The Blind Date

He also saw that Devin grimaced as he moved and wasn’t walking straight. Andre had told him about Marcus Black and how he dated—that he was hung like a horse and had a powerhouse thrust. Lionel almost felt sorry for Devin, but not really. The little prick had dumped him. Well, the little prick had found out how rough it could get out in the dating world.

“I’m doing just fine,” Devin said, giving Lionel a level stare. He’d worked it out in the middle of the night. Marcus’ connection to Andre. Andre’s connect to Lionel. Lionel’s pettiness—which was a big reason Devin left him—leaving him for that and because Lionel was a vanilla fucker. No excitement or testing with Lionel. Never had been. Never the feel of a breathtaking date. They might as well have been . . . married.

“In fact I had a date last night with a big black football player one and a half times my size and with a cock twice the size of yours. We had a great date and then he came home with me and fucked the stuffing out of me. I’ve been up for hours writing black bruiser on white twink fuck stories for an anthology for my publisher. I think he’s going to love them.”

“You’re shitting me,” Lionel said, setting his coffee cup down on the coffee table lest he spill it in his consternation. “You got banged hard by a black bull last night, and you aren’t curled up in a fetal ball this morning?”