by Alexa Land
I asked, “Did you just move in?”
Ignacio shook his head. He pulled off his scuffed, black cowboy boots and dropped them beside the front door as he told me, “I’m a guest here. This place belongs to Olivio Caravetti, do you know him?”
“A little, since he’s married to my friend Dante’s grandmother. He seems like a nice guy.”
“Oh he is, and I’m forever indebted to him. Ollie encouraged me to come to San Francisco because he thought it would be good for my career. I’m a painter, and he’s always been so supportive of my work.” Ignacio looked around almost wistfully and said, “He no longer needed this apartment when he got married and moved in with Mrs. Dombruso, so he let me stay here and refused to accept any payment from me. It’s been over a year, and I know I need to think about moving on soon. A place like this is worth a lot of money, and he really should sell it.”
“Where will you go?”
“Europe, maybe? I lived in Italy for a while before moving here, and I could see returning to Rome, or possibly Florence.” He turned to me and asked, “I noticed you have a bit of an accent. Do you get back to Ireland very often?”
“Not really. My mother moved us to the U.S. when I was eleven, after my parents divorced. I used to spend summers with my dad, and after college, I tried to go back every six months or so. But it’s been nearly three years now. All we ever do is argue, so I’ll admit I’ve put off visiting him.”
“I can see why.” He gestured toward a doorway on our left and asked, “Would you like a drink?”
“I’d love one.” I took off my overcoat and followed him into the kitchen, where about twenty bottles of alcohol were clustered on a large, marble island. To make conversation, I asked, “Were you headed to Spain tonight to visit family?”
He pulled a pair of highball glasses from the dishwasher and shook his head. “I’m going to be painting a series of murals in the courtyard of a community center in Barcelona. Ollie arranged it. He used to own a famous gallery in New York, so he has all sorts of connections in the art world. Even though he’s retired now, he’s been acting as my agent because he wants to see me succeed, and he says this is ‘good PR.’ I just think it’ll be fun. Less enjoyable will be the meetings with gallery owners, journalists, art critics, and so on, which I’ll need to do while I’m there. I hate that part of the job, but it’s a necessary evil.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“The murals should take six to eight weeks to complete.” He gestured at the bottles on the counter, but instead of asking what I wanted, he said, “May I surprise you?”
I considered that for a beat before agreeing. Ignacio poured about an inch of yellowish-green liquid into each glass from a rustic-looking bottle. While he did that, I folded up my overcoat and awkwardly stuck it on the kitchen counter, since there was no place else to put it. He found a pair of antique-looking slotted spoons in a drawer, balanced them across the rims of the glasses, and topped them with sugar cubes. Then he retrieved a plastic bottle from the refrigerator. As he slowly drizzled a little water over each cube in turn, I asked, “Absinthe? Is the plan to get me very drunk, very fast?”
He smiled at me and said, “The plan is to let you experience something new. Have you tried it?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Perfecto.” He removed the spoons and handed me a glass, then held up the other and said, “Salud y amor y tiempo para disfrutarlo.”
“You lost me after salud.”
He drained his glass without flinching, then told me, “I said to health and love and time to enjoy it.”
I raised a toast to that, then tossed back the drink and muttered, “Christ, that’s strong.”
“I developed a taste for absinthe when I spent a summer in Paris. This was a few years ago. I don’t know or care if it’s still all the rage there.”
I knit my brows and said, “It tastes like burning licorice.”
“One more?”
“Why not?”
We drank our second shot straight, which made me cough a bit as it singed through me. I loosened my tie and unfastened the top button on my shirt as I said, “I’m going to stop there.” I pivoted the bottle and read the label. “Ninety proof. That explains a lot.”
“Come and sit down,” he said as he took my hand. “It’s cold in here, so I’ll get a fire going.”
Wood, paper and kindling were already stacked in the fireplace. While he lit the balled-up newspaper with a silver cigarette lighter, I settled onto the puffy couch, which faced both the mattress and the view. After a few moments, Ignacio joined me. The alcohol was making everything soft around the edges, which was nice.
He said, “Tell me about the man who hurt you.”
I was surprised by his directness, and I muttered, “He’s not worth talking about.”
“Yes he is, for one simple reason: until you’re able to move on, he still holds power over you.”
“You don’t even know me,” I protested. “Why would you want to hear this shit?”
“Because talking helps, and I’m the perfect person for the job. As you said, we don’t know each other. That makes me a neutral party, like a therapist, or better yet a bartender.”
I watched him for a few moments, and then I said, “Here’s the long and short of it: I got involved with a man last year who lied to me about who he was. I was stupid and gullible, and as a result, I nearly got a friend killed.”
“Seriously?”
“I guess I need to start at the beginning. I’m an arson investigator for the San Francisco Police Department, and I became friends with Dante Dombruso while I was working a case. He and his family had been targeted by an arsonist, who tried to trap the Dombrusos in a burning building. It was a miracle everyone escaped unharmed.”
Ignacio murmured, “It happened during Ollie’s bachelor party. I was supposed to be there, but I’d been called out of town.”
“I’m glad you missed it. By all accounts, it was terrifying.”
“Ollie never wants to talk about any of this, but I’ve heard things about the Dombrusos. They’re said to have ties to organized crime. Is that true?”
I said, “I think it’s in the past now, but they still have enemies.”
Ignacio’s dark eyes went wide as he put two and two together, and he blurted, “Don’t tell me the man you became involved with was the arsonist!”
“Exactly. I had no idea at the time. He got close to me so he could gain information about the case and keep tabs on Dante, who was conducting his own investigation. When my friend was on the verge of discovering the truth, I unwittingly told this person right where to find him, and Dante was almost killed.”
“Where is this man now?”
“He’s dead.”
Ignacio blinked and leaned back against the arm of the couch. “I was expecting a story about a boyfriend cheating on you, or something along those lines. This though, madre de dios.”
“So, now you see why I’m having a hard time moving on. I’m just finding it really difficult to trust anyone, even for something as low-key as a random hookup.”
“But a random hookup is exactly what you need to make you forget about that horrible person!”
“It’s not that simple.” He said something very quickly in Spanish, and I told him, “I didn’t catch any of that.”
“I said of course it’s that simple. You just need to get laid and put some distance between yourself and that psychopath! He’s the last person you’ve been with, right?” I nodded embarrassedly, and Ignacio said, “You can’t expect to get past what happened as long as that’s the case. I’m not saying you’re ready to date. That’ll take time. But you do need to fuck someone, and the longer you wait, the tougher it’ll be to get back out there.”
He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside, and I asked, “What are you doing?”
“Giving you what you need.”
“I thought we came here to talk.”
�
��That was before I knew the situation. I’m not going to force myself on you, Cameron,” he said, “but I’m yours for the taking. Tomorrow I’m leaving for Spain, so there are no expectations beyond tonight. You can simply enjoy me, if you choose to.”
I watched him for a long moment and noticed the way the glow of the fire made his dark hair and smooth skin shimmer like silk. He was mind-bogglingly sexy, and I started to get hard as I ran my gaze down his body and the happy trail that disappeared into his faded jeans. But I muttered, “I can’t just use you to forget about what happened in the past.”
He sighed and said, “This is a thing with you, isn’t it? The overthinking, with a dose of guilt thrown in for good measure? I get it, believe me, but please don’t let it keep you from what you want, assuming that’s me. Though maybe I’m not your type. In that case, I’ll get dressed and take you to the nearest bar, so we can find someone you like.”
“Of course you’re my type. My God, look at you.”
Ignacio grinned at me as he pulled off his socks and threw them over his shoulder. Then he stood up and unfastened the fly on his Levi’s, pausing just a moment between each button for effect. He held my gaze as he dropped the jeans and briefs to his ankles, stepped out of them, and kicked them aside. That left him in nothing but a trio of long, silver and leather necklaces. My gaze continued down his gorgeous body and came to a stop on his thick cock.
He knelt on the mattress and looked up at me. “Please don’t say no, Cameron. I need this, too.”
I couldn’t have formed a rational argument against fucking him if my life depended on it. Instead, I all but tackled him, my mouth meeting his as I landed on top of him. He returned the kiss wildly, hungrily, grinding his cock against mine as he grabbed my ass with both hands.
I explored his naked body with my tongue and lips and fingers. I sucked his cock, then ran my tongue up the inside of his thigh and licked the sensitive spot between his balls and asshole, which made him writhe beneath me. Eventually, I worked my way back up, pausing to suck his nipples before kissing him again.
As his tongue claimed my mouth, he massaged my hard-on through my clothes. Then he rolled us over and knelt between my legs as he made quick work of my belt and zipper. When he pulled my cock from my briefs and wrapped his lips around it, pleasure and sensation radiated through me. I propped myself up on one elbow and tangled my fingers in his hair as he sucked me. There was something raw and vulnerable in his eyes when Ignacio met my gaze, and the connection between us overwhelmed me. I caressed his cheek, trying to give him something in return as he gave me absolutely everything.
A tremor went through me as he took me right to the brink of orgasm, then eased off. When he climbed off me, a little sound of protest rose from my lips. He crawled to the edge of the mattress and ran a hand underneath it. Pretty soon, he located a box of condoms, which he tossed onto the bed before leaping up and jogging into the next room. He was back moments later with a packet of wipes and a new bottle of lube, and he tore off the wrapper as he climbed back onto the mattress.
While he did all of that, I tossed aside my shoes and socks, followed by my clothes. He handed me the lube and got on his knees for me, so I squirted some of the clear gel onto my fingers and worked him open while he jerked himself off. When he was ready, I quickly wiped my hands and rolled a condom over my achingly hard cock. He was still on his hands and knees, and he dropped to his elbows as I knelt behind him.
His breath caught as I grasped his hips and pushed into him. I tried to ease in slowly, but Ignacio rocked back and drove himself onto me, whispering, “Oh fuck,” as he took every inch.
I wrapped my arm around his shoulders as I fucked him. I loved the feel of his strong body moving underneath me and the overwhelming sensation of his tight, warm hole around my cock. I reached underneath him and jerked him off, and within a few minutes, he moaned and shot onto the sheets. Soon after, a yell slipped from me as I began to cum. I thrust into him again and again, until my head was spinning and my body had nothing left to give.
We were both shaking as we dropped onto the mattress, gasping for breath, and I stammered, “Holy shit,” which made him grin. I peeled off the condom and tied it, then set it aside with the cum-soaked sheet. Ignacio pulled a soft, dark blue blanket over us, and after I settled onto the pillows, he curled up in my arms. As we both began to drift off, I whispered, “I’m so glad you missed your flight.”
He put his head on my chest and murmured, “Me, too.”
Chapter Two
I awoke sometime in the middle of the night, though at first, it felt like I was dreaming. The sharp smell of oil paint hung in the air, and the room was bathed in firelight. Ignacio stood at the easel with his back to me, in the center of a drop cloth strewn with tubes of paint. He was naked and painting with quick, sure strokes. I noticed his hair was held back with my tie, which trailed down his spine and grazed his gorgeous ass.
I propped my head up with my hand and watched him as he worked. The muscles in his back and broad shoulders flexed as he slashed the brush across the canvas, then brought it back to the big, wooden palette in his left hand for another dab of paint. He dipped the bristles into two colors and worked them together with a quick back-and-forth motion, but then he paused with the brush in mid-air and studied the canvas.
He’d placed a desk lamp on the floor and angled it at the easel, and it highlighted the left side of his strong, powerful body. Both of his arms were inked wrist to shoulder, but there wasn’t a single tattoo anywhere else on him. I’d never been a big fan of tattoos, but there was an untamed, Bohemian air about Ignacio, and I thought they suited him perfectly.
After a few moments, he glanced at me over his shoulder and exclaimed, “You’re awake!” He dropped to his knees on the mattress and looked into my eyes, and then he announced, “I’m half a shade off.”
I sat up as he got to his feet, and I was in for a surprise when I saw the canvas. He’d painted me lying on my stomach in bed, with my head resting on my folded arms. I didn’t know enough about art to have a name for his style, but it was photorealistic apart from the bold color palette. While it was unmistakably me, he’d brought my pale skin and auburn hair to life with dabs of bright color, including blue, purple, and orange. The end result was breathtaking.
My eyes were open in the painting and staring out of the canvas with an almost startling directness. I wondered if I really came across like that. He went in with a tiny brush and added two dots of pale blue to the irises, which made the portrait’s gaze seem even more focused.
A lot of the canvas was still blank, aside from a few quick lines to suggest pillows and blankets, but Ignacio put down the palette and brush and sat beside me. He tilted his head and studied the painting, and then he said, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
He gestured at the canvas. “For that. I hadn’t painted in a few weeks, but you inspired me.”
“Because we had sex?”
He turned to me and grinned. A tendril of wavy hair had escaped from his ponytail, and it fell across one eye as he said, “No, not because of that. You opened up to me, and it meant a lot. I feel like I made a new friend tonight, which doesn’t happen very often.”
“You seem like someone who’d make friends easily.”
“I have a lot of acquaintances, but only a couple of people I consider friends. That’s intentional. Letting people get close to me just complicates everything, so I’m careful about who I let in.” I actually completely understood that.
When I reached out and brushed the strand of hair from his face, he leaned into my touch. As I trailed my fingertips down his cheek and over his short beard, I said, “Friends don’t usually sleep together, though.”
“Some do. There’s even a name for it, friends with benefits.”
True enough. After a pause, I asked, “What are you going to do with the painting?”
“Keep it. I never sell the personal ones.”
“Does that me
an you make a habit of painting the men you sleep with?”
He shook his head. “The type of men I usually take to bed don’t inspire me to immortalize them on canvas.”
“So, what are the ‘personal ones’ then?”
Ignacio watched me for a moment, and then he got up and crossed the room, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was naked. He opened a coat closet near the front door and hauled out a stack of canvases, which he fanned out against the wall of windows. When he finished displaying them, he stepped back and wrapped his arms around himself.
I got up and crossed the room to him, and then I murmured, “Oh wow.” Most of the canvases were self-portraits, and they really were intensely personal. In one close-up, there was raw anguish in the eyes that peered out from behind a black, silk mask. In another, he knelt naked in a barren field. Yet another was of a small boy with dark hair and haunted eyes, hugging his knees to his chest and occupying only one corner of the otherwise empty canvas.
One painting seemed less invasive than the others at first glance. It was a larger-than-life portrait of Ignacio from the side. He was dressed only in jeans and hanging his head, so that his face was hidden by a curtain of hair. It was a study of the tattoos on his left arm, and when I glanced at him, I saw that the artwork detailed his ink precisely.
That was when I realized the tattoos weren’t just for decoration. They were a roadmap of his life, with symbols and objects scattered amid colorful flowers and lush vines. I picked up his arm and turned it over. After a minute, I spotted a small boy hidden among the leaves, hugging his knees just like the child on the canvas.
There was something else, too. I ran my thumb over a semicolon that was nestled in the center of a blooming, red rose, and when I met his gaze, he said, “I thought about ending my life once, but that was a long time ago. I’m not that man anymore.”