The Resurrection of SATURDAY SNARK!

Thanks to Marie Sexton, a fun tradition is back: Saturday Snark, wherein m/m authors post snarky excerpts from their books. Click on the link to see what other writers have to offer!

Here's my contribution. It's from Merman, the still-in-progress sequel to my Dreamspinner steampunk novel, Mongrel.

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An infernal red glow and rumble issued from Hardfor’s Ironworks. The perfect backdrop for our encounter, thought Clancy Marrowbone as his fangs descended, sharp and sleek as glass splinters. He pushed his companion against a blackened brick wall, wrapping them both in a winding sheet of smoke and shadow, and tried to remember the man’s name.

Hunger made coherent thought difficult. A sensory flood swamped Marrowbone’s stalled mind. The man worked in this district. Somewhere. He’d been celebrating the end of his shift at one of the nondescript lusheries that dotted these filthy streets. His name was ... was ...

Jack Root? Marrowbone smiled at the aptness if not the accuracy of it as he dropped a hand to the freight in the man’s trousers.

“Gods!” Grasping Marrowbone's head, Root expelled more than pronounced the word, adding a blast of liquor-scented breath to the alley’s pungent reek.

“Present and accounted for.” Pulling off the hat he always wore in the city, Marrowbone brushed his lips over the throb of a pulse in Root’s neck. “But only the wicked ones.”

He flirted with the blood he was about to draw, teased himself with it. Ignoring smears of soot and whisker stubble, he licked along a vessel and felt the rushing murmur of its stream.

Root fumbled with the front of his trousers. “Damn it, man, take it out!”

“Glad to oblige.”

A reverberant clang came from within the foundry. Sparks danced in the darkness. With a delicate pop, Marrowbone’s fangs pierced the coarse skin of Jack Root’s throat. His lips sealed around the punctures, and he sucked the blood out. 

The abrupt surge of warmth and pleasure was dizzying.

A factory whistle shrieked. Root groaned. Dimly, Marrowbone felt a viscous drizzle of semen down his hand. But whose semen, he wasn’t sure. That consequence of the encounter was secondary.     

Root’s large, booted feet slipped a little on the greasy cobblestones. Once he was sated, Marrowbone guided Root’s body down the wall. The back of his shirt sporadically caught on the bricks. Within a few seconds, he was resting safely on his backside.

After moistening his handkerchief with the scented water he always carried, Marrowbone wiped his mouth and again donned his hat, making certain his cascade of hair was tucked within it. He gazed down at his host and clucked in disapproval. “I’m afraid this is quite unacceptable.”

Root’s head lolled. His bent legs had flopped to either side. Not an attractive pose, granted, but not an uncommon one on a Saturday night. Being dead-drunk in an alley wouldn’t get Jack Root arrested.

However, his cock hanging out of his pants might do it.

Marrowbone dropped to a squat, ushered Root’s little soldier back into his barracks, and gave him a few good-night pats. “It’s been a pleasure, sir. Perhaps we’ll meet again.”