One
Devlin
It was the bite that grounded me, stirred me. Had need slapping me in the face and punching me in the gut.
The bite that turned an average hook-up into something intoxicating. Something delicious. Something raw.
I needed that.
I needed to feel the fierce edge of those teeth against my bottom lip. Needed the pain to make me feel something after this clusterfuck of a day.
He didn’t let go, either. He dug in, jerking me with him, and if I didn’t want to lose it, I had no choice but to follow.
And I did.
I followed.
I’d be crazy not to, wouldn’t I?
Not because I felt as if he’d tear it off, but because my dick was pounding from that alone, and my body was so beyond ready for more.
He relented, finally, giving way to the fact that my lip belonged to me and not to him, but only for a second. He thrust his tongue inside the hot cavern of my mouth, dragging his against mine, stirring sensations into being that I’d never bloody felt before. His aggression was frantic, and it stirred a need in me that had me groaning into him as he shoved me against the wall of the dark room.
His hands reached for mine, pinning them above my head, forcing me to stay still.
To relent to his will.
To not be the CEO of fucking Astley Publishing.
To be Devlin.
Fuck.
I shuddered as he pushed into my chest, and the scent of his sweat was phenomenal. Me, the clean freak, was in love with the salty tang that was peppered with lemongrass and mint. He smelled like a cocktail I wanted to dive headfirst into. I wanted to roll around in it, cover myself in his essence. Have my nose shoved into sheets that were coated in him.
But this wasn’t to be.
This was a hook-up.
A tawdry dark room in VICE, one of my pet projects that no one knew I owned, that I visited when the need for dick became something I couldn’t control.
I was Devlin Astley.
Devlin Astley, Viscount of Lynden, heir to the goddamn duchy of Keighly, could never like cock.
But in the shadows... In the depths of the night... In a club that was my dirty little secret, I could.
I could like whatever the fuck I wanted.
Be whomever I wanted.
Among the corridor of dark rooms, I could hear the sounds of men fucking just above the throbbing beats from the main club, and as sight was denied me, my hearing was working at fever pitch, making those grunts and the EDM feel like they were in my veins. In my body. Pumping me up, stirring me, rushing me with adrenaline that I wanted to burn off on this stranger.
His cock was big. I could feel the log against my belly, and wanted that ramming into me with the same ferocity as his kiss. I could already feel the burn in my ass, knew I’d feel that ache there tomorrow, and I wanted it so bloody much that I stopped letting him maul me. Instead, I shoved back, pushed forward so that he was against the wall this time, with me covering him.
He let me too. That surprised me. I’d almost wanted to tussle away in this darkened corner of VICE, but he allowed me to shove my dick against the flat planes of his stomach, allowed me to grind it against him, rocking my hips back and forth like I could get off that way.
I shoved my face into his throat, sucking on the tender flesh that scented of the aftershave I could drown in, and I nipped him. Hard. Enough for him to grunt. Enough for him to pause. To process.
To recognize it was a taunt.
He liked it.
I knew he did.
He wanted more.
I could feel it.
His stillness preempted what I’d hoped for—he twisted his arm and released himself from my hold, before he reached down and cupped my cock through my slacks. I’d come straight from the office, desperate for release, to be anything other than Devlin fucking Astley, so the fabric was soft, easy enough for him to shape me through it. He thrust his tongue against mine once more, dragging a moan from me as he cupped me, then, he freed his other hand and went to work on my zipper.
I groaned as skin met skin and he jacked me off, making no bones about it—being as firm and hard with his grip as he was with his bite. There was something no nonsense about him, like the orgasm was the end goal—I sure as hell wasn’t going to complain about that.
The thwap-thwap of my cock being wanked had me shuddering, then he tightened his grip to the point of pain and maneuvered me back against the wall with a silent threat if I didn’t comply.
I did.
Did I look like a fool?
And I was rewarded for my compliance when he pulled back from his kiss and dropped to his knees.
A startled cry escaped me when his lips, those soft goddamn lips that I’d felt against my own, encompassed the tip of my dick. I shuddered, shivering, crying out as he seemed to take me whole. No woman had ever done that, few men had either, so to feel every inch of me being swallowed was a luxury I’d never experienced. My hands fluttered at my sides, unsure of what to do, to cling to the wall or to grip him by the hair but I knew what these dark rooms looked like in the light.
Tiled walls that had seen more DNA than an episode of CSI. Unimaginative graffiti.
Why wouldn’t I prefer to hold him?
The crisp silk of his hair beneath my palms was as intoxicating as his smell, as his lips around my cock.
In my mind’s eye, I built a picture of him. He felt young. Younger than I’d usually go for. His aggression spoke of someone who was eager for this, who wanted it, but who was nervous. Something the tang of a whiskey sour on his breath confirmed—Dutch courage. He’d needed it to come in here.
The way he’d gone from eager beaver to letting me shove him against the wall, that also made me think he was younger than me. He wasn’t sure in his actions, would accept direction until I goaded him into his instincts taking over.
His hair drew me like a magnet, and my fingers crushed the artless fall of it as I raked his skull, grabbing a firm hold of him as he swallowed me down. I held onto him as he moved back and forth, his lips tightening, cheeks tunneling in so that they caressed my length as he sucked me, then, his hand moved to grab my balls and he rolled them in his palm, gently at first, taking care, before he pressed them together, squeezing them like they were ripe plums.
The startled cry that escaped me echoed around the room, prompting him to pause, before he carried on with what he was doing. The sudden rasps of my breath combined with the noise of him blowing me, and I had no choice but to choke out, “If you don’t stop, I’m going to come.”
He paused, not because I’d asked though. Americans—they were all the same. They loved a British accent. And I had the most English of English accents. Eton had seen to that.
A sigh escaped him as he moved over me, one last gut-wrenching swallow that made my eyes roll back into my head before he pulled back, peppering the tip of my eager cock with a kiss that had my eyelashes fluttering.
Tenderness.
Who was this man?
Hard and aggressive, needy and eager, then tender?
He didn’t belong here.
Not with the rough fucks, the dark and raw hook-ups that ended with cum splattered on the floor for my staff to clean up later—poor fuckers.
It was weird to feel like I was taking advantage of him, but I did.
Who was I to say that this was his first time in a dark room?
All I knew was that no one had ever kissed my cock after sucking me down like a champ... Yet that proved nothing.