Page 33 of A Handsome Devil

“Yeah, drive back toward San Francisco. What CD’s in there?”

Ejecting it, I found a Nickelback CD. I tossed it into the back seat, but had no other options to play. “We’ll have to steal a VW van next time to get music we like.”

Alessio chuckled. “Or a Plymouth Prowler.”

We did find an unlocked barn that didn’t seem to have any cameras, and to our luck hay bales were stacked. Taking the blankets from the Charger, we also found a black leather jacket, too small for me but just right on the skinny Alessio. Shrugging into it, he said “We’re gonna have to rob people with good taste in clothes.”

“Yeah. But how do we get underwear and socks?”

“Ask people for them. They probably did a bunch of retail theft too.”

We did pull over along the way to pose for an arrogant selfie. Leaning our backs against each other, we dangled our pistols from our fingers and almost made fish pouts. That’s how haughty we felt. In the middle of the night, there was nothing in the background to show our location. Giggling like twits, I sent it from my burner to Jack Hoffman. Let him post to X.

A flashlight—and bag of Snickers bars—was also in the trunk, so we were set. Turning some bales into pillows, we sat leaning back on a headboard of hay, blanket over our knees. Horses softly chewing was a soothing sound, a scent of molasses emanating from their direction. Moonlight shimmering through the roof cracks lit up flecks of floating hay.

“What happens when we nail Les Moore?” I asked.

“Well, we’re on a pretty good roll. Why stop?”

“I thought you wanted to get the asswipe who supplies Moore.”

“Yeah. That’d be good.”

It wasn’t cold at all, so I whipped off my shirt and helped Alessio off with his leather jacket. He curled to face away from me, so I ran my hands up his back, scratching, tickling, and swiping the shirt over his head.

Heaven.

Clawing his skull, I took deep whiffs of his scent, a mix of patchouli and his manliness. Now I heard the horses crunch their teeth, my erection nearly popping my jeans buttons. Alessio stretched and unfurled his spine, pressing his shapely butt against my hardon. I had no choice but to set my cock free, and it slapped up against his hot, naked lower back. Sliding my hand around, I unbuttoned his jeans and slithered them down to reveal his shapely butt.

Of course I wanted so badly to fuck him. Spitting into my palm, I oiled up my penis, but didn’t dare impale him. That was his job. I knew I was a switch, but never so ultimately that I’d fuck him. On some hay bales. In a barn. That was up to him. So I merely thrust my erection between his thighs, my cockhead meeting up with his full balls.

“Oh God, yes.” Alessio helped out by humping the blanket. We set up a rhythm with our screwing, me stopping occasionally to renew my lube. I plastered my chest to his bare back, reveling in his shimmering muscles, kissing and biting his shoulder blades. He reached one hand behind him to weave through my hair. “Don’t ever fucking stop. Come against my balls.”

He lunged against the blanket, my cockhead stroking his bulging testicles. I furiously chewed the sinewy back of his neck out of frustration and lust. Occasionally my penis would miss its mark and I’d be fucking his butt crack. But it wasn’t up to me to grab that upper hand, to take charge, to be the Dom. That was Alessio’s job. I was merely topping from the bottom. But he sure seemed to be reveling in my mastery, thighs splayed with invitation.

“Do it,” he groaned. “Come against my sack.”

Something about his surprising passivity got to me. I’d seen him in videos stalk around the stage with mastery, whipping his conductor’s baton, directing the horns, the drums, the keyboards. Never in my reincarnations had I envisioned him begging to be reamed like this—especially by another man.

Spurts of jizz flooded the length of my dick. I didn’t realize how loud I was groaning until much later. Our grunts spooked the horses, making them buck and snort several stalls over. I shuddered my hips against Alessio’s rump as surge after surge of come flooded between his thighs. The way his ass cheeks clenched let me know he was jizzing too, and I snaked a hand around his hip to feel his long, thick cock squirt.

“Oh yeah,” I urged, I don’t know how many fucking times. “Oh yeah. Do it. Come for me, Alessio. Oh yeah.”

By the time I caught a normal breath, Alessio knelt, palm against the wet blanket. He slapped his chest as his panting slowed, and he shook his hair out as if to rid it of sweat. Wrapping my hand around his throat, I took big sloppy bites from his neck and shoulders, snorting hot puffs against his delicious skin.

“Oh fuck,” he groaned. “I’m going down to hose off.”

I grinned like an imp as he clambered off the hay bales, kicking off what remained of his jeans around his ankles. Sun replaced the moonlight through the barn’s cracks, the horses returned to munching, and I knew this was the start of the best part of my life.

CHAPTER 14

Alessio

Jack Hoffman’s post had 57K likes.

“Will-o’-the-Wisp” Alessio Messina and his new partner in crime, Truman Oakley, posing like the gangsters they are, he posted. I received this photo from them, the Undisputed Truth Club, after they abandoned their getaway car at a sideshow in Bakersfield, seemingly making a statement about the illegality and danger of these events. Police are now swarming the area looking for the 2015 orange Honda Accord. If you see it, call 911 or better yet, get ahold of me. I want to talk to these guys.

“Score!” shouted Gunning, fist pumping.