Under His Skin by J.V. Speyer 💕 Book Blitz & Gift Card Giveaway 💕 (M/M Romantic Suspense)

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A brilliant scientist out to save the world. A jaded agent looking to save the one he lost. And a conspiracy that spans oceans, reaching into the deepest parts of American national security.

Lennon is a genius. He’s devoted his energy and his time to designing products to save lives. He’s gotten rich doing it, too. This time he’s created something to revolutionize war, crime, and policing – a bullet that heals. He’s on top of the world and the one thing he needs is someone to share it with. The one he loved disappeared without a trace years ago, and until he gets closure he can’t commit.

Ben is an agent with an agency so secretive for years people didn’t know it existed. He screwed up years ago and fell in love with the man he was supposed to be guarding. Now his lost love is in danger again. He’s developed a product bad actors all over the world will want to get their hands on. When Ben’s superiors order him back to Lennon’s side, he goes without hesitation. There’s only one catch – Lennon can’t know he’s there.

When one of those bad actors strikes, all the rules go out the window. Can Lennon overcome his mistrust once he knows the truth about Ben? When the enemy turns up the heat, will Ben manage to save Lennon from people who want him to kill?

He hadn’t designed the paralytic as a weapon. Sure, it could be used that way, but he hadn’t designed it as such. He’d intended for it to be used on people who were a danger to themselves and others, as a way to immediately stop people having a psychotic break without causing them harm or risking serious side effects. He’d hoped that it could be used as a non-lethal tool by law enforcement and emergency medical staff.

He hadn’t expected to have to jab it into someone during a fight.

In his own visions for the product, he’d seen competent medical staff immediately available to tend to the patient. The individual would be immediately cared for and would get the help that they obviously needed when the bots wore off. Lennon had left Jamal lying on the cool, damp ground, on a road that was all but abandoned at this time of year.

Lennon had worked for his entire career to minimize harm as far as possible. He’d even carried out Jamal’s phone battery, for crying out loud, just in case. He’d walked away from Jamal himself without a backwards glance, uncaring about the man’s very human life.

Lennon was a monster.

Suck it up, buttercup. His own voice snarled at him from the back of his mind. Jamal would have killed you if he had to. And he might have been friendly when you met, but that would have changed in a heartbeat if the job requirements shifted. This isn’t a lab. This isn’t a board room. This is real life, this is your life, and if you want to keep it, you’ll keep going.

He saw a sign for West Ossippee and followed it. The town couldn’t be that far away, and the road signs were well marked. Lennon wasn’t an expert, but he didn’t think that he had a lot of daylight left and he wanted to be somewhere much warmer before the sun went down.

He trudged on for about an hour. The damp roads had some charm, he supposed, but that charm fell away when the chill settled into his bones. He hadn’t dressed for the weather. He’d dressed for the camera. He doubted that he looked good anymore, not after a fight and with his hair crusted in blood.

His feet, encased in “fashion boots,” throbbed. He would declare war on fashion boots when he got back to Boston. Fashion boots and any other form of shoe that wasn’t useful as well as attractive. There was no reason shoes worn to work shouldn’t be shoes one could also wear to escape from a kidnapper, damn it.

However useless his shoes were, or how sore his feet were, they carried him into West Ossippee, New Hampshire, an hour and a half after he left the Gas and Go. He staggered until he found the Panera Bread, a comparatively new facility with cheery lighting and a manager on duty who looked friendly and calm.

Lennon hesitated. Would the Panera be safe? Or would the manager be in cahoots with Jamal or his client? He blinked and forced the paranoia away. If the manager had been conspiring with the bad guys, they’d have arranged the transfer there. He let himself into the restaurant and walked up to the bearded man.

The manager’s eyes bulged when he saw the blood on Lennon’s shirt and jacket. “Sir, are you okay?”

“I’ve had worse,” he said. He wasn’t lying. “Trust me, it’s not as bad as it probably seems. Listen, can I borrow your phone? Mine was broken in the fight and I really need my friend to come and get me.”

J. V. Speyer has lived in upstate New York and rural Catalonia before settling in the greater Boston area. She has worked in archaeology, security, accountancy, finance, and non-profit management. She currently lives just south of Boston in a house old enough to remember when her town was a tavern community with a farming problem. (No, really. John Adams complained about it. A lot.)

When not writing, J. V. enjoys watching baseball and seeking out all of New England’s creepiest spots. Her Spawn has turned her into a hockey enthusiast. She can be bribed with gin, tequila, and cats.