What's his Passion?

by Bailey Bradford, Ethan Stone, T. A. Chase, Sean Michael, L. M. Somerton, Morticia Knight

  Trey pressed the end against his hole, grabbing his cock with his free hand. Lucien moaned again for him, fingers still on his belly.

  It wasn’t hard to work in the first circle, but the second one was bigger, a challenge.

  He heard the slap of skin on skin, the unmistakable sound of hand on cock.

  “So hot,” Lucien told him.

  He spread his legs, bent his knees, taking more in.

  “Jesus, look at that.” Lucien’s voice had gone all rough.

  Trey moaned, rolling his hips up.

  “Take more of it, baby. Fuck yourself with it.”

  The biggest ball went in, and Trey cried out, jacking himself hard.

  Lucien’s breath tickled his ear. “Don’t come yet, baby. I want to be inside you when you do.”

  He jerked his hips violently. “Please.”

  Lucien’s hand wrapped around his and stilled it, kept it simply holding his cock. “Do you think you’re going to enjoy your new Boyfriend?”

  “I think I need you.”

  Lucien’s lips pressed against his, the kiss deep as Lucien helped him pull the dildo out of him. The emptiness made him whimper, made him shudder.

  The condom wrapper sounded loud, but he was thankful for it—it meant Lucien would soon be inside him, right?

  “Hurry.” He pushed up, making an offer.

  Soon he could feel the heat of Lucien’s body between his legs, then that thick cock pushed on his hole. Lucien didn’t hurry, though. He took his sweet time, feeding Trey his erection inch by inch. Trey thought he was going to die.

  One soft kiss landed his right nipple, another against his left.

  “I missed you. Missed this,” Lucien told him.

  He answered immediately. “God, me too.”

  Lucien pressed in until Trey felt the hot balls on his ass.

  He reached up, touching Lucien’s face, exploring. “Look at you.”

  “I’d rather look at you.”

  That tickled him, and he chuckled. “That is a little easier.”

  “Yeah.” Lucien rested their lips together, hips beginning to thrust slowly.

  Trey groaned, the pressure of that cock inside him unmistakable, undeniable. The dildo was good—it was amazing—but it wasn’t this. Each long thrust ended with Lucien deep inside and the thrusts just kept coming, again and again.

  Trey’s world seemed to explode, sensations flooding him. Then Lucien shifted, hitting that spot inside him and everything got bigger, better, more.

  “Lucien! Please, more.”

  “Like this?” Lucien punched in hard.

  “Yes!” He arched, throat working as he screamed.

  Lucien found him the rhythm he could get behind—hard and fast, just slamming into him. His erection slapped his belly with every thrust, but he couldn’t let go of Lucien’s shoulders to jack it.

  “Want you to come like this. From just my cock.”

  Like there was anything ‘just’ about Lucien’s sizeable member.

  “Need you.” Trey loved how Lucien moved inside him.

  “You’ve got me, Trey. As long as you’ll have me.” Lucien’s words were broken up by gasps, but the pounding didn’t stop, didn’t slow. That sounded like the best type of promise.

  Lucien’s thickness spread him and hit his gland, sending electricity along his spine.

  “There, hmm?”

  Trey nodded. Yes. There.

  “Good.” The word was growled out and Lucien hit his gland again. And again. And again.

  Trey bit out a cry.

  “Feel it, baby. Sink into it. It’s yours.”

  “Ours.”

  Theirs.

  “Yes!” Lucien slammed in harder.

  Trey nodded, his body clenching tight.

  Lucien was like a machine, giving it to him like he needed.

  “Soon,” he warned.

  “Now,” Lucien insisted.

  “N…”

  Lucien slammed in and he came, his soul rattling. Lucien shuddered and moaned.

  “You. You now.” He wanted to make Lucien lose it, too.

  “Yes.” He squeezed tight as Lucien pushed in a few more times, his body trying to orgasm again as Lucien hit his gland.

  Then his lover froze, buried deep inside him and Lucien made this amazing noise. His fingers moved to touch, loving the way he could read the pleasure in Lucien’s face. He felt Lucien smile, hot breath panting on his palm.

  “Can you stay a few days?” Please?

  Lucien nodded against his fingers. “I can’t think of anything I’d like to do more.”

  “Good. Good.” He drew Lucien down for a kiss. “Thank you.”

  “It’s my pleasure, baby.”

  Lucien slid out of him, making him cry out. A moment later the new dildo was pressed into him, the stretch absolutely perfect now. “I’ll trade it out for the plug later.”

  Oh, God, yes. Yes.

  When Lucien slid in next to him, holding him close and said, “Tell me about your new story, baby,” it was perfect.

  Epilogue

  Lucien’s phone jangled and he grinned. That was Trey’s ringtone.

  He glanced at the text, his smile getting wider. Looked like he would have a new Guy Wilks’ novel to read soon, but better than that, he was about to see his baby.

  About the Author

  Often referred to as ‘Space Cowboy’ and ‘Gangsta of Love’ while still striving for the moniker of ‘Maurice’, Sean Michael spends his days surfing, smutting, organizing his immense gourd collection and fantasizing about one day retiring on a small secluded island peopled entirely by horseshoe crabs. While collecting vast amounts of vintage gay pulp novels and mood rings, Sean whiles away the hours between dropping the f-bomb and pursuing the kama sutra by channeling the long lost spirit of John Wayne and singing along with the soundtrack to Chicago.

  A long-time writer of complicated haiku, currently Sean is attempting to learn the advanced arts of plate spinning and soap carving sex toys.

  Barring any of that? He’ll stick with writing his stories, thanks, and rubbing pretty bodies together to see if they spark.

  Email: seanmichaelwrites@gmail.com

  Sean loves to hear from readers. You can find his contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com.

  Also by Sean Michael

  Chess: Opening Moves

  Chess: Middle Game

  Chess: En Prise

  Chess: Helpmate

  Chess: End Game

  Beer and Clay: Malting

  Stand to Attention: Almost

  PICTURING LYSANDER

  L.M. Somerton

  Dedication

  To capturing the moment.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmark mentioned in this work of fiction:

  National Geographic: National Geographic Society

  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-li
ke 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.

  * * * *

  When Brock awoke, it was already very dark. For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was then it all came back, along with awareness of a pounding headache hammering at his temples. He climbed carefully out of bed, trying not to jog his head too much, and stretched.

  “I need aspirin. Lots of aspirin,” he whispered and felt his way along the bed to the door. He didn’t bother to dress—he was wearing a pair of dark gray trunks and had no intention of doing anything other than taking painkillers, swallowing a glass of water and returning to his cozy bed.

  After a quick visit to the bathroom, he fought momentary giddiness and descended the stairs, holding tightly to the banister. The darkness was soothing and he didn’t need lights to find his way around, so he made it to the kitchen, filled a tumbler with tap water and grabbed tablets from a drawer without too much fumbling. He pulled open the door of the fridge to get some ice from the small freezer compartment and left the door open as he turned to eject some cubes into his glass. The bright light from its interior li
t the room with a blue-white glow, giving shape to the dark figure seated in a chair across the kitchen units from him.

  Ice cubes shattered and slid across the tiled floor as Brock dropped the tray.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  He groped for the knife block but soon realized that it was gone and there was nothing else to hand that he could use as a weapon.

  “Please calm down, Lysander. I don’t intend to hurt you unless I have to.”

  The voice was deep, sonorous and scarily calm.

  “How do you know my name? Who are you?” Brock felt extremely vulnerable, semi-naked in the company of an intruder who clearly had an advantage over him.

  “Come over here and sit down. Then I’ll tell you.”

  Brock shook his head and edged away then he turned and ran for the hall. He yanked at the front door but it was locked and there was no sign of the key to release the dead bolts. The stranger followed him into the hall and now stood blocking any other escape route. Brock turned and pressed himself back against unyielding wood.

  “There’s nowhere to run. The back door is locked too. Now, come and sit down.”

  The voice betrayed no sign of impatience, but there was an edge to his tone that suggested he was used to being obeyed. Brock tried to calm his pounding heart and played for time. “Can I at least put some clothes on?”

  “No. I like you just the way you are.” The intruder examined him from head to toe, pausing a little too long in the middle. “Nowhere to hide any sharp implements.” He gestured at the kitchen door and waited for Brock to move.

  The gap was narrow and Brock was forced to brush against him, the skin-tight fabric of his trunks rucked up to expose the curve of his ass and he thought he heard a hiss of frustration behind him.