by Myles, Eden
* * *
When Devon Grayson was sixteen years old, and Malcolm Sloan thirty-six, Devon tried to lift his wallet. Malcolm was standing in line for an early screening of The Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind in Times Square with his date Richard when the young ruffian lurched into him from behind. Malcolm, a native New Yorker, immediately knew what that meant.
“Shit,” he breathed under his breath, and Richard looked over at him in question. Malcolm clapped his trouser pockets, turned and searched the crowd with narrow eyes. He spotted what looked like a young fence with canary yellow hair elbowing through the crowds of people.
He considered pursuing the kid for exactly one-point-five seconds, then realized he would never, ever catch the kid. He wasn’t in bad shape, but the kid was lean and determined, and he moved between passersby like greased lightning. Instead, he reached for his cell phone and put a call in to the police.
He didn’t expect anything to come of it. Nothing usually did. But he had recently been promoted to VP of Harper House, the second biggest publisher in New York (in fact, he was here tonight to celebrate his promotion with Richard) and he didn’t anticipate that when he told the police his name, they would scramble like dogfighters to retrieve his lost property.
Two hours later, as he and Richard were sitting down at a private VIP table at the Royal, a very exclusive bistro on Central Park West, his cell rang again. The police had caught the pickpocket.
Malcolm went downtown to retrieve his lost property. The Chief of Police was there, and he treated Malcolm like royalty. For Malcolm, who had spent over ten years as a middleman, editing and marketing his way up the ranks, the reaction was strangely intoxicating.
“If you want to press charges, we’ll send the bugger up the river. He already has a rap sheet a mile long,” the Chief informed him. His mouth was virtually watering at the prospects of sticking it to the kid.
Malcolm gave it exactly three seconds of thought. He had always been a decisive man, the main reason he had climbed to the top of the dog pile in this town. He knew what he wanted, and he wasn’t afraid to go after it. “No,” he said, though he had no idea what exactly was prompting him to be so compassionate tonight.
Maybe it was the promotion, the buoyant feeling of power he was experiencing, and the gnawing feeling at the back of his mind that with great power comes great responsibility, as clichéd as that sounded. Maybe it was just his upbringing—he had been raised by a single mother who had worked as a hotel maid for forty years to give him an education and a chance at a better life than she’d had. He felt he still owed his mother by doing something good for others.
Whatever the reason, something about the situation bothered him. “No. I’d like to see the kid.”
The Chief raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise. “As you will,” he said and led Malcolm out into the holding cells.
They had put the pickpocket in the drunk tank instead of the pen. Malcolm soon realized why.
He was young, and rail thin, and poor, and ragged. A strong wind could have knocked him over, and he wouldn’t have lasted a minute at the hands of an angry New York rough. He looked cold in an Army surplus jacket that didn’t really fit his rangy limbs. His nails were black with grime and his knuckles broken and bleeding from the cold. His combat boots were full of newspaper. Malcolm immediately knew he had made the right decision.
The kid gave Malcolm a wary look as the Chief let him inside the tank. Three other drunks lay snoring against the walls, but none of them stirred as Malcolm approached the boy sitting on the bottom bunk, scraping at the grime on his thumbnail.
For Devon Grayson, Malcolm Sloan epitomized everything he hated in this world. The bloke looked bloody rich and arrogant, the typical New York Wallstreet type, forgettable in a crowd. He was of medium height and build, with brown hair professionally tousled and grey eyes. He was built solid, and doing the best he could with his negligible good looks, but he didn’t look especially dangerous. Still, Devon shrank back on the bunk as the man approached. He had learned through hard experience that looks could often be very deceiving. You couldn’t trust anyone, not even your old man.
Malcolm offered the kid his hand and his name. “We weren’t properly introduced when you stole my wallet,” he said and Devon stared at the offered hand. Generally speaking, people avoided touching him unless they absolutely had to, or they were paying for it.
“Whatever, gov,” Devon said dismissively.
Malcolm blinked. The kid was giving him a bored, worldly expression, but his eyes told another story. He could tell the kid had been there. He was scared. And hungry. And bitter. Under all the grime and flippant bravado, the kid was frightened half to death that Malcolm would put him away, where he’d be roughly processed through the system and probably spend the next six months being violated by his cellmate. “You’re British,” Malcolm said in an attempt to calm the kid.
“What difference does it make?” the kid asked. “You like dicking limeys?”
Malcolm sat down beside the kid, who immediately inched away. “I’m just wondering why you’re so far from home. London, isn’t it?”
“You some social worker?”
“No.”
“Then why the fuck to you care?”
“Settle down, punk,” the Chief said from the other side of the bars.
Malcolm turned to him and said, “Could you leave us alone a moment?”
“With him?” The Chief looked appalled.
“Do you really think he’s capable of doing anything to me?” Malcolm asked.
With a shrug, the Chief walked away.
Malcolm turned back to the kid with the canary yellow hair. Under the grime and panic, he was beautiful, and he had amazing, cornflower blue eyes. He resisted the urge to pat the boy’s knee. He didn’t do jailbait. “Look, pet, I know you’ve probably been through hell. But some advice? If you’re going to pick a pocket, you might not want to dye your hair Tweety Bird color. It makes you stand out.”
“Sure, gov,” the kid said, staring at his feet. “You pick pockets?” He made it sound sarcastic, but Malcolm could tell he was genuinely curious.
“I used to, when I was younger. I didn’t have much to eat, growing up.”
“I know how that is. Your folks beat you too?”
Malcolm felt a spike of sickness in his belly. He wished there was something more he could do, but he wasn’t sure what that was, and he’d decided taking the kid home with him wouldn’t be very wise. With a sigh, he dug out the thousand dollars he had secreted away in a hidden compartment of his coat pocket, kept there as emergency money (say, for instance, for when someone lifted his wallet) and laid it on the bunk beside the kid. “Buy yourself some food, some better clothes, and go to a shelter tonight, all right? There’s one down on Madison Avenue, near the Laundromat. I just know there will be snow tonight, and you’ll be cold out there, and I don’t want to worry about you. Will you do that?”
The kid looked at the money but didn’t immediately touch it. He said in a low voice, “You didn’t answer my question, gov. Why the hell do you care?”
“Jesus, kid,” Malcolm said as he stood up. “Why wouldn’t I?”
The kid looked up. Malcolm knew from the police report that his name was Devon Grayson, he was sixteen years old, and he had an arrest record for pickpocketing, assault, and prostitution. Jesus. Malcolm feared what would become of him in this town.
Impulsively, he brushed his thumb across the grime on Devon’s cheek. “I gotta get out of here before I break the law.” He winked at Devon. “Try and make something of yourself, kid.”
That night, as Malcolm made love to Richard on his new king-sized bed in the new penthouse apartment he had rented, he felt the satisfaction of having done a good deed—of having done the kid right.
Devon.
Devon Grayson. A sixteen-year-old juvenile delinquent from the East End of London.
He did not expect to ever see Devon Grayson again. In fact, he knew
it in his heart.
But he was wrong.
* * *
When Malcolm Sloan was forty-one years old, he came home early to his penthouse apartment one day to find Shane, the guy he’d dumped Richard for three years ago, in bed with their housekeeper, Juanita. Malcolm wasn’t sure what hurt more, the fact that Shane was a cheater or that Shane had sworn on his mother’s grave that he was gay, not bi, and definitely not straight.
“Malc, wait!” Shane, a marketing exec originally from Kentucky, shouted.
Malcolm threw his briefcase at Shane’s head. Shane ducked in time, and his briefcase collided with a bedside lamp, knocking it to the floor.
Malcolm felt a wash of relief. Despite his lover’s infidelity, he didn’t really want to hurt Shane. It had never been his way. He even felt a little ashamed for reacting so childishly. His mother, God rest her soul, had once told him that a real man knows how to control himself as well as his environment. The philosophy had served him well in life. Maybe not in love, but definitely in business.
Shane continued to call after him, but Malcolm had slammed out of the penthouse in anger and frustration. He took a cab to a posh hotel on Central Park West run by a friend of his from the Dollhouse Society. Udo, his friend, had a courtesan where Malcolm did not, not yet.
He had thought of asking Shane at one point, early on in their relationship, but something had stopped him. Shane was just as alpha as he was. Were they not lovers, they would have been mortal enemies. As it was, their fights left holes punched in the walls of Malcolm’s bedroom. That’s what had held him back—or, at least, that’s what he had told himself. But now he finally realized the real reason he and Shane didn’t click. Underneath it all, he didn’t really trust Shane, not the way a gentleman and a courtesan (or courtier) needed to trust each other to have a solid relationship. Malcolm wanted a courtier he could trust, one he could take care of, one who didn’t mind exploring their sexual boundaries…someone he didn’t have to watch like a hawk.
Udo ran a very exclusive, high-end bordello out of his hotel. Malcolm had not had very many occasions to avail himself of Udo’s services, but tonight seemed just right. The sex workers were handpicked by Udo, clean of drug use or STD’s. Udo ran a very tight ship. After Malcolm arrived (he had an open VIP invitation, seeing how they were both members of the Society), he called down for the package deal.
It occurred to him, while he waited for one of Udo’s boys to arrive, that he was only cheating on Shane because Shane had cheated on him, and that was a pretty childish attitude to take, but at the moment, Malcolm just didn’t care. He didn’t believe in committing unnecessary violence, and he didn’t drink—the man who had been his father (he used the term lightly) had been a chronic alcoholic who’d left his pregnant teen mother when he was still in utero and had died drunk and penniless in the gutter. But he did like sex. A lot of it. He liked the release, the way orgasm melted away the stress and violence within him, the way it left him in control of himself and his environment. And, after all, it was obvious his and Shane’s relationship was broken.
Udo called to inform Malcolm that he was sending up one of his newest studs. The young man was clean, good and expensive, just the way Malcolm preferred his lays.
Malcolm was in the magnificently tiled, Grecian washroom when the boy arrived. He stepped out of the room, tying the knot on his silken dressing gown, and immediately recognized Udo’s new stud, who was standing by the desk and unzipping his leather jacket.
It was Devon Grayson.
For a moment, Malcolm wondered if he was only hoping he was seeing Devon Grayson after all these years. But no…it was him, though he had changed, matured. He was taller and more filled out. His hair was still blond (though not canary-colored, more natural and subdued, a rich caramel color) and his eyes still clear and blue like a Caribbean sky. His complexion, once so icy-white and cold, had been professionally tanned to a butternut color. He was bare-chested and oiled to a hairless sheen under the leather jacket. He was, to put it mildly, beautiful and utterly fuckable.
Devon said, “I know you. You’re that bloke. The gov.”
“Hello, Tweety Bird,” Malcolm said. The desire was there inside him, rough and hard. He had only felt such desire once before, his teenage crush, their first time. It had been five years since he’d spoken to this boy. That made Devon…twenty-one.
They stared at each other from across the hotel suite, Devon shyly, Malcolm less so. Then Malcolm, acting on a rare but powerful impulse, crossed the room and took Devon in his arms. He smelled the oils of his leather, the sweetness of his hair and body, the musky, spicy scent that was just him, just Devon, and spun him around so Devon’s belly was pressed against the edge of the desk.
Devon braced himself on the edge, and as he did so, his firm ass jutted up, whether intentionally or not. Malcolm wanted to believe it wasn’t just part of his training, that he was offering himself up to Malcolm.
Devon watched over one shoulder as Malcolm gripped him by the hips and undid his belt and jeans in a frenzy of anticipation. “Let me fuck that sexy ass off you,” Malcolm said, surprised by his own lusty aggression, and dropped to his knees to lick the length of the boy’s bare ass crack.
Devon immediately groaned and thrust back impulsively against him. “Please, yes,” he answered breathlessly. “Fuck me hard and make me come.”
He wanted to be gentle. He didn’t want to hurt this boy. But the need to be inside him was overwhelming. He knew he would come in a matter of seconds, just from that one taste. He bounded to his feet and undid the belt of his robe, and before Devon could say anything more, before he could even react, Malcolm pinned the upper half of his body to the top of the desk and shoved the hard, hugely swollen head of his shaft deep inside him.
Devon’s body fit him like a glove, like it had been made for him. Devon gasped even as Malcolm buried himself to the hilt in the boy’s sweet ass. Devon immediately tightened down around his girth, and before long, Malcolm found himself digging his fingers into the buttery soft flesh of Devon’s hips as he pounded away at him in an animal-like frenzy of pure lust.
Devon grunted at each impact, the force of it shoving him roughly against the edge of the desk before dragging his hips back so he was ready for another assault. Malcolm’s balls slammed his ass so loudly the sound nearly drowned out the mewling noises that Devon was making. He clawed the surface of the desk with his nicely polished nails, leaving shockingly deep grooves there as Malcolm released his lust, anger and frustration inside his body.
The violence of his need both shocked and worried Malcolm. He had never been this way with Shane, or even Richard, whom he sometimes regretted leaving. He breathed roughly into Devon’s hair as he fucked the boy hard and fast. His fucking finally grew so savage that Devon screeched with pleasure and came hard against the surface of the desk. Malcolm growled, buried his cock deep inside his lover’s ass, and came with a violent shiver that rippled through his body and into Devon’s.
He felt like a shit when it was over and they had managed to collapse onto the bed together. Malcolm prided himself on being a good lover, on putting his lover’s needs above his own. He was never this greedy or self-serving, and he was almost never this violent or demanding in his lovemaking. But something in Devon had wrenched the lust from him, had torn his emotional guts out and laid them bare.
He sexed the boy a second time on the bed, gently this time, going slow and watching Devon’s face for his reactions, for what he liked and didn’t like. Afterward, he lay holding Devon, kissing away the beads of sweat clinging to his hair and the odd tear on his cheek. He kissed Devon hungrily, as if he meant to feed at the boy’s mouth, swallow the air he breathed. He pressed himself against Devon’s rangy but strong body. Finally, he sought words. “I told you to make something of yourself, pet,” he whispered angrily against Devon’s ear.
“I did, gov. I did.” Devon looked on Malcolm curiously, as if he were speaking another language. “Udo’s a great
bloke. Doesn’t lay a hand on me, or any of the other boys.”
“Oh Devon,” Malcolm said, sounding angry even to himself. “Is that why you came here to America? Did your family…did they hurt you?”
Devon shifted away from him and sat up. “It’s no concern of yours, is it?” He reached for a clove cigarette in his clothes.
Malcolm bit his lip and watched the boy light up. “You deserve better than this.”
Devon’s shoulders sagged. “This is all there is.”
“Come here.”
Devon did, and together they shared the clove, Malcolm’s first. Malcolm then gathered him in his arms and pulled him gently against the front of his body so Devon was sitting in his lap. Devon guided Malcolm’s already stiffening cock into his hole and started rocking against him. He closed his eyes and grunted as he took as much of Malcolm’s substantial cock as he could.
“You are so fucking beautiful. You could be an actor, a model,” Malcolm said, passing both hands over Devon’s face and hair. “Devon. Or maybe Devon, like divine.” He kissed Devon tenderly, tasting sweet clove on his breath.
Devon laughed, a hollow, unhappy sound. “I’ll be whatever you want tonight, gov,” he told Malcolm as they kissed.
The following morning, Malcolm was up before the boy was—not surprising, since he had all but worn Devon out. He dressed in the near dark of the hotel suite and left a ten-thousand dollar tip lying on the desk, atop the scratches that Devon had made. He told himself he was going home to try and fix his and Shane’s relationship. He owed his lover that much, at least. A second chance.
But the truth was, he didn’t like what Devon did to him. He didn’t like the loss of control he experienced in Devon’s arms. Devon was like Kryptonite to him.
As he was slipping out the door, Devon turned over in bed and pulled the coverlet around his bare shoulders. He narrowed his sleep-softened eyes. “Until we meet again, gov,” he said and wet back to sleep.