In part one, Miles narrowly escapes death when he is pushed in front of a bus after visiting the Seattle Art Museum. Later the same day he is hit by a car while gathering information at the home of a prominent collector of pre-Columbian art. What’s up at the museum? Why can’t Miles keep track of his clothes? And who the hell is the man in the gray suit? To find out at least some of the answers to these burning questions, dive headfirst into the second installment of Miles Diamond and the Demon of Death.
Wild dreams disturbed my sleep. I was wrapped in cold, damp cotton batting and the handsome man in the gray suit hovered over me. It was quite strange because he floated above the ground. His lips moved, yet he said nothing. He prodded me with a giant finger and then we went sailing through the air. Suddenly, without any warning, the fog rolled in off Puget Sound and wrapped everything in its clammy tendrils.
Sometime later, I heard a purring sound. My cotton batting was now nice and warm. I stretched out my hand. My fingers curved around a large lump that pulsed against my palm. It was warm and firm and comforting. I prodded the throbbing mass and butterflies fluttered in my belly when I realized how big it was. Then everything went blank again.
I awoke with a start. My eyes flew open, but everything was still shrouded in darkness. My side and back throbbed painfully. The weight of a sheet against my body was oppressive. I stared intently into the gloom, but saw no sign of the man in the gray suit. I thrust my hand beyond the crisp sheets, hoping to find that big, warm, comforting lump again. My fingers brushed soft fabric, then curled tight around a man’s big, firm balls. I groped for the stalk of his cock. I found it just about where you’d expect such a thing to be in relation to the balls and stroked it rhythmically. My dream felt so incredibly real that I didn’t want it to end. I sniffed my fingers and got a whiff of my mysterious man’s musky funk.
“Miles.” The man knew my name. I heard him call from across a great distance, coaxing me on.
“Yes,” I moaned sexily. The thick, hot shaft rubbed against my wrist.
“Miles! Jesus Christ!” The man gripped my wrist, his fingers tightening like a vise. I raised my head, mouth open, tongue flickering out like a serpent’s. I grabbed playfully at his dangling balls and squeezed them tight. His cock snout brushed my cheek. I lunged forward and engulfed the big hot knob. My tongue shot out and I lapped hungrily at the thick, veiny shaft.
“Stop that this minute, damn it!” A huge hand grabbed my gonads and squeezed them in a decidedly unfriendly way. My eyes flew open. A flickering pinpoint of light above my head illuminated a massive, russet-furred forearm. My gaze traveled up over the curve of a big bicep and across a broad chest, dense in more russet fur. My eyes finally focused on a very handsome, very familiar face.
“Let go of my fucking balls, Miles, or I’ll pop yours like a couple of grapes.”