Loving Aidan

College Rose Romances, Book 1

by Ashavan Doyon

Samuel Riley is gorgeous - tall, muscular, and intelligent. The girls love him. And so does his roommate, Aidan Flemming. Secretly, of course, because even the out and proud Aidan knows there are limits to Sammy's acceptance. Cursed to watch as Sammy dates half the co-eds on campus, a lonely Aidan spends his time writing, helping Sammy and his friends survive literature classes, and recovering from a disastrous love affair that left Aidan heartbroken.

But when happiness finally comes for Aidan in the body of his roommate's fellow rower, all that changes. In Steven, Aidan finds happiness and romance. The rower, a blond, blue-eyed Adonis, makes Aidan feel desired and appreciated. But their very public courtship stirs up controversy and violence, and Aidan's life gets very complicated.

Attacks rock the campus community, and in the middle of the upheaval, Aidan finds himself noticed by the last person he'd expect. Samuel Riley, his roommate, his impossible dream, and just possibly, a very jealous suitor. But the jealous suitor has a girlfriend. And she is not happy.

This book is on:
  • 1 Read list
Published:
Publisher: Purple Horn Press
Cover Artists:
Genres:
Tags:
Pairings: MM
Heat Level: 5
Romantic Content: 5
Ending: Click here to reveal
Character Identities: Gay
Protagonist 1 Age: 18-25
Protagonist 2 Age: 18-25
Protagonist 3 Age: 18-25
Tropes: Class Differences, Coming Out / Closeted, Interracial Relationship, Love Triangle, Opposites Attract, Unrequited Love
Word Count: 86000
Setting: New England
Languages Available: English
Series Type: Same Universe / Various Characters
Excerpt:

Chapter 1

 

“I’M SO SICK of being stuck!” exclaimed Aidan, slamming shut the lid of the laptop and pushing it away. His bare leg still rested half on the table. He’d discarded the pants hours ago, though he kept the billowy, white shirt and his customary formal, tight waistcoat. He never discarded those, except to sleep. Aidan ran a hand through his thick, wavy, black hair and adjusted the bold black rims of his reading glasses.

“You’re always stuck,” muttered Sammy, pulling the blankets around his broad shoulders as he lay in an institutional bed too short for his frame, the heavy, wooden dresser casting a shadow that kept his face in darkness. “Go to bed. Your professor doesn’t need it now, does she?”

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“You can’t delay these things, Sammy,” said Aidan, slapping his bare knees in frustration before twisting his body to stand. He padded barefoot across the room to the tiny fridge and opened it, pulling out a tall, black can emblazoned with neon green letters, one of the energy drinks Sammy favored, and stepped toward the other man’s bed. “I’m taking one of these, ’kay?”

Sammy growled in response, then pulled the blankets over his head.

“Thanks,” said Aidan, pulling the tab and taking a swig. He wrinkled his face in disgust. “You actually like these?” Aidan sputtered, but the disgust provoked a certain sense of wakefulness, so he grimaced and set the can next to the computer.

“You’re not!” said Sammy, as he heard the sound of can hitting desk.

“What?”

“Just go to bed,” pleaded Sammy. “The story will be here tomorrow. Along with classes, and we won’t be in any shape for those if you don’t go. To. Sleep.”

Aidan laughed and switched off the lamp even as he turned the computer back on. “Better?”

“It’ll do,” grumbled Sammy, burying his head under a pillow and pulling blankets back over his head.

Aidan let himself grin. How the two had been paired together, that was a mystery the housing office had not managed to explain. They were opposites: Aidan white, Sammy black, Aidan a night owl, Sammy up before dawn to row, Aidan queerer than a three dollar bill, Sammy as straight as they came, Aidan a poetry and creative writing genius, Sammy a jock and a science nerd wrapped up in one. And yet, oddly, it worked.

The only periods of stress between the roommates were the occasions in which Aidan came home to a tie hanging around the door knob. Sammy getting lucky. He’d been kind about it, at least, trying to make those times as unobtrusive as possible, but he was an attractive man—lithe and muscular and tall and prone to being shirtless all the time, much to the private delight of his roommate. But those good looks meant a lot of co-eds staying over.

It wasn’t the sex so much that troubled Aidan as the constant staying over. Nights he’d spend at the diner twenty minutes north of campus, sitting at his laptop, typing away. Nights he’d send texts every hour or so asking if it was safe to come home only not to get an answer. He knew what that meant. Bastard had fallen asleep in some girl’s arms leaving Aidan stuck out all night because she was uncomfortable being intimate with Aidan in the same room. Not that he blamed her for that. The idea of that happening just feet away between Sammy and a girl twisted his stomach. He didn’t like to admit why.

He’d been blessed, or perhaps cursed, with frequent insomnia, so from that standpoint, perhaps the pairing was even better. Sammy slept and fucked, and Aidan sat and ate omelets and typed, his thin, long sleeved turtlenecks and dress shirts, always covered by a waistcoat, attracting their own fair share of ladies. Ladies who doted on him, swooned over him. Ladies who eventually tried to seduce him. Aidan chuckled. No chance of that; he’d never gotten over the idea that sex with girls was just... ugh. Ick.

Aidan glanced at his roommate; the only part of Sammy not covered by heavy blankets was a muscular arm dangling off the bed. He shook his head, put on his headphones, and began to type as the music blared into his ears.

He didn’t really notice as the dark of the room became lighter through the crack in the industrial plastic pull shade over the window. He didn’t really notice anything past the intense glare through his glasses from the screen. He was leaned back against his own dresser, one leg on the table, the laptop balanced precariously on the other as he typed. He felt the swat against the top of his head though, turning to see the glorious sight he was so often afforded.

Sammy was beautiful. There was no getting around that. He was tall, for one thing, slim all the way up to his broad shoulders. His torso was muscular like a swimmer or a dancer, and his arms and legs bulged as he flexed them unconsciously.

Aidan stifled a swallow, not wanting Sammy to get the wrong idea, and pulled off the head phones. “Yes?”

“You stayed up all night, didn’t you?” asked Sammy, casually scratching the scarce millimeter of tightly twisted black hair on his head.

“This surprises you why?”

“Fine. Just don’t expect any sleep tonight,” said Sammy. “Caroline is coming over, and I am not missing getting my hands on that hot bit of ass just ’cause you were an idiot and didn’t sleep.”

Aidan fixed him with a glare. “You could go to her room.”

“No, we can’t,” said Sammy, with a single shake of his head. “Her roommate is having Steven over. Why, I don’t have any idea.”

Aidan knew why. Sarah had said it often enough, gushing to her friend about her new romance. “He has muscles,” said Aidan glumly. “Really nice muscles.”

“Serious?”

“Hey, if he’d let me, I’d fuck him.”

“Aidan, man, if you’re looking at him, it’s no wonder you never bring anyone home.”

“Hey, there’s something to be said for muscles. It’s at least half of what Caroline sees in you,” said Aidan jokingly. He frowned. The other half kept Aidan awake at night, dreaming.

COLLAPSE

About the Author

Ashavan Doyon may have been a yeti in a prior life or possibly part giant. Either that or Texan air seriously messes up child development. During the day he’s a quiet and unassuming assistant at a liberal arts college in New England. At lunch, in the evenings, and when he can escape the grasp of his husband on weekends, Ashavan writes—with keyboard sounds on, because typing should make noise, beautiful clicky-clacky noise. He grew up reading fantasy classics and science fiction stories, but loves most speculative fiction. Growing up there was no such thing as a happy gay love story, and Ashavan writes to put those stories, full of fragility, beauty, even terror sometimes, into the world.

Consumed outside of his writing by a life with his husband and their ancient pug, Ashavan lives in Massachusetts and frequently complains about the snow that he never saw growing up in Texas. He went to school at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst and holds a degree in Russian and East European Studies with a focus in language and literature. Ashavan continues to adore speculative fiction and can often be found rereading the classics he grew up with in his spare time.

Ashavan loves to hear from readers.


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