Page 50 of The Making of Jonty Bloom
“Probably.”
“Pity the sea is so cold.”
“Yeah.”
What have I done wrong?Devan knew he’d lost him again. He thought back over what he’d just said—and got it.Fit it in before I go back. Oh shit.But hehadto go back. Jonty knew that. Not quite a holiday romance, but that was all it could be.
Jonty reached for his hand and wrapped his fingers around it. “Too many visitors can spoil places. There are all sorts of hidden gems in Northumberland that we need to keep secret or this peace and tranquillity will be overrun with caravan parks and hotels and camping and glamping sites and holiday villages and amusement parks and safari themed crazy golf and shops selling kiss-me-quick hats and sticks of rock and plastic poop. We need enough visitors to keep us in jobs, but not so many that our roads get clogged, and there’s nowhere to park, and everything gets expensive to buy.”
Devan felt a pang of guilt, but one top quality hotel wouldn’t spoil the place.
“Are there any dogs bounding towards me?” Jonty asked.
Devan looked around. “No.”
“No zombies or werewolves?”
“I think we’re fine.”
“You didn’t check.”
Devan smiled and looked around again. “We’re safe.”
Jonty let go of his hand, leaned in and kissed him. The merest brush of lips and Devan was caught in a rip of a different kind. He forgot to breathe. Actually, he didn’t forget, hecouldn’tbreathe. He’d never been tasered, but that was what it felt like. Sparks shot down his veins and he tingled from his toes to his fingertips. His lungs had locked and his heart raced. Jonty wasn’t touching him anywhere other than his lips, but Devan felt as if Jonty’s hands were everywhere.
Somehow, he found himself lying on his back, Jonty leaning over him, tugging at his upper lip with his teeth, sucking, licking, teasing.Oh God.Devan pulled Jonty down on top of him, wrapped his hands around his arse—perfect—and held tight. They were both rock hard. Jonty moaned as he plunged his tongue into Devan’s mouth. Jonty tasted of chocolate and Devan drowned.
Soft turned hard. Gentle switched to frantic. Devan rolled to pin Jonty beneath him and took charge of the kiss, cupping Jonty’s cheeks, holding him in place while his tongue surged in and out of Jonty’s mouth. Even as he told himself to take this slow, he was rocking into Jonty, pressing their cocks together, rutting, grinding, wishing they were naked. There was a frenzied desperation in the way they kissed and moved, legs entwined while hands touched, stroked, grabbed, flailed, squeezed. Common sense had fled. Anyone could come across them. But Devan didn’t care.
They kissed and kissed and kissed, and only when Devan dragged enough awareness into his head that there was a possibility of coming in his jeans, did he pull away. They lay side by side on their backs, chests heaving. How long since a kiss like that?
“Muchbetter than Jester,” Jonty said. “I don’t even need a wet wipe.”
Devan laughed.Thiswas what he’d been missing. Innocent laughter. Fun. Even before he and Ravi had split, things had never been like this. Jonty was immature, irritating, and yet the most entrancing guy he’d met in…maybe ever.
Jonty pushed to his feet. “Come on. I expended so much energy on that kiss, I’m starving now.”
He whooped and ran down onto the beach, tumbling again and rolling down the sand to the bottom. Devan started down intending to be careful, then thoughtwhat the hell,and went for it. He fell too, laughing with the sheer joy of doing something he’d last done as a child.
Once they’d tipped the sand out of their footwear, they headed for the edge of the sea where walking was easier.
“Was the run down worth the effort it took to get to the top?” Jonty asked.
Devan smiled. “Yep.”
Jonty brushed the sand from his hoody. “God, it gets everywhere. Like come, but less sticky.”
Devan grinned. “Tell me about the hotel. Do you see much of the guy who owns it?”
“Hamish McAllister? He comes in to talk to Vincent, the manager, every couple of weeks. Hamish remembers all our names and asks how we are. He’s a nice guy. Widower. His wife did all the artwork in the hotel. And yes, we all know the pictures are awful, but we pretend they’re undiscovered Picassos. He was sixty last month and there was a big party in the events room. He and his family use the gym, but especially the pool. He put money into that when he really should have renovated the rooms.”
“My suite’s okay.”
“But the only real wow factor is the view. The two suites had work done on them a couple of years ago. The other rooms are…a bit grim. Designed by Agatha Christie with murder in mind. But the guests don’t seem to care. Most guests. We get the odd one or two who find fault. But the rooms are a reasonable size and they’re not expensive, not considering the views and the proximity to the beach. The restaurant is the big draw. People come from Newcastle to eat at McAllister’s and it’s easier to stay the night, so we have high occupancy rates. The chef is really good. Though I think Marcus only stays with the hotel because his wife’s family is from round here and they have three young kids. Her parents help with them.”
All useful information, though Devan did feel a twinge of guilt. “Is that the guy I heard banging and clattering when I wanted breakfast after service had finished?”
Jonty winced. “That was Wayne, the sous chef. Wayne’s a combination of Gordon Ramsey and Naomi Campbell—good and bad bits. Foul mouthed, bad tempered, touchy, tall, very good-looking. Both great at their job.”
