Manuel García strips desire of pretense and sentiment. His men are flesh and will, silent more often than not, yet capable of igniting the body with a look, a brush of the hand, a challenge too sharp to ignore. These stories move through real places—bars, alleys, gyms, private clubs—where lust rises not as fantasy but as necessity. This is virile eroticism: raw, direct, and unrelenting.
The title story, Luxury, begins at the heart of Paris, at the doors of Le Chat Bleu, a club where wealth and power converge. Louis, young, out of place, and wearing a coat that doesn’t belong, crosses the threshold of a world he doesn’t understand but desperately wants entry into. Inside, danger and promise wait in equal measure.
“A hand like iron pinned me against the marble floor, his breath hot on my neck. I should have begged, but instead I let the weight crush me. Around us, men in suits looked on, hungry for a spectacle. When his grip loosened, I thought I was free—but the way his eyes lingered told me I had only just been chosen.”
From Paris to hidden corners of the world, García’s men seek and collide, their bodies speaking in blows, in silence, in heat.
Luxury leaves its mark like a bruise: dark, tender, and impossible to forget.
