Bravado (Unexpected Attraction Book 3)

by Jaylen Florian

  "He's acting guilty."

  "Let's keep an open mind. I think we'll know soon enough."

  "Why?"

  "Someone's gonna claim credit or slip up or get caught out there unsuccessfully trying to knock down another one."

  "I hope you're right, Marshall, that any more attempts will fail."

  "Me too."

  "Listen, are you busy?"

  "Not at the moment. I was literally about to slide into the tub for a long soak when I heard my phone ringing."

  "Have you had supper yet?" Rodney asked.

  "Not yet. I'll probably do room service after my bath."

  "I'm starving. How would you feel about me joining you?"

  Marshall expressed faux outrage. "Breakfast and dinner together—in the same day?"

  "Don't turn me down."

  "I'm happy to eat with you again, Rodney. How far away are you from here?"

  "Only mere seconds."

  "You're already in the hotel lobby?"

  "Yep."

  "I'll bathe in a jiffy," Marshall said. "Come on up and I'll have the door unlocked for you."

  Imagining the opportunity to see Marshall wearing only a towel, Rodney hustled to the stairway and bounded up the steps, striding two at a time. He reached room 212, found the door slightly ajar, pushed it open, and entered without knocking.

  Too late.

  The television was on and tuned to a commercial-free station playing soundscape songs for personal meditation. The clothes Marshall wore earlier in the day were lying over the edge of the bedspread. Only the sheer curtains were drawn, and evening night glowed behind the transparent fabric.

  Rodney rapped his knuckles on the bathroom door.

  "Redfern?" Marshall's voice was muffled by the door between them.

  "It's me. Can I open this?"

  There was a pause, then Marshall said, "It's unlocked."

  Rodney turned the knob and creaked open the old door. The bathroom light was dimmed and an elevated window was cracked open to let in the night breeze. A clawfoot tub stood on the mosaic tile floor. Marshall was submerged in steaming hot water all the way to his chin, though his large bare feet dripped as they rested up on the lip of the tub.

  Rodney reacted to the sight with an instinctive grin. His gaze descended into the rippled water that teased his eyes by offering only the barest concealment of Marshall's unexpectedly impressive body. Perhaps it was the waving movement of the water, but it seemed that Marshall was blessed with extraordinary endowment.

  "You're getting an eyeful," Marshall said, making no effort to cover his nudity.

  "I sure am."

  "That's the risk you took when you opened the door, my friend."

  My friend. The words spiked into Rodney for an instant. Marshall had been his enemy. Was he now his friend? Where would tonight—eating dinner together and seeing all of this—lead them?

  "Now we're about even," Rodney said, still unable to stop sneaking glances into the water. "You caught me essentially nude that time when I was painting in my dome."

  "I haven't forgotten." Marshall flashed a lopsided smile and then perched himself more upright, his hairy chest and forearms emerging from the water's surface. "Grab the chair by the desk and pull it in here so we can talk."

  "How hot's that water?"

  "Feel for yourself."

  Rodney dripped his fingers below the surface. It was almost scalding, just like he preferred, too.

  "I'm in heaven right now," Marshall said. "I couldn't climb out of here if I tried."

  "Forget the chair. I'm tempted to join you, if you think there's room in there for me."

  Marshall reacted with a nod.

  As Rodney stripped out of his clothes, he held eye contact with Marshall. Rodney saved his briefs for last, and when they glided down his legs, his swollen prick bounced up and outward to half mast. He crawled into the tub so that they faced one another from opposite ends. Contact was unavoidable, arousing Rodney even more, and he spread his legs wide so that Marshall's feet rested inside, against his hips. The undersides of their thighs pressed firmly together.

  The men remained still and marinated for a few minutes. Once they both closed their eyes, Marshall's right foot began to wander. Rodney felt Marshall's big toe caressing his hip, outer thigh, and shin. Rodney leaned into the touch, inviting further exploration.

  Taking deep, trance-like breaths, Rodney leaned his head back and submitted himself. Marshall's foot inched all the way downward, just an inch above the base of the tub, and found Rodney's hole. Rodney squirmed from the sensations as Marshall's toes tenderly pressed around his rim.

  Rodney moaned something unintelligible when Marshall's big toe gently entered him. He used one of his hands to massage Marshall's other foot, and sensed his desire for Marshall overflowing.

  When Marshall's toes started tickling his balls, Rodney imagined he could pass out. His was getting shallower breaths from being so ramped up, but he focused on his lungs absorbing the cool air tumbling through the window.

  Rodney then clutched the sides of the tub and braced himself. Marshall slid both of his feet up and down Rodney's shaft, stroking him between his arches. The gripping motions were powerful in their gentle restraint. Slow. Twisting. Exquisite.

  In ecstasy, Rodney opened his eyes. He thought he should say something, but no words could come out of his mouth. He saw that Marshall's giant erection had broken through the surface of the water, strained to the hilt, rock steady.

  Marshall seemed to perceive when he'd kneaded Rodney close to orgasm. Just as Rodney approached the edge of the cliff—the point of no return—Marshall released him from the grip of his feet.

  "You're amazing," Rodney hummed.

  Marshall stood up first, stepped out of the tub, and helped lift Rodney to his feet.

  "We're ready to do this?" Marshall asked, his voice sounding earnest and intimate.

  "I'm ready."

  Marshall led Rodney out of the bathroom by hand and their sopping wet feet made prints on the floor. They reached the bed and stood eye to eye for a passionate, lingering kiss as their erections bumped together, sliding from side to side.

  Rodney laid down first, on his back, splayed his legs open, and pulled Marshall on top of him. He focused on relaxing his rectum enough for Marshall's girth. For many seconds Rodney couldn't open enough, then suddenly Marshall plunged inside and the pain was excruciating. Rodney cried out and embraced Marshall, holding him completely still inside him until his body could accept the invasion.

  As Marshall nuzzled Rodney's neck and nibbled on his ear, Rodney's body adapted. Rodney rubbed Marshall's back with spiral hand motions, signaling he was ready.

  Marshall's rod seemed to grow even stiffer and fatter as it probed ever deeper. Rodney at moments felt he was slipping out of his mind, overcome by the blend of euphoria and pain. The unparalleled sensation of being completely and totally filled.

  Rodney lost all sense of time until he felt his climax building. "I can't last, Marshall." Rodney's voice was a whisper, his lips brushing Marshall's ear lobe. "I have to explode."

  Marshall poled inside him even more, then angled his thrusts to give Rodney supreme pleasure. Rodney's hands slid down Marshall's lower back to the top of his butt, so his palms could feel the power of Marshall's rhythm thrusting into him.

  Right when the men reconnected their lips, Rodney held his breath and tremors ripped through his body like shockwaves. Rodney rocketed his semen on his abdomen as Marshall continued humping and kissing him until he stopped pulsing.

  Marshall pulled out of Rodney, laid on the bed beside him, and held him in his arms.

  The men listened to the music on the television and heard each other's breathing returning to normal. Marshall scooped up some of Rodney's sperm with his fingers and rubbed it onto the edges of Rodney's sore hole.

  "What would you like so you can get off, too?" Rodney asked.

  "I'm saving myself," Marshall said.

  "F
or who?"

  "For you! I want to be ready and loaded when you tell me it's time for round two."

  Chapter 20

  There was a round two in bed later that evening for Marshall and Rodney.

  First, though, they got dressed for a casual dinner. Instead of ordering room service, Rodney suggested a bistro—"a hidden gem"—within walking distance that was still open. The men exited the hotel, strolled across Bigbury Plaza and Mason Bridge, and entered the Quilley District on the islet in the Bluestone River.

  Most of the district's quaint boutiques and cafés had closed for the night. The streets were quiet. The lampposts emitted buttery light in imitation gas bulbs that seemed, in Marshall's opinion, to evoke Londonesque charm, though he guessed the posts likely harkened back to the town's 19th century history. On Mallorca Lane, a side street bending around an outdoor pavilion, the bistro—named "Under the Sun"—was blocked from view to pedestrians on the main thoroughfare.

  As they approached the restaurant, Marshall looked in the windows and saw that at least three quarters of the tables were occupied. The exposed brick walls were undecorated. Simple wooden tables and chairs were spaced with ample distance for private conversations.

  "So it's got a loyal following."

  "Order the chickpea pancakes with your favorite vegetable and you'll understand why," Rodney said.

  The men were seated and ordered a Rioja—a Spanish wine—with their meal. Marshall was burning to ask Rodney a question that'd been spurred by something said earlier in the day by Linda, the cashier at Flora Miles's gallery on James Street. However, Marshall tabled this for later, and instead posed an inquiry that could help him understand Rodney better.

  "Not including mentors or professors or other sculptors, who do you credit with inspiring elements of your art?"

  "Ah, good question," Rodney said. "Believe it or not, the answer is Bob Fosse."

  "Interesting. I'd love to hear how he impacted you."

  "I never met him. Fosse died in 1987. In my youth I watched his movies over and over. He wasn't just a director, as I'm sure you know, but an accomplished dancer and, most of all, a revolutionary choreographer. In a time when performers were yelling and leaping about with exuberance, Fosse came along with this tight style exuding sex and bottled up passion. He wasn't about the big gesticulations with an arm, but the sleek movements of a hand or the tilt of a head or shoulder. I studied the expression of bristling emotions and bold seduction. That's what I've hoped my sculptures could do . . ."

  "Capture that desperation?" Marshall asked.

  "Exactly."

  "I'm very familiar with his movies and choreography, too. What's your favorite?"

  "I was just listening to songs from Sweet Charity today in my studio," Rodney said, breaking into a smile. "Every time I think of that dance number Fosse choreographed—The Rich Man's Frug—I remember what it felt like seeing it for the first time. Utter perfection!"

  "I agree. As much as I like Cabaret and what he did for Chicago on Broadway, The Rich Man's Frug sequence is epic, daring, and simply a blast to watch."

  "Let me turn the tables and quiz you. This'll be a lightning round. Answer with whatever comes to your mind first."

  "Okay, I'm ready."

  "What's your favorite painting?"

  "School of Athens by Raphael," Marshall said. "Its scope encompasses far more than philosophy, and I've always been fascinated by Plato and Aristotle, depicted in its center."

  "Excellent choice. Favorite author?"

  "I'll say Louise Penny, the Canadian writer. I think her books will become classics."

  "I'm not familiar with her."

  "She blends mystery with psychological insights, and frames intricate and compassionate relationships between her characters."

  "Favorite song?"

  "That's easy. Saturday Sun by Vance Joy," Marshall answered.

  "I love it!"

  "The angst in his voice tugs pretty hard at my heartstrings."

  Marshall and Rodney spent the rest of the meal discussing music and comparing their penchants for songs with melancholy undertones. When they left the bistro they walked along the north edge of the islet and sat together on a bench to watch large boats glide by on the river.

  "I hope you don't leave Doyle anytime soon," Rodney said.

  "I'll be here at least a few more days," Marshall said. "After that, I have no idea what the future holds for me."

  "Are you going to stay in the field of journalism?"

  "I always thought I'd be a reporter or editor forever."

  "You don't think so anymore?"

  Marshall shrugged. "I'm pretty lost, if you want to know the truth. The world's turned upside down and I don't know where or how I figure into it anymore."

  "Do you wanna talk about it?"

  "Not really. I think I have to follow my instincts, whenever the time comes to pull the trigger."

  Rodney put his arm around Marshall's shoulders. "I won't prod you on this, Marshall. Just know I'm happy to lend an ear and you can bounce ideas off me."

  "Speaking of bouncing," Marshall said, mischievously patting his hand on Rodney's leg, "can I lure you back to my room and keep our time together going?"

  "I've been trying to figure out a way to invite myself over to your hotel again. Let's go now."

  THEIR SECOND ROUND extended past two o'clock in the morning. Marshall didn't want the night to end, and he also discovered that Rodney preferred unhurried lovemaking with sensual touches.

  Marshall didn't know if they'd ever have another night together, so he craved experimenting with positions of dominance and learning how Rodney responded to various pleasures.

  Rodney proved to be a generous lover, too. Marshall had been with other lovers identifying as "bottoms" and often they'd been too passive in bed. While Rodney was submissive, he was not passive. Rodney seemed just as captivated by Marshall's body and frequently watched for Marshall's reactions to his mouth and hands.

  Moving throughout the room, they ended up on the floor by the bed on their sides, orally gratifying each other simultaneously in a 69 position. This freed up Marshall's hands to hold Rodney, and he found that rubbing Rodney's scrotum caused him to leak more pre-ejaculate into Marshall's mouth. The taste was sweeter than expected, more honey than bitter, and every drop oozing out onto Marshall's tongue made him that much stiffer in Rodney's mouth.

  Rodney hoisted himself onto the bed, flat on his back, with his head hanging upside down over the side. Marshall stood over him and Rodney pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around Marshall's knees. When Rodney tugged him even closer, Marshall understood he was letting him hump his mouth. Marshall bent his knees, penetrated Rodney's mouth, and they began rocking together. To keep from gagging Rodney, Marshall used shallow thrusts. His balls slapped against Rodney's beard and they eased into a harmony.

  The sight of Rodney below him, trying to swallow him, stretched out on his bed, every inch and contour of his body stunning, brought him to a roaring climax. Marshall groaned out a shout, his legs shivered, and he released himself from Rodney's throat at the last possible second. His cannon shot ropes of essence across the length of Rodney's torso.

  They showered together in the dark and took turns cleaning each other's bodies with soap and washcloths. Marshall couldn't get enough kissing. When he turned off the hot water they remained standing in the shower basin and dripped dry while their lips and tongues meshed together.

  "Are you spending the night with me?" Marshall asked, when they finally stepped out of the shower.

  "No." Rodney's answer was matter-of-fact.

  "It's the middle of the night. It's too late to leave."

  "I really don't want to go, but I have to, Marshall."

  "Why?"

  "Tonight has been incredibly special," Rodney said, "and even that is an understatement. I don't want to risk anything—like an awkward morning—messing with my memories of it."

  That sounded like a goodbye and Mars
hall's stomach clenched in a knot. "I have no words for what's happened between us. I just don't want you to go. If you do, I'll respect your choice."

  "Thank you for understanding."

  Marshall, still nude, sat on the edge of the bed and watched Rodney get dressed. He said, "Before you go, I do have to ask you something that's been on my mind tonight."

  "Ask me anything you want."

  "Why haven't you ever exhibited or sold any of your paintings?"

  "You saw one of my canvases that day you showed up at my retreat?" Rodney asked.

  Marshall chuckled, and said, "You were in a jockstrap at the time, so I was gawking at your cute butt. But, yeah, for a fraction of a second, before you closed off your dome from the entry corridor, I caught a glimpse of some paintings."

  "They're nothing," Rodney said, "except tools to help me align my creativity. I'd never show them publicly."

  "Would you show them to me?"

  "You'd be disappointed. There's really nothing worth seeing."

  "Please, Rodney. Will you consider it? I'd love to take a closer look."

  Chapter 21

  Though dawn was still a few hours away, sleep was impossible. Rodney's mind swirled with too many thoughts and emotions.

  The evening with Marshall had been exhilarating. Rodney didn't want to analyze what was happening with Marshall. It was far too soon to tell. Reveling in the moment, and letting whatever relationship they'd come to have flow naturally, was the only real path that could be taken.

  His art, however, was a different matter. The prior's day progress in his studio made Rodney fairly confident that he was regaining control of his talents. Channeling them into meaningful expressions seemed more at hand than he'd felt in quite a long time.

  This sense of being on the precipice—the cusp of a creative explosion, and the cusp of new romance—filled his veins with electric zest. So instead of going home to try and rest, Rodney returned to his sculpture studio on Myra Lane and immediately got to work with his hands.

  For the first time in his career, Rodney not only worked without music, he also sculpted without light. Traces of illumination from moonlight and distant street lights glowed enough through the line of ceiling-level windows to bestow his work space with a faint haze.