Free The Dollhouse Society: Margo by Eden Myles

of Devon’s throat as he worked them both up to climax, hard and fast, the way Devon preferred. He was not a patient man by nature. He worked hard and fast, and he came hard and fast.
    “Bloody hell,” Devon groaned as Malcolm sucked in a bite of supersensitive skin just under his ear and slid his greedy hand around Devon’s ramrod stiff cock. Through half closed eyes, Devon watched their shadows merging and writhing on the wall opposite. Then he dropped his eyes to the man he loved, the water beading and sluicing in rivulets down the cleft between Malcolm’s pecs, wetting the mat of curly dark hair there, sprinkled with virile silver.
    Malcolm had never much favored his own appearance. He thought he was too fat, too hairy, too old, too much of everything disagreeable, though Devon had repeatedly tried to assure him he was perfect, everything he wanted, everything he needed. But Malcolm was a stubborn old git—perhaps not traditionally handsome, but still beautiful inside, generous, loving. And he could fuck like a bunny, even for a man in his mid-fifties. Devon sometimes had trouble keeping up with him, especially when he got into the adult toy chest they kept in their bedroom.
    Devon’s eyes then dropped to his hand resting on his gentleman’s shoulder. Over the nearly ten years of their relationship, Malcolm had bought him so many items of jewelry that almost every one of his fingers bore a ring, all of different, but equal, significance. Except the ring finger on his right hand, which was deliberately bare, though Malcolm had never questioned Devon’s eccentricity. Perhaps it had not occurred to him that Brits wore their wedding rings on their right hands.
    Malcolm gripped his ass as they fucked, massaged the firmness of his flesh. Devon raised his hips and Malcolm plunged home—deeper, harder, than even Devon was used to. He gasped at the depth and intensity. It had been a very long time since they had enjoyed such rough sex outside the Dollhouse. Devon came with a lunge in that moment, grunting and gripping Malcolm’s shoulders, his come gushing against Malcolm’s thick but solid belly, and Malcolm growled and came deep inside his body, filling him, subjugating him, loving him as only Malcolm was capable of.
    Out beyond their penthouse apartment, they heard the bells of St. Patrick’s ringing, indicating midnight. Christmas Eve was officially over, and Christmas Day had begun. Devon wondered if anything would change between them today…after he asked Malcolm to marry him.
    ***
    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