Tarot's Touch (23 page)
Alex stilled. “I can feel your muscles squeezing my dick.”
Conor tried to jerk his hips, but Alex pinned him down, rocking against him in slow, easy movements. Conor burned at the sensation of Alex deep inside him. He was so hard and fierce and yet so gentle. Alex cupped his face in his hands and kissed him passionately.
“Don’t want you to come yet, love.”
Conor groaned. Alex started to move quicker, penetrating him more deeply. Conor wasn’t going to be able to hold on. Alex growled and came, driving into Conor’s channel with a final powerful thrust.
Conor whimpered, hovering right on the edge of release.
“Please, Alex!”
Alex’s icy eyes glittered. “I want you to take me, Conor. I want you to know that I am yours just as much as you are mine.”
Conor trembled and almost came just at the thought of sinking deep into Alex’s gorgeous arse. He would have been perfectly happy to bottom for Alex for the rest of his life, but this… This would be bliss.
“Are you sure, love? Don’t feel like you have to… I wouldn’t want that.” His voice wavered slightly.
Alex just gave him a cocky, confident smile. “Why don’t you just lie there like a good boy and let me do the work?”
Conor batted his lashes and smiled. God how he loved this beautiful man! Alex slicked his fingers with lube and started stroking Conor’s cock. He went very slowly, but he did it with a wicked, knowing grin.
Conor squeezed his eyes shut. Alex’s hand on him was torture. The movement stopped, and he opened one eye tentatively to see Alex lubing his own hole with a look of intense concentration.
“Christ, that’s hot.”
Alex looked at him and actually blushed. He positioned himself carefully then sank down onto Conor’s waiting erection.
To Conor it seemed to take an age before skin met skin and he was fully inside Alex’s body. It felt amazing—warm, snug and safe. He examined Alex’s face for any sign of pain, but all he saw was bliss. Alex began to move, tentatively at first then faster and faster, his eyes always in direct contact with Conor’s own. Conor was left in no doubt that he was still being topped—Alex was in absolute control.
Alex leaned forward and pinned Conor’s wrists against the bed. It was a challenge. Conor bucked his hips up against Alex’s weight and hit his sweet spot hard. He couldn’t hold back any longer and came with a satisfied moan inside Alex’s body. Alex was holding his wrists so tight he knew he would have bruises the next morning but the pressure eased as Alex shot all over him with a triumphant yell.
Conor chuckled. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to let me top.”
“I don’t know what you mean!” Alex protested but looked a little sheepish. He relaxed into a cuddle, with Conor still softening inside him. “I’ve never done that with anyone else.”
Conor kissed him gently. “Maybe next time, I can tie you up and screw you into the mattress?”
Alex’s eyes narrowed. “Not a hope in hell, beautiful. That’s my job… In fact…” He leaned down the side of the bed and produced a pair of glinting padded handcuffs. “As soon as you’ve recovered, I think I should probably remind you of your place.”
“Demanding your conjugal rights?”
“Absolutely. Love, honor and obey.”
“I don’t think the word obey appeared in the service, Alex.”
“It may not have been spoken but it was there.” Alex’s gaze was challenging him to disagree.
Conor just smiled.
Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:
What’s his Passion?: Picturing Lysander
L.M. Somerton
Excerpt
Chapter One
“You need your head read, young man. You treat photography like an extreme sport.”
“And your bedside manner needs some work, Doc.” Brock winced and gritted his teeth as another needle punctured his flesh.
“Would you rather I patted your head and gave you a sugar lump?”
“Is that what you did in the army?” Brock often thought that his doctor forgot he was now dealing with delicate civilians.
“Most squaddies would run away screaming at the sight of a needle if it didn’t mean disciplinary action. I often wish the same principles could be applied to my patients here.”
Brock squirmed. “I don’t remember vaccinations ever being this painful.”
The doctor grinned. “Probably because you never had to have six at the same time before. Okay, that was the last one. You can pull your trousers up.”
He peeled off his gloves and threw the used syringe into a special bin that his nurse held out for him.
“You may experience some flu-like symptoms over the next twenty-four hours, and you’ll probably get some bruising, but if you feel any worse than that, give me a call. When are you traveling?”
“Ten days’ time.” Brock smiled and got to his feet. “Then I’ll be out there for four weeks.”
“Well, good luck. Stay safe. Bring me back another picture for the wall in reception.”
Brock pulled the consulting room door closed behind him but still overheard the doctor as he said, “Colombia! I don’t know whether he’s brave, stupid or just too young to know any better!”
Brock waited for the nurse to respond, but nothing happened.
“Linda! Quit mooning over him and get the room ready for the next patient.”
“But he’s so gorgeous, Doc. I could definitely be tempted to get unprofessional with him!”
Brock winced.
Not in this lifetime
.
The doctor chuckled mischievously. “Forget it! He’s more likely to go for me than you.”
There was a groan. “Oh, for goodness sake, why are all the pretty ones either married or gay? That is a serious loss to womankind.”
Brock shook his head, stepped quietly away from the door and headed for the exit. Outside the surgery, the weather was doing its best impression of a tropical monsoon, though without the heat. The rain beat down onto pavements already awash after days of continuous downpours. In the distance, thunder rumbled ominously and the sky had a threatening purple hue that spoke of more rain to come.
Brock looked up just as lightning split the sky. The rain got even harder. Stoically he turned up the collar of his waterproof coat and grimaced at the trickle of cold water that immediately slid down his neck. In seconds, his hair was soaked and plastered to his head. Brock hunched his shoulders and lengthened his stride toward home. It wasn’t strictly
his
home. He was just house-sitting while his brother, sister-in-law and two young nephews spent their annual fortnight’s holiday on one of the Balearic Islands—he couldn’t remember which one.
Brock spent such a lot of time traveling on photographic assignments that he’d never bothered to get his own place. When he was in England, he spent the time with his brother’s family or returned to his mum and dad’s rambling old place in Northumberland. Their house was so big, and they were both so busy with various pet projects and charities, that he could probably have lived there full time without them even noticing his presence. Brock smiled to himself at the thought—he was very fond of his eccentric parents.
Brock soon arrived at the edge of the new estate where his brother’s house sat on a decent-sized plot, halfway down a tree-lined avenue. Despite the miserable weather, he felt uncomfortably warm and was glad to make it to the sanctuary of the front hall, where a small puddle gathered around his feet as he stripped off dripping outdoor clothes and boots. Feeling progressively worse, he met his own piercing blue eyes in the hall mirror and grimaced. His skin looked clammy and his hands shook a little.
“Bloody vaccinations,” he muttered. He climbed the stairs slowly, passing a number of his own, neatly framed photographs and headed for the guest room bed. “Better just sleep it off.” He grabbed a towel from the en suite and gave his hair a rub then stripped to his underwear and went to draw the curtains. He frowned at the sheets of driving rain. A tall man sheltered under a tree opposite the house. “Blimey, he must be soaked.” Brock shrugged. His only concern was how quickly he could get into his comfy bed and sleep away the after-effects of his inoculations. He pulled the curtains closed and slid gratefully between cool sheets as his body reacted to the cocktail of drugs swimming through his system. Sleep came quickly and he drifted into dreams of distant jungles and the amazing pictures he would take.
* * * *
Outside, under the dripping tree, Kyle Dawson shifted uncomfortably. He had just been treated to a glimpse of the most tempting body he’d seen in some time and his cock had started dancing to its own tune despite the cold, damp conditions. He shook water droplets from the caped shoulders of his long, waxed coat and tilted the brim of his hat forward a bit further. Kyle knew exactly where the subject of his observation had been that day, indeed for the last two weeks, though today was the first time he had gotten close to Brock’s home.
He closed his eyes and recalled the details of the file he had been given.
Lysander Brock, known as Brock to his friends—
parents clearly had a thing for Shakespeare because his brother’s name was Ferdinand
. Six feet tall, blond hair, blue eyes—
stunning blue eyes in Kyle’s opinion
—one-hundred-eighty pounds—
all completely edible
—aged twenty-five. Permanent address listed at his parent’s home in Northumberland. Professional photographer with work published in practically every travel and wildlife publication worth reading. Very well-traveled, with skills that included caving, climbing and hiking. Currently unattached. Two previous boyfriends known, neither particularly serious. Or deserving
, Kyle thought grumpily.
He pictured the photo hidden in his inside pocket and licked his lips. He knew he should be maintaining a cold, clinical approach to the task ahead but for Christ’s sake, this guy was stunning and there was no harm in dreaming. After all, he’d been chosen for the job specifically because he was also gay. His bosses had thought he would blend in better if he needed to follow his quarry to gay pubs and clubs, though in the end, that had not been necessary. Lysander Brock led a very quiet life when he wasn’t working.
“You’d have no chance, you idiot,” he muttered under his breath, “even if you weren’t about to ruin his day.”
Kyle looked around carefully to make sure he was unobserved then crossed the road. The appalling weather worked in his favor, as very few people were out and about. Confident that there was no one around to witness his swift journey across the garden and through the unlocked gate, he slipped down the side of the house and in to the back garden of the property. Tall hedges and mature trees shielded it from the neighboring houses, giving him all the time in the world to pick the lock on the door and slip quietly into the kitchen.
Kyle found the back door key on a wall hook. He relocked the door, slid the additional bolt shut and removed the key, tucking it safely into his pocket. Taking his time, he removed his wet coat and hat and hung them over a chair. The layout of the house was firmly stored in his head so he could move confidently to the front door and set the dead bolts. Secure in the knowledge that Brock would not be able to run, he crept up the stairs and peered around the door of the guest bedroom. Kyle had to bite down on his lip as he saw the young man in the bed, sleeping deeply. Brock had pushed the covers down to his hips, one arm was flung out to the side and his smooth, hairless chest rose and fell gently as he breathed. His face was a little flushed but other than that, he seemed perfectly at peace. Kyle resisted the temptation to pull the covers down a little farther, backed away and headed silently downstairs to the kitchen. He took one of the chairs set around the kitchen table and turned it so that he could face the door to the hall then he settled down to wait.
About the Author
Lucinda lives in a small village in the English countryside, surrounded by rolling hills, cows and sheep. She started writing to fill time between jobs and is now firmly and unashamedly addicted.
She loves the English weather, especially the rain, and adores a thunderstorm. She loves good food, warm company and a crackling fire. She’s fascinated by the psychology of relationships, especially between men, and her stories contain some subtle (and not so subtle) leanings towards BDSM.
Email:
[email protected]
L.M. Somerton
loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at
http://www.totallybound.com
.
Also by L.M Somerton
Tales from The Edge: Reaching the Edge
Tales from The Edge: Living on the Edge
Tales from The Edge: Dancing on the Edge
