Himbro

HIMBRO HONEY LONDON Himbro Copyright © 2023 by Honey London Kindle Edition Cover Design by Cate Ashwood Designs Editing by Courtney Bassett All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations embodied within critical reviews and articles. This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. The author has asserted her rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book. This work of fiction is intended for mature audiences only. It contains sex acts between consenting adults, and all characters represented within are eighteen years of age or older. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. CONTENTS Content Warning 1. Devon 2. Jesse 3. Devon 4. Jesse 5. Devon 6. Jesse 7. Devon 8. Jesse 9. Devon 10. Jesse 11. Devon 12. Jesse 13. Devon 14. Jesse Epilogue Hugest of Thanks About Honey Also by Honey London CONTENT WARNING This book contains a steamy, consensual relationship between two adult male humans who are stepbrothers but are not related by blood. (Also, there’s a super douchey gaslighting ex-boyfriend who tries to ruin everything.) If you do not enjoy stories of this nature, you may wanna give this one a pass. If you do enjoy these stories… buckle up, buttercup. 1 DEVON “Devon, it’s not you… it’s me.” Accurate, since I was the only one of the two of us able to keep my penis inside my pants. “Let me get this right. You are dumping me?” I tried to figure out if I was in some bizarro universe where black was white and up was down and straight people were the ones who had to come out of the closet. His sigh, about twenty decibels higher than I thought was really necessary, came through loud and clear over the phone. If I were searching for a silver lining during this call destined to ruin my life, it’d be that I would never have to hear Jefferson Mitchell’s deafening, patronizing, self-satisfied, hipster-level condescending sigh again in my entire life. Second silver lining? He also had really bad morning breath. “Devon, you’re terrific, a real class act.” Gag me. Third silver lining? I’d no longer have to pretend that his insistence on speaking like he lived in a prohibition-era speakeasy was cute or quirky, when it actually was borderline creepy. Though I was getting pretty good at translating Jeffersonese into English. “It’s just that I’m a dreamer, ya dig?” Translation: I have no intention of ever getting a real job. “I’m not the type of egg to buy into social constructs like relationships.” Translation: I met a guy at the thrift store I think I can sleep with if you aren’t in the way. “I have to follow my bliss.” Translation: I have to follow my dick. “You’ll land on your feet. You’ve got a great noodle on your shoulders and a cute little caboose.” Translation: I know you’re smarter and cuter than I am, Devon, and you deserve so much better than some weirdo with a handlebar mustache who lives in his grandpa’s basement and smells like mothballs and Old Spice literally all the time. That last one might be a little off, but you get the gist. A litany of curse words and insults ran through my mind, and I’d have given anything to yell them into the phone, but as usual my brain put the message together and my mouth marked it “return to sender.” You know how in the movies the shy, quiet guy spends the entire time being meek and polite and socially awkward, but then he finally comes out of his shell in the end and stands up for himself against the unfairly hot bully and everyone cheers? That’s not me. It will never be me. Honestly, I’m not even sure I’m in the movie. I might be an extra. At best, I’m the quirky, nonthreatening friend. I’m not even the star of my own life. Well, that’s a fun realization to come to… and I’d wondered what I was going to talk about in my next therapy session. So now, even as he finally admitted to the cheating I’d been suspecting was going on since he blew off our date to Roaring Twenties trivia night at the corner bar, I just couldn’t tell him what I really thought. Maybe my brother is right… maybe I am too nice. Not that being a dick to Jefferson would have solved my immediate problem, but it might have made me feel better. But some stupid, masochistic part of me still clung to the hope that maybe my life wasn’t completely over. “What about Maui?” I held my breath. “Sorry to be a wet blanket, kiddo.” And he was gone. Fuck my life. I knew I was better off without him, but that didn’t stop a familiar burning from creeping into my eyes. I willed myself to hold back, but the more I tried to convince myself that I was being ridiculous, that the situation didn’t deserve tears, the more escaped until they ran like tiny waterfalls down my cheeks. What am I gonna do now? “Hey, Dev, do you have any cream? I’ve got this weird, itchy rash.” Jesse walked through the open door to my room without knocking, his voice muffled as he spoke while examining something under his t-shirt. When he looked up at me, it took a tenth of a second before he was