Free The Book of Daniel by Z. A. Maxfield Page B

against my tree.
    What kind of a place was St. Nacho’s that a man couldn’t hide in a tree without somebody coming along and ruining the moment?
    I glanced through the thick branches and tried not to make a sound when I realized it was Cam resting against the trunk of my tree—shoved there by some man I’d never seen before.
    That figured.
    It would take slamming something the size of Cam to nearly shake me loose from where I sat among the highest branches that would hold my weight. I had to stay perfectly silent and still and pray neither man looked up until they were through with whatever they planned.
    And wasn’t that just peachy.
    It’s not like it’s unprecedented for a guy to find a quiet spot to contemplate a difficult problem or make plans for the future, but most people wouldn’t expect to see me doing my thinking in the branches of a tree.
    A moan escaped from someone, and I realized that my new favorite haven was about to get awkward. Cameron Rooney was getting a blowjob—and it looked to be a really good one—not fifteen feet below where I was sitting.
    Any one of a number of men I’d met at Nacho’s Bar or in town could be braced against the tree below me, legs spread wide—pants open and belt dangling—making needy little moaning noises as the man on his knees took him to the back of his throat and gagged a little from the size.
    Why did it have to be Cam?
    My theory that bodybuilders had to lose something in order to gain all that muscle was being blown all to hell right there too. I was perched directly above them, and I could see the whole, choking length of Cameron Rooney’s cock. It sprang from a bush of pubic hair that in the moonlight looked dark, but I thought might just be red, because if he wasn’t a Viking fucking god, I didn’t know who would be. I could just imagine it, a vast ripped expanse of tan belly, gleaming Adonis belt defined by a heady ridge of muscle, a fiery red treasure trail, and a thatch of rusty pubic hair.
    The guy who was blowing Cam took his time, and since there was nothing I could do at that point to reveal myself that wouldn’t be asinine and embarrass the hell out of everyone, I stayed frozen in stunned silence—all the while getting turned the fuck on. Because yeah. That was hot.
    Somewhere in my head there was a voice that said, “This is wrong. You must alert them to your presence.” But there was a much louder voice saying, “ Fuck yeah . Take that, you bad, bad boy. Let me see you come. Let me have it, Cam. I want to watch your face when you lose yourself down somebody’s throat.”
    I’m conflicted like that.
    On the one hand, I always know what’s right.
    On the other hand, I don’t always do it.
    Cam grunted and shifted as his knees got weak, and I felt and heard him brace against the tree again. His big meaty hands clamped onto his lover’s head, and his hips started to pop. The guy whose face he was fucking made motorboat sounds in his throat like a purring cat, and Cam…he was panting now, no doubt thinking they were alone and he could let the happy fuck noises rip. His was the sexiest voice I’d ever heard anyway, and now it slid over my spine like hot cream. Silken and smooth. Deep and rich and perfectly musical. I’d have bet my car he could sing.
    His cries grew deep. Rough with anticipation and vibrating with need. It made the fine hairs stand up all over my body, and my cock throbbed in response.
    What a man . I knew how gorgeous he could be, but I never even imagined him like this.
    Oh fuck, who am I kidding, of course I had. I had imagined him exactly like this—but with my mouth wrapped around his cock. The reality was so much better. He was the picture of masculine perfection—all power and sinew and sweat. I couldn’t take my eyes away as he signaled his lover he was ready. He suddenly jerked wordlessly, soundlessly, and froze. He tilted his buffalo head back and that big, chiseled jaw of his tipped up and up… It was