Second-Best Men by Fearne Hill

Author:Fearne Hill [Hill, Fearne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-11-15T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 8

We didn’t exactly gallop to Evan’s apartment, but neither did we walk. More of a steady trot, our feet gobbling up the pavement. And we carried on holding hands too, a first for me. Once the pubs closed, Allenmouth at night was fairly dead. Whilst it was the sort of provincial small town where narrow-minded citizens whispered and pointed at two men briskly trotting down the street together hand-in-hand, even stopping for a quick snog, we didn’t feel especially daring. Just fabulously unreal, floaty even. I wanted our destination to never come and yet arrive immediately.

Evan fumbled with the door key, not helped by me rubbing up against him like Zeus did to his favourite blanket on the rare days when the sun warmed his bones and he forgot he was ancient. Evan's apartment was on the ground floor of a tastefully converted Georgian vicarage; he’d been renting it for the past few months waiting to buy somewhere. Right now, details of his property circumstances interested me about as much as the décor and elegant architecture, which was to say not at all, because we finally pushed through the door.

As it banged shut behind us, I slammed him up against it. “I’ll apologise in advance if this is quick.”

He shimmied out of his jacket, letting it drop where he stood. I pulled viciously at the pink shirt. A button pinged, skittering to the floor. Another yank, another button ping, and the shirt slipped off his shoulders to join it. A rich mat of curling black hair, spiralling out like the branches of a tree from the midline of his chest, greeted my eager mouth. And his scent. Oh my God, his scent. On legs like porridge, I leaned into him, drunk on his musky, sweaty, sweet bloody maleness. The scratchy, stubbly column of his neck was finally mine to taste.

He made a sound in his throat. “Fuck, I might be quicker.”

Evan’s clever surgeon’s fingers worked at his belt. He slipped lower down the door, his hips rolling against mine as he spread his legs wider, inviting me in. My mouth closed around the rose-petal disc of a nipple, nipping. As I feasted on the delicious salty tang of him, he moaned in shock.

“Rob, Christ, that feels good. Rob.”

He whimpered my name, and I suckled harder, marking him, seized by an urge to add my scent to every single inch of perfect male flesh. Pushing down my own jeans, I freed myself with a stroke and a squeeze, and his head thudded against the wooden door.

“You look so good doing that,” he breathed. That fucking elegant throat opened up to me even wider. “Are you going to do it to me?”

Roughly, I jerked open his trousers, yanking them over his narrow hips. “You want me to?”

I sank into the clinging heat of his mouth, sliding my hand off me and onto him. Wetness pooled at the front of his underwear, darkening the pale blue fabric. His cock strained upwards, and I skirted it with my hand, a teasing promise.

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