Dirty Pool (MM)

by Shabbu

BarbarianSpy

Heat Rating: Sizzling
Word Count: 16,224
0 Ratings (0.0)

What appears to be a lighthearted interest in pool, billiards, and swapping beds among the male publisher, agent, editors, and authors of the Gleeson publishing house of London slowly turns sinister as it is revealed how deeply book publishing can be embroiled in espionage and international terrorism. Dark, sultry, and studly investigative reporter Ramu is in the process of adding bombshell exposé material to his book on the Al-Qaida-affiliated Indian terrorist organization Laskar-e-Taiba, still flush from its attention-getting seizure of and standoff at Mumbai’s Taj Mahal hotel. He finds he is in a race for time, however, and embroils the men of the publishing house around him in a deadly duel as the London sect of the Laskar-e-Taiba methodically endeavors to track him down before his book can be completed and published.

Warnings: Contains frequent graphic M/M language and sex scenes that are enjoyed by all.

Dirty Pool (MM)
0 Ratings (0.0)

Dirty Pool (MM)

by Shabbu

BarbarianSpy

Heat Rating: Sizzling
Word Count: 16,224
0 Ratings (0.0)
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Excerpt

From where I was I could only see him from the neck to the groin. A dark-skinned beauty. A South Asian, I surmised, and one with movie-star looks. The publisher, Gerald, had told us we might be entertained by a Bollywood actor this evening, but I laughed that off as a joke just as others did. Now I wasn’t quite so sure it had been a joke. The fluorescent light fitting hanging low over the pool table hid his head, and the pool table hid everything lower down. He had come in at the opposite end of the room and stood there for a moment.

I figured he couldn’t see me at all, and even if he bent over, my lap would be hidden by the pool table. So I kept my tool in my hand and just slowed down and held back, waiting for him to leave.

But he didn’t leave. Instead, he unbuttoned his shirt, and I gazed in fascination as he did so. Unbuttoning it slowly, then opening it out to reveal a pattern of body hair that had my **** going even harder. He had a chestnut-brown chest that had muscles clearly standing out on it, accentuated by the jet-black hair on the peak of his pecs and surrounding his nipples and then running in a thin trail down over his stomach. He wasn’t young, but he was—well, he was hot. I had no idea who he was, but he had taken my mind off the blond. He had dusky skin and dark hair, was broodily handsome, and moved with the grace of a panther.

He tossed his shirt back onto a chair behind him. Then he moved languidly over to the cue rack and selected a cue. I watched him move, fascinated, with my throbbing **** still in my hand. Then he came back to the side of the table and bent over and sighted down to the balls, already set up on the table ready for the break.

I saw his face for the first time and vaguely remembered seeing him upstairs sitting on a sofa with our host, Gerald. The pair of them had looked as if they were talking seriously. Why he had ended up alone down here I had no idea. He hadn’t caught my attention upstairs, but down here he had me in lust for him. If I hadn’t already forgotten the blond, I might have felt unfaithful to him I was suddenly so hot for the man bending over the table.

I came, just as he made a crappy shot. The balls breaking and rolling weakly across the table with nothing getting holed. He had been focused on the balls till then, but suddenly his eyes lifted and locked with mine, and he smiled. I gasped as I felt another surge of cum leave me and join the earlier one over my shirt front.

“Sorry, did I frighten you?” he asked.

“No, no. I was just getting a bit of peace and quiet,” I replied unsteadily, tucking myself back into my pants. Feeling messy and untidy while he looked cool and calm.

“Do you want a game?” he asked.

“Umm, sure,” I replied, tidying myself up as well as I could before I stood up.

“Perhaps a game of dirty pool?”

I looked at him confused, not understanding.

“Ah, no bother, your shot,” he said, smiling.

I went and picked out a cue and returned to the table, standing near him. I wanted a closer look.

“I don’t play a lot,” I said apologetically, though I thought I would probably be better than he was.

I pocketed two balls before I missed one. He smiled at me, a smile to make my knees go weak, then frowned seriously as he leaned over the table and lined up another ball. He sank it with a hard, decisive shot that looked surprisingly good for a man who had hardly managed to break the balls up originally. Then he sank another, and another. And I sat back down to wait, happy to watch him move around the table and admire the way his muscles moved in his back and arms as he reached and stretched. I was already rehardening, and uncomfortable in a pleasant way.

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