed ever recorded is by Johann Zarco. He got to 362.6 kilometers an hour. That’s 225.2 miles an hour.”
Ollie’s hands splayed. “Holy shit! That’s insane!”
“Yeah.” He smiled. “It’s something, alright. The right conditions, a good tailwind, and getting into a slipstream…a lot of things have to align to get to a speed like that. And he was on a Ducati, of course.”
Ollie made a questioning sound.
“Ducatis are incredible. I’d fucking love to ride for their team one day. Allard’s been great to me, but Ducati?” He exhaled. “Hell, I’d sell my soul to ride for Ducati.”
He came back to himself in a sudden, stomach-dropping moment of realization. It didn’t fucking matter who he wanted to ride for if his leg didn’t heal. If his dizzy spells didn’t stop.
“What was that?” Ollie asked softly, pressing the heel of his palm into a tender spot at the top of Xander’s spine. “You tensed up again.”
He stared at the beetle still making its slow, painstaking progress across the paving stones. “It was nothing,” he lied.
Ollie didn’t say anything. He just went back to work, but the gentle sweep of his hand on the back of his neck felt both solicitous and too knowing.
Xander drifted under Ollie’s touch. The guy didn’t look like much—a little short, a little skinny, a little gawky, one of those guys that looked like a half-grown clumsy pup, limbs too big for him. He’d probably spend his whole life looking like he was still growing into himself—but he had good hands. Big, solid hands, with a strong, dexterous touch that was at odds with his awkwardness, and Xander very slowly relaxed under him.
He hadn’t even known how much tension he was holding until it began to lift. Muscles he’d been holding too tight for too long twitched and jerked as they released, and Ollie’s hands pushed strangled sounds out of him. He had the sudden crazy idea that he’d been holding a part of the same breath in his lungs for months since the accident, and at last it was escaping him in a wheezing sigh.
Jesus.
It felt as though Ollie was remaking him, and he fought down the crazy urge to cry in sheer relief.
Ollie dug his thumbs in his shoulders, making a humming sound as he found the knots there. “So what is it that you do, Xander?”
His mouth twitched at the question, because he never knew how to answer it without feeling like a dick. Jesus, he was famous, just not Zane Finch of Static famous. “I race motorcycles.”
It was weird having a conversation with the ground underneath the table. He watched a beetle creep along the gap between two whitewashed concrete pavers. Before Zane had paid to get the house renovated, the pavers out here had been brown and uneven; a tripping hazard, no doubt. The pool area now looked like a resort, or Zane’s Malibu mansion.
Ollie’s hands paused for a moment before resuming. “Oh, wow. That sounds interesting. Are you any good?”
This time the twitch was almost a laugh. “Yeah, not bad. I finished last year just outside the top ten in the world. Unlucky thirteen.”
“Oh!”
“Not a fan, huh? Or an ESPN viewer?”
Ollie’s relief that he wasn’t offended was palpable. “Oh, no, not at all, sorry. I didn’t even know there was a track around here.”
“There’s not. I’m based out of Assen, in the Netherlands, but we tour a lot. I was back home visiting the family when I did this.” His gut clenched at the memory. “Fell off a ladder, if you can believe that bullshit.”
“Household accidents result in three times more deaths than car crashes,” Ollie said. His voice was soft, but not soft enough that Xander had to strain to hear it. It was soothing, despite the subject matter. “Falls are the most common cause of non-lethal household injuries, and the second most common cause of deaths in household accidents after poisoning. I learned that in class.”
“Poisoning?”
“Not like a woman putting arsenic in her husband’s drink,” Ollie said, and Xander snorted because that was exactly what he’d been thinking. “It’s misusing chemical cleaners, or kids getting into the medicine cabinet, things like that.”
He groaned as Ollie worked at a hard knot deep under his shoulder blade. “Jesus.”
Ollie made a sympathetic sound but didn’t let up until he was ready. “Okay?”
He drew a shaky breath. “Yeah.”
Ollie’s next touches, long sweeps of his hands down either side of his spine, were gentler. “The Netherlands. Wow. Do you like it there?”
“It’s a beautiful country. I like it a lot.”
He found himself telling Ollie about Assen, about how old everything was there, and how it still blew his mind sometimes. His apartment on Zuidersingel that was poky by American standards, but was bright and modern, and overlooked Gouverneurspark where he jogged most evenings. He was hardly ever there for any length of time—he spent nine months of every year either packing or unpacking his suitcase—but for the last four years it had been his home base.
“Do you miss it?” Ollie asked, digging his elbow into Xander’s back.
He grunted again. “I miss racing. Don’t really care where I have to live to do it.”
Ollie’s touch gentled, his fingers slipping over the knots in his spine and tracing lines on his back. “What do you love about it?”
“I like to go fast,” he said, his voice cracking a little, because talking about it hurt as much as the most excruciating parts of this massage, without the payoff of the relief that immediately came flooding in. “Always have, ever since I was a kid. Just something about it, seeing how far you can push yourself, and your bike, feels incredible. It’s the greatest feeling in the world.”
The greatest feeling in the world, and a part of him was terrified he wouldn’t get to experience it again. Xander refused to admit to himself that it was even a possibility, but the longer it took to get back on his feet, the harder it was to ignore.
Ollie curled his hands around his shoulders, his fingers digging in like they were seeking entrance between his muscle and bone. It hurt, but it was a different sort of pain than he was used to. This felt transformative. “How fast do you go?”
“Depends on the track and the conditions.” He closes his eyes briefly. “Depends on a lot of things. The top speed ever recorded is by Johann Zarco. He got to 362.6 kilometers an hour. That’s 225.2 miles an hour.”
Ollie’s hands splayed. “Holy shit! That’s insane!”
“Yeah.” He smiled. “It’s something, alright. The right conditions, a good tailwind, and getting into a slipstream…a lot of things have to align to get to a speed like that. And he was on a Ducati, of course.”
Ollie made a questioning sound.
“Ducatis are incredible. I’d fucking love to ride for their team one day. Allard’s been great to me, but Ducati?” He exhaled. “Hell, I’d sell my soul to ride for Ducati.”
He came back to himself in a sudden, stomach-dropping moment of realization. It didn’t fucking matter who he wanted to ride for if his leg didn’t heal. If his dizzy spells didn’t stop.
“What was that?” Ollie asked softly, pressing the heel of his palm into a tender spot at the top of Xander’s spine. “You tensed up again.”
He stared at the beetle still making its slow, painstaking progress across the paving stones. “It was nothing,” he lied.
Ollie didn’t say anything. He just went back to work, but the gentle sweep of his hand on the back of his neck felt both solicitous and too knowing.