#ReleaseDay - The God of Jazz: Fugue Concord by Varian Krylov + Giveaway



TITLE: The God of Jazz: Fugue, Concord 

AUTHOR: Varian Krylov 

COVER ARTIST: Bey Deckard 

LENGTH: 117,450 words 

RELEASE DATE: September 16, 2016 

BLURB: After years struggling to realize his dream of directing a feature film, on the final night of his fundraising campaign Godard is on the cusp of having everything he ever wanted. The man he loves is upstairs waiting for him, and he's just a few dollars short of his GoFundYourself goal. 

Then everything falls apart. 

His personal and professional life in ruins, when his old nemesis from film school offers to fund his dream project if he's willing to shoot it in Spain, Godard knows it's a deal with the devil. But he also has nothing left to lose. 

Among the labyrinthine streets of Barcelona's Barrio Góthico, the city's vibrant music scene, and the sun-gilt beaches of the Costa Brava, Godard begins making shooting his dream project and putting his life back together, largely under the domineering gaze and deft touch of Ángel, the god of jazz. 

But Ángel is keeping a secret, and a deal with the devil always comes at a price. 


I wasn't shy. Frankly, I kind of got off on being looked at. In the gym locker room. At the beach. In bed with my lovers. But fuck if I didn't feel a pang of stage fright with Ángel watching me. He was so god damned beautiful, so fucking sure of himself. I so badly wanted to turn him on, the way he was driving me absolutely fucking crazy. And he hadn't even touched me. Hell, we hadn't even kissed.

And I wanted to. I wanted that sensual mouth on mine. I wanted to feel the brush of that soft, bowed upper lip across my bottom lip. Wanted to suck it. Lick it. Taste his tongue.

“Feeling shy after all?”

I gave him a cocky grin. I have a damn nice dick, and was looking forward to the appreciative smile I always got when I bared it to a new lover. Teasing him, I curved my hand against the rigid shaft and gave myself a little squeeze through my shorts, sliding my hand up my length, inch by inch. Slipping my thumbs under the elastic waistband, I pulled the fabric down my hips, letting him get a look at the contours through the thin nylon cloth, taking in his rapt attention, his gorgeous lips slightly parted, his broad chest rising and falling with his anticipation. While he studied what he was about to be given, I shifted my hips a little side to side as I pried my shoes off with my feet, then my socks. Finally, after making sure he was still staring at the pièce de résistance, I slid my shorts and briefs down and kicked them to the side.

Swear to fucking god, the man licked his lips.

I waited for the usual exclamation of appreciation, but he just charged forward, driving my body back against the door with his. God, those eyes. I felt pinned down, held in place, but he was barely touching me.

“Hang on. I'll put on some music.”

“We have music already.”

I went still and listened, thinking maybe his expert ear was more sensitive than mine, that he was hearing something the neighbors downstairs or across the street were playing, but no. “What music?”

“Your breathing.”

For a second I was almost annoyed, almost embarrassed as I realized my mouth was open, that I was breathing hard and fast.

But then he touched my lips. “These wordless whispers of your arousal.” God, he had the sexiest voice in the world, this man who had me naked and hadn't so much as undone a single button of his shirt. “Soon, we'll have your soft, baritone sighs. And this.” He pressed a hand to my chest. “If I am attentive, deep and low I get this, too, your heart keeping the time of your pleasure, like your chest is my contrabajo and I am plucking the E string, keeping the rhythm of our encounter.”

That had to be the most seductive bit of poetry ever. Had he used it before? On other lovers? Probably, but I didn't care. I just wanted this man to fuck me.

I reached up to caress his face. I was hard, cock thrumming, balls aching with a needful yearning I hadn't felt in years, but there was an urgent want, tender as a bruise at the center of my chest driving me to brush my fingertips over the contours of his jaw, to trace the border of the dark stubble adding to his aspect of a treacherous libertine.

But before I touched him, he caught my wrist and pinned it overhead against the door. He grinned. Holding my gaze, he brought up his free hand and traced over my bottom lip with the pad of his index finger.

Just kiss me already, you sexy bastard.

Impatient, I went up a bit on my toes and strained for his mouth, but without looking, without any effort, at least as far as I could tell, he found and caught my other wrist and pinned it next to the first, above my head.

“What is it you want, guapo?”

As if it wasn't obvious. “Kiss me.”

He grinned, then tutted. “Muy maleducado, guapo.”

I laughed. “What?”

“Such bad manners. Your mama did not teach you to say please?”





Growing up near Los Angeles, I spent much of my time frolicking in the Pacific Ocean and penning angst-twisted poetry. Now I'm living in sunny Spain writing pathos-riddled fiction. Ironically, two of my favorite things are traveling, and swimming in the ocean, despite increasingly intense phobias of sharks and flying.

I've always loved the music and substance of words, always loved writing in well-worn notebooks by hand, tapping at the keys of the computer, and, of course, conjuring up stories.

And from my earliest memories, I've always been fascinated—maybe obsessed?—with sex and sexuality.

In my writing, sex is the medium, the expression, and the tool of discovery for my characters' insecurities, the needs that drive them, the comfort they can't live without, the joy and relish of life that makes each of them intense, strange, and alluring.


Leave a comment and one winner will win their own e-copy of The God of Jazz. Contest ends on September 29, 2016. Good Luck!