Discover the secret behind the mysterious Dollhouse Society, an exclusive collection of powerful men and the modern-day courtesans and courtiers who service them…
Sometimes two people are simply meant to be together. At least, that's what Devon believes, which is why he intends to ask Malcolm to marry him on Christmas Day. But Devon also knows that fate can be fickle at times, and Malcolm has his own secrets.
He slid his hand over Malcolm’s arm and guided him to one of the private dressing rooms. He checked first to make certain it was empty, then ushered Malcolm inside the cramped, crowded little room full of dressing tables and racks of couture. The room smelled musty and sweet like too much perfume and body oil.
Malcolm didn’t care. The moment they were inside, he slid his big hand around the back of Devon’s head and dragged him forward so their mouths could cling in a soul-searing kiss. Neither of them spoke, and neither of them needed to.
Everything inside Malcolm surged at the taste of Devon’s mouth, that sweet clove taste. His desire. His love. And under that, a subdued ferocity he could only identify as jealousy. He was jealous of every man Devon had ever kissed, every man who had ever fucked him, either in the name of love or money. He wanted to erase those encounters, the years and the pain. He wanted to be Devon’s first. Devon’s only.
Like their first time, he could just barely control himself. He pushed Devon back against a dressing table, held him down, and fumbled with both their trousers. There were strange buckles and ties on Devon’s jeans, and Malcolm ripped mercilessly at the fabric.
“Easy, gov. Those are couture,” Devon complained. “They cost a thousand dollars.”
“I don’t care,” Malcolm growled. He reached through a placket in Devon’s thousand-dollar couture jeans and took Devon’s fat, eager cock in his hands. Devon swore violently and threw his head back against the dressing table mirror when Malcolm closed his powerful fingers around the girth of him and began to stroke, to tug, to work him. He moaned when Malcolm traced the shell of his ear with his tongue before gently but fiercely biting the lobe.
“Jesus, you are so fucking beautiful,” Malcolm told him breathlessly. “You’re all I want. You can’t be real.”
Devon guffawed. “You don’t even know me, gov.”