Page 3 of The Devil’s Detail (The Greystone Family: Greystone Brothers #2)

Mr Jameson Bonney

Later that March

I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. My waking hours have increased exponentially over the past few weeks. My assistant is convinced I’ve got a serious illness and just don’t want anyone to know. My weight loss has not gone unnoticed.

Even the media are starting to speculate about it, showing pictures of before and after. My latest TV appearance showcasing my abs and talking about my training regimen couldn’t totally quiet the noise either.

But that isn’t even the noise I want to silence. The images of my abs are not the images I keep seeing.

No, the images I see are so much better. Abs, so fucking lickable. Like pebbles—no, boulders, with smooth skin rippling over them like water. I can taste them, close my eyes and hear the panting of breath as I run my tongue over them, lapping at droplets of sweat. God, the taste of a man.

But not just a man. That man. The man who has haunted my dreams and has now started to encroach on my waking hours.

Six foot one. Dark chocolate hair, burnished bronze at the tips, like flecks of caramel. I’m practically drooling as I sit in the most boring meeting ever. My team rambling on about meaningless, vacuous things as I drift off yet again to that night in CAshO.

I don’t think I will ever get over it. Tanned skin pulled taught over the features of an adonis. High cheekbones, full lips so suckable and biteable. And dimples. Fucking dimples when he smiled, or smirked—which he did a lot. How can one man have it all? But he does.

The blindfold covering his eyes, a necessary evil.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see them.

I most assuredly wanted to watch the pupils I knew would be dilating at every fleeting touch of my fingers, every swipe of my tongue on his cock.

But I couldn’t risk it. If he saw me, that would be it.

He would call a halt, toss me out on my ear.

But this particular glorious night, he didn’t know who I was. I was just a person giving him pleasure. A man giving him pleasure.

He downright surprised me when he agreed to my demands. To the ridiculous security measures. To the fact that he did not call a halt as soon as he knew it would be a man who would be touching him.

My voice, like cut glass and honed to clever incognito perfection, did not give a hint of my identity.

I wanted him to know, was craving for him to know who I was.

Who it was that was going to drive him to the peak of ecstasy.

Who it was that was going to drown him over the edge of pleasure.

His life would never be the same again. Or at least I hoped not. I know mine hasn’t been.

I’d seen him around in lots of different circumstances, even been introduced, but did not really know him.

Polite conversations, superficial interactions had been my limit.

If I had pushed any deeper in those scenarios, pushed for anything more, he would have told me to fuck off.

And to be honest, I had no idea he liked this.

Liked men. Although he said throughout the course of the night it was not a regular occurrence for him.

I believed him—with men he was definitely not that experienced.

The fact I was leading was, I think, a relief for him.

He seemed to relish it, revel in it. Embrace the majesty of relinquishing any control and handing it over to someone else.

Trusting me to take care of him. Which, again, was a complete shock.

He’s a man who is entirely in control of his world, and of other people’s worlds.

Not a trusting man at all. In fact, I would say the total opposite.

As a man who likes women, normally he would be topping, not submitting to me. Not going along with every demand.

But he did. And the memory is so strong.

Standing face to face, my cock reaching for my navel, his alongside it, duelling.

How that alone pushed me into the megasphere.

Precum leaking, and me using my hands to give us both pleasure.

The throb of his cock, trying to gain friction to build the release.

The noises, the growls, the moans. The screams of pleasure later into the evening, all replaying in my mind.

He was an impressive figure, allowing me to drop to my knees to take that beautiful cock in my mouth. Playing with his balls and perineum. Fingers stretching his ass, preparing him for what was coming.

And God, how he had engulfed me. Captivated me. All from the first confident statement of, ‘Yes, sir.’

Happy to be tied, whilst I, the maestro, played his body like a musical instrument.

Every erogenous zone I hit again and again.

My mouth at his ass, my tongue exploring.

The noise he made as I thrust into him, a generous amount of lube on the condom making it easy to enter.

Holding his cock in my hands as I thrust into him from behind.

Watching him come all over my fingers as I jerked him off, and fucked him into oblivion.

The taste of his skin under my lips. The howl as I bit into his neck, my desire going to places I had never been before. Binding him on his knees, so all he could do was take my cock in his mouth and suck me dry.

Never in my life had someone pushed me to these limits.

Never had someone allowed me to push them to theirs.

And the fact that he did not even know who I was.

Who the hell does that? What sort of a character are you that goes along with that and not only embraces it, but exults in it. Fucking magnificent.

I wanted to tell him. Wanted to leave my details so if he did go back, he would know. But in the end, I didn’t. I couldn’t risk it.

I’ve never had anyone to seek for advice on matters like this. All my adult life, I’ve learned not to trust anyone. Those I confided in early on betrayed my trust and spilled their guts the first chance they got. Anyone I let into my inner sanctum robbed me, stole from me.

Their excuses were all the same: What was it to me? They figured I had so much, why shouldn’t they have a bit?

But it wasn’t the money, or the belongings—it was the trust they stole.

Each time it happened, I gave less and less. Eventually I got to the point where I am now…Not able to trust at all. Nobody getting anything of me.

And the real me? That’s been locked in a box, never to see the light of day. All anyone sees these days is the facade. A carefully constructed portrait of who they think I am.

My heart hurts because of it. My soul has shrivelled more and more on a yearly basis. I often wonder if I’ll ever love anyone ever again. Really and truly love them.

To be honest, I was sure I’d forgotten how to love.

And then there was a single night in CAshO. And it all changed.

Now, I wish it had been different. I wish I could tear up that fucking NDA and spout my truth. Tell this God-like man who I was. Ask him—no, fucking beg him to look at me. The real me. See me instead of just feeling me. Look into my soul and see the real me hiding at the bottom of the box.

That was what he got that night—the yearning hope of something fantastic. The hope of a miracle.

Maybe it was because he’d agreed to the blindfold. Nobody else ever had. Even at CAshO they’d sold my story, regardless of an NDA. Whispers of my performance, too near the truth to be made up.

So I’d resorted to fucking blindfolds. He was the first man to say yes, and, as far as he said, wasn’t even gay. What he was was unafraid. Open to pleasure, and the world of possibilities. God, that was attractive. How must that feel? To be wild and free to live as you want.

I’d cried myself to sleep over the years. Tortured by failure in my work. Unsure of what I was doing and how things would be perceived.

Maybe I could take a leaf out of his book and just live and be myself.

I’ve been out as a gay man for the longest. Made sure that was the one thing everyone knew about me.

No way was I ever being shoved back into any closet.

Even if I lost work or jobs because of it.

Having people rob, steal, and cheat me was bad enough.

Being blackmailed due to my sexuality, as I’d seen happen to a few friends, was not happening to me.

But with him, I didn’t think I could be me. So I didn’t leave my details, and have regretted it every day since.

He hasn’t tried to find me, either. I checked a couple of days later. Told them if anyone came looking, not to give out my details. That they must speak to me first.

What was the point? It wouldn’t go anywhere.

And besides, the elephant in the room, my biggest fucking problem—I knew exactly where he was.

I could, in fact, go and see him if I wanted.

But I daren’t go as Mr Bonney. If I did that, he would toss me aside.

He’s not looking for what I’m offering. Who would be? It’s a car crash waiting to happen.

But, God how I wish. How I want him. And how I’m left wondering if I can withstand to stay away.