Page 14 of The Devil’s Detail (The Greystone Family: Greystone Brothers #2)
Mr Jameson Bonney
Never have I seen a more magnificent sight. Sleeves rolled up to the elbows, corded forearms on full display. The muscles running down to those hands, as big as dinner plates. But even given their size, I know they are so fucking gentle.
How do I know all this? Because they were running up and down my body In CAshO all night.
Held both our cocks side by side, let them rub along both our lengths, held my girth and jacked us off.
Fondling, caressing, gentle swipes and passionate grabs when things got really heated.
His massive hands and fingers covered in our precum, glistening.
Yes, those hands were magnificent. Long, strong fingers, gently getting acquainted with my cock.
Caressing, stroking along my veins, up and swirling around the big, bulging head.
Cupping my balls, like they were the actual crown jewels.
Lubed up fingers digging into my arse cheeks and plunging into my ass, finger fucking me as he knelt before me and took me to the back of his throat.
He certainly couldn’t get enough of me. And I, unquestionably, have not had enough of him.
I drift back to the here and now, taking in the sun glinting off the lighter bleached hairs on his arms. The hair lightly scattered on the forearm porn show in front of me. Oh God, those veins on his arms displaying a masculinity I’ve not seen for years. I need to lick them, bite them.
Lifting my greedy eyes from his arms, I notice how his dark brown hair moves with the breeze, longer on top and shorter around the sides, slightly longer than it was in March.
At times in CAshO, I was hard pushed to grab any and hold on, and I absolutely needed to.
He pushed me to places I didn't know existed.
Places I now want to inhabit on a nightly basis. What the hell am I going to do?
He’s cutting through the crowds on a spring day in London. What is he doing here? Who the hell asked him to come?
Controlled strength, contained aggression.
Images flood me of our stunning night, of us both.
Me buried deep in his arse, milking his prostrate to make him come.
Edging him for over an hour, him begging me to fuck him harder, to let him come.
The exultation of desperation in his voice.
He’d never felt more alive, he said. He felt so fucking raw and powerful.
Now here today, I see the same aggression, the barely contained primal energy. He has his target locked and loaded, like my tongue at his ass, his balls, his cock. Licking, biting, determined to get to target—one hundred percent focused.
How do I know about his aggression? His focus? His body moves in the same way, but now I can also see it in his mind-blowing eyes. Eyes that had been hidden from me in March, albeit at my request.
Chocolate brown eyes, with the same caramel flecks that highlight the ends of his hair, stare out into the London crowds.
If I’d had access to them that night, I would not be as cool as I am now.
He would have blown me to smithereens. My mind is already completely gone, my sleep hours filled with him.
I’m not sure how I’m able to stand here and watch this show.
He’s so fucking focused on his target, I might come before he gets there.
The bend when he drops down in front of his quarry makes my breath stutter in my throat. I’m going to faint, pass out, it’s all too much.
It feels like an age since I’ve laid eyes on the man, and yet the images of him and I in that room are so vivid, I can almost taste the sweat from his body, hear the low-pitched moan as he came in my hand, splattering my stomach with his cum.
The salty tang as I made him taste himself from my tongue.
The groan of relief when I smeared his cum all over his stomach and continued to thrust into his perfect, totally fuckable arse.
Of course I was topping, always. But honestly, if anyone could convince me to do otherwise, it would be him.
I watch as the shirt pulls taut across his back and shoulders, showing a sliver of skin just above his waistband. The muscles that surround his spine shout my name, crying out for me to bite and suck at them. Hold them hard against me.
The muscles popping in his arms as he reaches out, gives a wave of recognition—I want to stroke them. ‘Hello, my beauties.’
His denim-clad arse fills the jeans with his round and muscular cheeks.
I practically come in response in my own jeans, forcing a growl from the back of my throat.
Fuck me, I want to bite that arse, lick that rim, tongue fuck him.
I know he loved it. Drop that zip and free the magnificent cock I know is hiding behind the fly.
Long, thick girth, the head a mushroom flare, the veins protruding out flowing up the length, guiding my tongue, my hand.
So fucking lickable. Even the cock ring I placed around it was dwarfed by the most delectable cock I had ever seen.
And to be honest, to say I’ve seen a few is probably the understatement of the millennium.
I’m sure his cock would recognise me, shout my name and give me away. Would it shut down the show? Probably.
My cock is instantly hard, but I try not to close my eyes.
I don’t want to miss a minute of this scene playing out in central London.
I’m transfixed as the hero collects the…
err… hero in one swift movement. Lifting the ‘damsel in distress’ onto his shoulder and striding out and away from the crowds, away from the danger.
If only this was going to end in my bed. If only this was going to end with him on his knees again, minus the jeans and shirt. My cock in his mouth. His luscious lips spread as he takes me down. Just like he did before. Just like I dream about taking him again.