Chapter 1

One

OLIVER

“So, son, how’s work going?” Father asks, his posh southeast London accent ever present as we sit around the table in my parents’ home, eating the pork roast, carrots and potatoes prepared by their housekeeper, Hannah.

It’s delicious, and Hannah is such a kind soul, always with a smile to offer whenever I’m here, and a soft kiss to my cheek. She’s a stout woman, older, probably late fifties, with dark hair that is graying, a round face and a thick New York accent. She’s been working for my parents ever since we moved to New York almost twenty years ago, though sometimes I don’t understand how she came to be in their employ, but I guess being paid well is as good a reason to stay as any. While Henry and Isabella Jones are a lot of things, cheap isn’t one of them. With the amount of work Hannah does, she deserves to be paid well, plus a rather large bonus for putting up with them, if I’m being honest.

I have the mother of all headaches brewing and I’m completely knackered after a long and very stressful day at work yet again. It’s tax season, and that means I’m working even longer hours than normal as an accountant, and dealing with a lot of pissy clients who waited until the last minute to do something that could have been done months ago. For whatever reason, the blame for that falls on me.

Being here is honestly just adding salt to the wound. Family dinners, if you can call them that, as family implies love, encouragement and support, are my least favorite part of every month. The only thing that makes it bearable is having my twin sister, Olivia here with me, and my two year old nephew, Freddie.

“It’s exhausting,” I sigh.

“Well, nothing in life is easy, son,” he responds. “You have to work hard if you want to make something of yourself.”

I grit my teeth and rub my fingers over my forehead, closing my eyes as my head begins to pound harder. Why I bother to be honest with this man is beyond me. Never once in his life has he empathized or tried to understand me. His focus has always been on status and wealth, and that’s what he expects of his children as well. He treats us more like property than people, the way you would a nice house or a car; things to make him look good; a statement about how well established he is in society. Which is why my sister getting divorced a year ago is something we still don’t talk about. Even though she got out of a toxic marriage after six long years, my parents were more horrified that they had “such a scandal” in their family than they were about the fact that she had been mistreated in the first place, telling her she needed to “try harder” to keep her marriage together because, “how will it look, dear?” It took months before Olivia was speaking to them again. She says they apologized, but I have a feeling she came around so that I wouldn’t be on my own with them. She’s older than me by about eight minutes, and we’ve always been close; each other’s protectors. She and Freddie even lived with me for a few months after the divorce until she could get back on her feet again. I honestly would have loved to have them stay longer, but she said it was important for her to have her own space, and I understood. I was incredibly proud of her for everything she did to make a better life for herself and her son, and very thankful she had friends on her side as well, as my parents were the opposite of helpful.

“How’s it going with that girlfriend of yours?” Father asks. “Amy, was it?”

“Amanda,” I correct politely. I’ve mentioned her several times over the past four months that we’ve been dating, what she does for a living, where she’s from, how we met, but the only thing Father cares about is the fact that she’s upper class and has a uterus. “It’s going fine.”

“Marriage on the horizon?” he asks. “You’re thirty-six, son. And your mother and I aren’t getting any younger. We’ll be dead before we have another Jones in the family at this rate. It’s your duty to carry on the family name.”

“For Christ’s sake, Father, we’re not the bloody royal family,” I retort. “There are other aspirations in life besides children.”

“Preposterous,” he retorts. “No point in getting married at all if you aren’t going to have a family, the way God intended.”

“Amanda already has a son, Father, an adult one. I’m not sure more children is what she wants. She’s very career minded.” I don’t bother to tell him that children are not something I want, either, because I am not in the mood for more lecturing.

“Oh, she’ll change her mind when she’s settled down,” Mother pipes up. “Every woman wants a miniature version of her husband.” She squeezes father’s arm and he pats her hand.

For fuck’s sake. Why is it so hard to get them to listen? It’s like every goddamn thing I say goes in one ear and out the other.

“Well, you could do worse, I suppose,” Father says. “You said she’s a lawyer, yes?”

I nod. “And a very good one.”

“Well, lots of women put their careers on hold for the sake of having a family,” Mother says. Though I’m not sure what she would know about it since she’s never worked a day in her life. And it wasn’t like she was much of a mother either, always passing Olivia and I off to nannies so she could go to the next luncheon or social event with her lady friends. I don’t begrudge her having a life, but it bothers me that she seems to think she was in any way an involved mother when she was anything but.

“Mother, I just love your bracelet,” Olivia chimes in, and I cast her a grateful look. She’s come to my rescue on more than one occasion when it seems the only topics of discussion are my single status and their disappointment in my ability to provide them with an heir. It’s not about grandchildren, it’s about continuing the family line. Never mind the fact that Freddie is sitting right here. To them it’s as if he doesn’t bloody exist because he is Olivia’s son, not mine. It’s my job to marry a well to do woman and then convince her to put her career on hold to pop out babies.

“Oh, thank you, dear,” Mother preens, showing off the diamond jewelry dangling from her bony wrist. “Your father got it for me as an anniversary gift.”

We eat in silence for a moment longer before Mother speaks again.

“Oh, Henry,” Mother says, her slender fingers resting on Father’s shoulder. “Did you hear about what happened to Agnes and Richard? Such terrible news. They can’t show their faces in public, the poor things. After the scandal with their son.”

“What’s that, dear?” Father asks.

If gossip were an Olympic sport, Isabella Jones would win a gold medal. She’s intelligent, though you probably wouldn’t know it listening to her speak most of the time, and beautiful, with her long blonde hair up in a bun and wearing a dress that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. Which is saying something because my suits are not cheap.

Olivia is the spitting image of our mother, with her blonde hair and green eyes, and her fair complexion, while I in turn, look more like Father. The same auburn hair, blue eyes, and a sharper jawline, fuller lips, and a slightly darker skin tone.

“You know their son, Phillip?” Mother says, “such a shame, because he’s such a handsome boy.” There’s a pause as she shakes her head.

“Go on, dear, don’t keep us waiting,” Father says. Mother’s thin lips purse.

“It’s just awful,” she says. “Poor Agnes. She’s just beside herself. He is a homosexual, darling, and they didn’t know it until recently. They caught him in public with another man, and Agnes was mortified. Can you blame her? So awful. She doesn’t know what she did wrong. And she’s so ashamed and embarrassed.”

“The queers will be taking over the country before you know it,” Father remarks. “Disgusting is what it is.”

My chest tightens and my stomach clenches. I feel a wave of nausea washing over me and reach for my water glass, sweat prickling on my forehead and the back of my neck.

“Sounds to me like the only thing she did wrong was not accept her son for who he is,” Olivia retorts, and I almost choke on my drink. Father glances at me, his gaze hard, before turning his attention to my sister as Mother lets out a gasp.

“Olivia, you will not talk to your mother like that. Not in this house.” His voice is raised and my cheeks flush as I wipe my face with my napkin.

“I guess it’s time for me to leave, then,” she states, and scoots out of her chair before turning to unbuckle Freddie from his highchair.

Mother and Father look at my sister with eyes wide in astonishment, and quite frankly so do I, but probably for a different reason. I think getting out of that awful relationship has taught her to speak her mind in a way she never has before, and I can’t believe what’s happening. Neither of us has ever up and left a family meal, no matter how much we were wanting to. And we’ve been hearing them spout homophobic bollocks our entire lives.

“I’m going to leave, too,” I say.

“Sit down, both of you,” Father snarls. “This behavior is absurd!”

My heart is thundering, and there’s a very large part of me that is tempted to sit back down as Father demanded, but I don’t. I grab my keys and then the nappy bag as Olivia hefts Freddie onto her hip.

“Goodbye Mother, Father,” she says. “Tell Hannah thank you for dinner.”

“Of all the…” I hear Mother saying as we step out onto the front porch into the cool New York weather. I’m shaking as we walk down the front steps of their Scarsdale mansion.

I open the passenger seat and set the nappy bag inside, before a gentle hand lands on my shoulder. I turn to meet my sister’s gaze.

“You alright?” Her eyes flit over my face and I swallow.

“Yeah,” I croak out, then clear my throat. “I can’t believe we just did that. That you just did that.”

Her lips pull into a frown. “They’ve not had anyone stand up to their bigotry and I am done with it. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

I shake my head even as I wrap my arms around myself, a shiver running down my spine. “No, it’s alright.”

“You sure?” she asks, her hand moving to my upper arm. I nod, and she seems skeptical but lets it go.

“You heading home? You look exhausted. I’m sorry work has been so rough.”

I give her a small smile as my heart starts to beat at a more normal rhythm and warmth seeps into my bones once again, my adrenaline subsiding. “I’m pretty wired after that. I’ll probably drive around for a bit, maybe find a pub. I could use a drink.”

“I would join you but I have to get Freddie to bed.”

“I know.” I kiss her cheek and wave goodbye to Freddie before she gets in her car and drives off. I’m honestly surprised Father hasn’t come out to chastise us and bring us back inside, demanding an apology to Mother, but the door is closed and remains so as I trudge to my Bentley and slide into the driver’s seat. I close my eyes and rest my head back, gripping the steering wheel as I take in a deep breath and let it out. Then I start the car and pull out of my parents’ driveway.

I honestly don’t know where I am going, but my headache resurfaces as I drive, and when I look at the clock on the dash I realize it’s been an hour since I left my parents’ house.

My phone starts to ring as I pull up to a bar I’ve never been to. I don’t usually frequent this side of town. I ignore the call when I see it’s Father, and head inside. Normally I would pick up, because that’s what I do. I’m the good son. I cater to my father’s every whim. If he says jump I say, “how high?” The only reason I’m dating, period, is because he and Mother were pushing me into a relationship. I thought having a girlfriend would get them to shut up, but all it’s done is open the flood gates. Now it’s a wedding and grandchildren they want. I could do far worse than Amanda, though. She’s lovely, if I’m being honest. Intelligent, kind, hard working. We met in a coffee shop near her office and after sitting together due to lack of room we exchanged numbers and a few days later she called me. Things went from there.

The phone rings again, but for whatever reason, be it the stress or the adrenaline crash, or exhaustion, I’m feeling a bit reckless tonight and don’t answer this time either. He can ring all night for all I care.

It’s a little after nine pm, so it’s not as crowded as it will be in an hour or two, but it’s still lively. Music and chatter fill the space around me as I make my way up to the bar and take a seat. I unbutton my suit jacket and slide it off, draping it over the back of the bar stool before rolling up my shirt sleeves. I run my fingers through my hair and let out another heavy sigh. When a sultry voice reaches my ears, I look up to see a young man, probably in his early twenties, with blond hair that falls to just above his shoulders, vivid blue eyes, and a kind smile. He’s probably a few inches shorter than my own six feet and is toned and trim, dressed in a snug black T-shirt and jeans that cling to his slender thighs and accentuate his arse, and I let my gaze linger a little longer than is socially acceptable.

Men have always enticed me, but just because I find them attractive, it doesn’t mean I’m attracted to them. Still though, there’s something about the way he moves, oozing confidence, and that toned but slender body that has my heart rate picking up again, and my cock twitching.

I’d wondered since I was thirteen what it might be like to kiss a boy, to have strong arms around me, a firm body pressed up against mine. It didn’t mean anything. Just that I appreciated the male form. The sturdiness, the strength, the elegant grace even at times, because some of the most beautiful men I’d ever laid eyes on were slender and more fragile in appearance, but no less captivating. But that was as far as I'd allowed myself to go. Imagining. Never looking for long, never touching. I’d only ever dated women. Though I wasn’t particularly attracted to them, I could see objectively that they were attractive and told myself that once I got to know them more, that attraction would grow. That’s what I told myself when I fucked Amanda, and that’s what I’d been telling myself for years.

The young man takes the towel from over his shoulder and shoves it in his back pocket as he approaches me, and I do my best to ignore my rapidly beating pulse, telling myself he’s far too young for me anyway. No thirty-six year old man should be even flirting with the idea of shagging a boy at least fifteen years his junior.

“Hey handsome,” he purrs, and my cock jerks. Bloody hell. “What can I get you?”

“Painkiller, please,” I say.

“You got it.” When my gaze catches on his perky arse again while he’s turned, I tell myself I’m just missing my girlfriend. But I don’t look away.

When he turns around and catches my eyes on him I feel my cheeks flushing and clear my throat. He gives me a sultry smile and a wink, making my flush deepen as he makes his way back to me and slides the fruity concoction in front of me, along with a napkin. I take a sip and almost moan as the taste of rum, pineapple juice, orange juice, and coconut cream slides over my taste buds and down my throat.

“Anything else?” he asks, that smile ever present.

“No, thank you,” I reply, expecting him to move on to the next customer, but he doesn’t.

“I love your accent,” he says. “Where are you from?”

I blink. “Scarsdale.”

He laughs, and I flush even more.

“Funny and sexy.” He’s leaning on the bar top now, his face even closer to mine. I can smell the alcohol on him, not his breath, which smells of peppermint, but on his skin and clothes, mixed with an aroma of sweat that I find I do not dislike, and a hint of orange. It’s intoxicating and I have to stop myself from leaning closer to breathe him in.

“I hadn’t intended to be amusing,” I reply instead.

He smiles wider. “You’re British, right?”

I nod.

“Damn, you Brits and your sexy af accents are my weakness.” He bites his lip as his eyes lower to my mouth. My heart rate spikes again as his gaze lingers for a moment and then returns to my eyes. I see the desire there and I swallow hard. Sweat gathers on the back of my neck and palms as my throat constricts, so much so that when he says, “How’d you come to be in this little neck of the woods?” I have trouble responding and my voice comes out like a goddamn squeak at first, before I clear it and reply.

“I uh…I moved here with my parents and sister when I was fifteen. Well, not here, I suppose, but New York.”

“Scarsdale,” he says, grinning. I nod. “I used to live near Scarsdale before I came here for school. My mom is still there.”

“Oh, really?”

He nods. “Yeah, I don’t go back a lot because of school and work, but it’s home. Where in the UK are you from?”

“Southeast London,” I say. “Bromley.”

His gaze darts to my lips again and his voice is huskier, making a shiver run down my spine when he says, “And are all men from Southeast London as sexy as you?”

My cheeks heat. Shit. I know he’s probably only saying these things because it’s his job to make the customer happy, and maybe he believes I’ll give him a bigger tip if I feel flattered. And fuck, he might be right. “I…I don’t know,” I say, my gaze locked with his, and then wince internally, as my flush deepens. Christ what is happening to me? I’ve never been so flustered in my life. I don’t know? Smooth, Oliver.

“I’m sorry,” he says, standing again and pulling the towel out of his back pocket. I see his cheeks pinken slightly too, and wonder if maybe he’s not as confident as he appears. “I’m making you uncomfortable. I didn’t mean?—”

“No!” I’m startled by my own reaction. What the fuck am I doing? I should be accepting his apology and letting him move on, drink my drink and go home. Though I can’t imagine driving the hour back to Scarsdale tonight. I’ll probably get a hotel. But hotel or not, the last thing I should be doing is engaging with him. Is it so wrong though? It’s just a bit of fun. And I can’t stop. He’s intriguing, and I find myself unwinding as he smiles at me once more, my stress beginning to evaporate, my shoulders relaxing the tiniest bit. Some of that is the drink, I’m sure, but some of it is him.

He grins, his shoulders relaxing as well, and I find myself wanting to lick the dimple that appears on his right cheek. “So what brings you to a bar an hour from home?”

I sigh again. “It’s been a rather long day, I’m afraid. Just needed a drive, and a drink, and ended up here, I suppose.”

“Work stress?” he asks, and I give a small smile. His features turn down slightly like he’s actually genuinely interested in my life, and wants to help. Like he cares.

“Among other things,” I say, before taking another sip of my drink.

“You know,” he says, his voice lowering as he leans over the counter again, this time even closer. He seems a bit flustered but I can’t understand why. He bites that bottom lip again as his eyes meet mine, and I feel my cock twitching once more. Fucking hell. “I know of a great way to unwind.”

My eyes widen and I choke on the last bit of drink sliding down my throat, causing me to gasp. I bring my napkin to my mouth as my face flames, my eyes watering slightly. “I beg your pardon,” I say, a hand on my chest. He flushes beautifully, his smile widening as he glances down. My eyes dart around the room before returning to him. I lower my voice. “Are you asking what I think you are?”

“No pressure,” he says, like he just asked if I wanted to watch a ball game or play golf on the weekend, not fuck him in the loo. “It doesn’t have to be sex, sex. I could blow you. But the other thing is definitely on the table, too.”

I find myself staring at those plump pillowy lips and my cock jumps at the thought of having them around me, swallowing me, those stunning blue eyes locked with mine. I’m sporting a semi in seconds, and my brain is screaming at me to say no! Why the fuck haven’t I said no? Said I have a girlfriend, that I’m not fucking gay, that I have never been with a man before, that he’s too damn young for me? So many reasons for me to be shaking my head right now.

But I don’t.

“I’m very good,” he says, his voice seductive in a way that makes me shiver.

“I’m sure you are,” I reply before I can stop myself, and he chuckles, making my cheeks flame for the millionth time in the last twenty minutes.

“Well,” he says, “I’m gonna go serve my other customers. You let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.” He leans closer and beckons with his finger for me to do the same. I find myself not even hesitating, and we’re so close that his mouth is right next to my ear when he says, “And I do mean anything, gorgeous.” Then he stands and winks at me, before walking away.

Bloody hell.

HUNTER

Damn, what is it about that guy?

I have to try really hard not to look back at the sexy British man as I serve the other guests at the counter. I’ve never been so instantly captivated by someone, but one look at him and I was a goner. Then he opened that sexy as fuck mouth and I thought my legs might give out. Damn, as if his body wasn’t gorgeous enough with those auburn waves, cobalt eyes and the freckles dusted across his nose and cheeks, he has to have the sexiest voice in the goddamn universe. I’ve always been a sucker for British accents and his is fucking perfection.

He didn’t quite seem to know what to do with me, did he? I smile at the thought as I remember him choking on his drink and his eyes widening so far I thought they might pop out of his head when I propositioned him. Fuck, he’s fun to flirt with. The way his cheeks flush and he stumbles over his words, it’s addicting.

I can feel his eyes on me as I move around, and turn to give him a quick wink before returning to my work. I grin when I see that flush creeping up his lightly stubbled cheeks again, as he runs his fingers through those thick waves. God, I want to get my hands in that hair, grip it, tug it, slide my fingers through it and feel how fucking soft it must be. I can tell by looking at him he has money. The suit and watch alone must cost more than my fucking car. That’s not saying a whole lot cause my car is a piece of junk, but, if that’s the case, I know whatever he wears in his hair is just as extravagant. Damn, he smells incredible too. Like vanilla and gingerbread.

I want him more than I think I’ve wanted anyone, but I won’t mention hooking up again. I’m tempted to, but I’m not pushy, and he knows I’m available if he decides he wants me, too. Consent is important to me in anyone I fuck.

Chances are he won’t be back any time soon, or at all if he lives an hour away. This is probably my only chance to know what those full lips would feel like against mine. What it would be like to hold his cheeks in my hands and feel his stubble under my palms.

Why does the thought of never seeing him again make my chest ache when I don’t even know him and all he is is a potential hook up?

I don’t date. Life is too crazy for that right now, but being in my junior year of college and having the course load that I do, on top of this job, I need a way to unwind sometimes. Normally I don’t have any trouble finding someone to fuck, and I’m pretty sure I could take home just about any guy here. Well, any not-straight guy. It’s not a gay bar, but it pays well and I enjoy it enough.

The thing is though, I don’t want just any guy. I want him. In all of his awkward adorableness. He’s got to be at least ten years older than my twenty-one years, but I’ve always liked more mature men.

“Hey, we’re running low on chips,” my coworker Jordan tells me, as he mixes a customer’s drink.

“Already?”

He shrugs.

“I got it,” I say and head back to the storeroom that’s around the corner and down the hall. I’ve just grabbed the chips when I hear the door opening and closing. I don’t turn to see who it is right away. “Dude, I said I had it.”

When there’s no reply I turn my head, and don’t even have a chance to speak again before soft, warm hands are gripping my face and full, wet lips press to mine.

I grunt, then groan before I grip the other man’s hair, pulling him back. His face is flushed, his freckles standing out even more against his ivory skin, and his pupils are blown wide as his chest rises and falls. Fuck.

“You’re not allowed back here,” I tell him, my voice husky.

“Shall I leave, then?” His breaths are coming heavier, and my cock jerks at how sexy his voice sounds when he’s turned on.

“Fuck, no,” I growl, the chips falling to the floor as I grip his face in my palm, my other hand still holding tightly to his silky hair, and press my lips to his. He moans and the sound goes straight to my cock. I’m hard in an instant as his lips move against mine. I kiss him harder, wanting to hear more of those sexy as fuck noises, and he doesn’t disappoint. He’s so fucking eager it’s turning me on even more.

Fuck.

I spin him around and press him up against the wall, still gripping his hair. He grunts and I feel his cock thickening against my thigh as I continue to kiss him. God, he feels huge, and my own cock jerks again, my mouth watering at the thought of having his dick in my mouth.

I slide my leg between his and he moans when his cock comes in contact with my thigh. My tongue slides along his lower lip and he opens for me, making my cock throb at the taste of pineapple, orange juice, and coconut filling my mouth.

“Fuck, you’re delicious,” I say, pulling away. His hair is a mess from having my fingers in it and his lips are spit slicked and swollen from my kisses. His blue eyes are so dark they look almost black in the dim light of the storeroom. Sweat is beaded on his forehead and neck and it’s the fucking hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

I lick along his lip, then slide my tongue in his mouth again and shift slightly as I grip his wrists, pinning them above his head as our cocks align. He groans into my mouth and ruts against me, and fucking hell, I love it. Love that he is so desperate and is letting me take control.

“Damn, London, you’re going to be the death of me,” I murmur into his ear as we both thrust our hips, the friction of our cocks through our pants fucking delicious. I kiss his jaw right below his ear and he shudders. I make my way down to his chin, pressing kisses, and he tilts his neck back on a moan, granting me access. He gasps, and jerks his hips against me as I lick a stripe up his neck, pausing momentarily to nibble on his Adam’s apple, before sliding my tongue up his chin and capturing his lips with mine again, both of us moaning into the kiss.

“Nnnnggg,” he whimpers, and God, I’m so damn hard, my cock is leaking like crazy. I devour his mouth for several more moments before pulling away. If we keep at this I’m going to come in my pants. Especially if he keeps making those noises.

Releasing his wrists, I sink slowly to my knees, and his eyes darken even more, his chest rising and falling as he watches me. His cock twitches in his dress pants and it’s enough to make me fucking moan as I lean in and press kisses to it through the fabric. God, he’s hot as hell, standing above me, hair a rumpled mess, pupils blown wide and the sleeves on his dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, his tie askew.

“Fuck,” he gasps as I alternate between kissing and nibbling on his cock, my own cock throbbing in my jeans. His precum is leaking out through his slacks, he’s so turned on. I wonder if he could come just from this. Something tells me he could, and fuck, that’s enough to make even more precum leak from my slit and down my aching shaft. But I want that giant cock in my mouth. I want to know what he tastes like. I need to know.

I grip his belt and start to unbuckle it as I press kiss after kiss to his tip and feel it twitching against me again and again, hearing his pants, and groans of pleasure as he grips my hair.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “I’m going to come if you don’t stop.”

I look him in the eyes and lick the precum from his pants, and he shudders, his legs shaking as he lets out a noise somewhere between a growl and a whimper.

Then his belt is open and I’m pulling his pants down. There’s a clank as they hit the floor around his ankles, and I stare at his erection through his boxer briefs. My mouth waters and I look up at him again. His fingers are still gripping my hair and I fucking love it.

“Can I?” I ask.

“Fuck, yes,” he says, and it sounds more like a plea than anything else. I grip his waistband and pull the underwear down, his cock springing free and almost slapping me in the face. Fucking hell, he’s huge. I’m salivating as I look at him. He’s uncut, and must be close to eight inches in length with an impressive girth as well. His cock oozes precum as I stare at it, the head red and angry, a prominent vein running up the center. His balls are just as enticing, hanging low and heavy between his splayed thighs, and his pubic hair is wild. I have a feeling he doesn’t manscape, and I am completely fine with that.

I lean in and lick the tip, moaning as his precum lands on my tongue, his taste exploding in my mouth. God, that’s good. I want more. So much more. I open wide and take in just the head and his grip tightens in my hair, making me moan around him. He twitches in my mouth and I take him deeper, blissed out by the weight of him on my tongue.

“Fuck,” he curses. “That’s good.” I have a feeling he’s holding back, trying not to be to rough, but I love having my face fucked and his cock is the most incredible thing I’ve ever had in my mouth. He can do whatever the fuck he wants to me. I grip his shaft with one hand and stroke him as I suck and lick, my other hand gripping his thigh, and he trembles.

“Bloody hell,” he gasps, then groans, his head hitting the wall as I swallow him deeper.

I pop off of him and he immediately looks at me. God, he’s a vision. “Don’t hold back,” I tell him. “I like it rough. I want you to use me. Come in my mouth, gorgeous. Let me taste you.” His eyes heat and he nods, before I’m taking him down my throat again and he does exactly as I instructed. His hips thrust and his cock slides in and out of my mouth relentlessly, making my eyes water and saliva slide down his shaft and along my chin, dripping onto the floor between us. I move my hand from his cock and use it to unbutton my pants and take out my own cock. It’s so hard it hurts, and I almost sob when I have it in my hand. I begin to stroke myself as he uses me.

“Fuck.” He grips my hair in both hands now and thrusts again and again. “Christ,” I hear and then his cock pulses in my mouth, and he’s spilling down my throat. The taste of him is enough to make my own orgasm barrel into me and I moan around his dick, still in my mouth as my own release fills my hand and drips onto the floor. My throat feels wrecked, but it was absolutely worth it.

He slides out of me and a moment later he’s kneeling in front of me with a towel he must have grabbed from nearby, wiping the tears, spit and snot from my face.

Fuck. He’s cleaning me off, and it’s so tender and caring I find myself blushing.

“That was incredible,” he says, then kisses me. I kiss him back before bringing my hand up for him to clean off as well. When he grips my wrist in his hand and brings my cum covered one to his mouth, before his tongue slides out and licks up my release, letting out a moan as he swallows, I fucking shiver.

“Damn,” I say. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you, London?” He flushes and grins, making my heart skip a beat. I hadn’t seen him smile until now. It’s sexy as fuck.

We help each other stand and he slides his underwear and pants back up as I tuck myself back into my jeans. Then I find the bag of chips that Jordan has been waiting on for God knows how long now.

Shit.

“I have to go,” I say hurriedly, even though everything in me wants to stay and kiss those perfect lips until I can’t anymore, either from exhaustion or from my jaw being so sore I have to stop or risk permanent injury.

Fuck, my heart is racing. I press my lips to his once more and have to force myself to pull away. “Stay,” I beg him. “I get off in two hours. Come home with me.”

His eyes widen.

I dart out of the room before he can answer.