Spring Fling

by Claudia Burgoa

I thought he might be new to fucking men. My eyes drop to his erection as I sit up. Clearly I was wrong. “Come here.”

  He walks closer, and I wrap one hand around his base, curve the other around his tip. His hand strokes over my hair, his fingers combing through it as I squeeze him. He groans. Looking down at me through his eyelashes, he says, “Come inside with me.”

  “You didn’t come yet.”

  His mouth pinches on one side in what might be a smirk. Then he scoops up his boxer-briefs and shorts and walks back toward the cabin’s door. I follow him because my body’s still lit up from what he did to me. From how hard he made me come. I follow him because I’m curious. Who is he? What will we do inside?

  He leads me down the hall, to a room on the left—a master bedroom with a big, king-sized bed. I note some plants beside the windows, a huge TV on one wall. Then he’s opening another door, revealing a sleek bathroom.

  “Turn on the shower, Vance. Wait for me underneath the water.”

  I look over my shoulder at him. He told me the inside shower was broken.

  Something flickers through his features. He looks almost smug, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His eyes are strangely grave.

  I have the thought, as I step into the bathroom and into the massive shower, that I don’t know him. When I called the cruise line, I declined to give his yacht’s name. I didn’t know it, and he heard her ask; he didn’t offer it.

  I turn the shower’s nozzles on and look out through the shower’s glass wall. He could hurt me. We’re matched pretty evenly, size-for-size, but I don’t have weapons. That’s where my head is as I watch him strip his shirt off through the wavy glass. That’s why I can’t breathe as he steps inside. Also because I see his unclothed body in the light. And I was wrong. We’re not an even match—because he’s sheer perfection. He’s a sculpture come to life.

  “Fuck, you’re—”

  “What?” His lips quirk.

  “You’re fucking flawless.”

  “That’s far from true, Vance. Now turn around and face the wall.” His voice is soft…but I do as he asks. My heart pounds with the knowledge that he’s right behind me, but so does my cock.

  “You like women,” he says softly. “And men.”

  I laugh. “I like everybody.”

  “Forever?”

  His voice is so flat and quiet, it takes me a second to realize it’s a question. Did I always like it both ways.

  “Yeah.” The word catches as his hand strokes my ass, feather-light. “I went to art school. I fucked everybody.”

  His fingers nudge their way between the firm globes of my cheeks, and my erection stiffens.

  “Have you ever had another man here?” His finger makes its mark, but he exerts no pressure as he waits for my answer.

  I can’t speak as I feel his cockhead brush my hip. I inhale. Shut my eyes. “No.”

  “So you’re a top.”

  His finger presses—so slight—but having him there nearly buckles my knees. “No,” I whisper. I reach out and touch the stone wall. He shifts his hand so his thumb is teasing there, his fingertips stroking carefully toward my balls. I can’t help the way it makes me pant.

  “I’m versatile.”

  “Depraved.” His free hand moves along my flank, the motion gentle.

  I swallow. “Do you like depraved?”

  His mouth finds my neck, kissing gently…and then harder. His erection presses against my rear. “What do you think?”

  * * *

  LUKE

  * * *

  I’m in so much trouble. Maybe something prescient in me knew it when I first saw him. I’m not normally a rash man. I don’t throw things. And yet, before we even spoke, I wounded him. I damaged him…and then I mended him.

  I want to do it again. Not want. Need. I need to bury myself in him. It’s the only thing I want. So I don’t do it.

  We spend a long time in the shower—mostly me making him come. Every time he goes for my dick, I distract him in a new way. By the time I lead him from the shower to my bed, I’ve come only once in the shower, from stroking myself as I sucked him off.

  I pull the covers back and lift a brow, directing him to lie down, which he does. His eyelids look heavy. I like that. I like that he’s worn out from everything I did to him. He stretches out on his back, one arm back behind his head, and I smirk at the paleness of his hips and thighs—the area covered by his swim shorts.

  He notices and rubs a palm over his dick. “You laughing at me?”

  “And if I am?”

  I stretch out on my side beside him, trace a fingertip over his pale thigh. It’s hard and smooth, with soft, sparse hair. I smile as I run my hand down his lower abs, tracing the trail of hair that leads to the what I like best.

  “Treasure trail,” he murmurs.

  I follow it to the hard-on that he never seems to lose. I trace the rim of him—because I want to tease him. There’s a part of me—a wicked part—that wants to see him suffer the way I do every day.

  His hand closes around my wrist. He tugs me closer. “Lie beside me.”

  There’s something in his eyes…a kind of sweetness. Happiness. Even though I know I should, I can’t say “no.”

  I whisper, “This has been nice.”

  He laughs. “Is that what you would say?”

  “That’s what I said.” I smile a little.

  “I want you inside me.” The words are so soft.

  I shake my head. Look away, down at the navy blue duvet.

  “What you’ve been doing to me,” he says softly. “I want to touch you that way, too. It feel so good…what you did.”

  I know what he means. I wish I could let him do what he wants. Still, I’m glad to know he liked what I did. I say, simply, “I know.”

  I get up then, because I can’t stand to lie beside him. I walk to the kitchen, get us water, fruit, croissants, and cheese. When I return to the master bedroom, I find him waiting with his eyes on the door. When he doesn’t sit up for the food or water, I hold a straw to his lips. Our eyes hold like magnets as he swallows.

  “Thanks.”

  “Of course.”

  He rubs his forehead, looking sleepy. “Are you ever gonna tell me your name?”

  * * *

  LUKE

  * * *

  I smile—or try to. I think it comes off more smirky than intended.

  “What do you have to hide?” My artist says it like he’s teasing, and maybe he is.

  You have no idea.

  I have a sip of our shared water.

  “What do you do for work? You’ve gotta give me something.”

  “Oh, I think I have.”

  He laughs, reaching out as he does to swipe at my pec. “How old are you, guy? Can you tell me that?”

  “How old are you?” I ask.

  He snorts. “What a control freak.” He turns on his side to face me, pushing his damp hair back over his shoulder. “I’m surprised you didn’t read that on your phone—while I was bleeding in the water.”

  “Sorry about that. How’s it feeling?”

  “It’s okay.” He exhales, shutting his eyes for just one moment. “I’m twenty-nine.”

  “A twenty-nine-year-old artist. What are you best at—what kind of art?”

  “I’m mostly a sculptor. I do murals, too, sometimes.”

  “The big stuff. Large-scale.”

  He snickers.

  “Are you any good?”

  “You’ll have to look me up.” He holds my gaze as he sits partway up. He shoves me. “You’re a dick, you know that?”

  That makes me smile. “That’s not what I’m known for.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe it.”

  “Then tell me what you do.”

  “I’m in the entertainment industry.”

  “What do you do in the entertainment industry? Have I seen you in a movie?”

  My stomach drops. “Have you?” I manage.

 
“I don’t think I know you.”

  I grin. “You don’t. I’m in finance.”

  “Like for movies?”

  “Films and…other projects.”

  “That what bought this yacht?”

  “No.” It’s true. “My family has had money for a long time.”

  “Must be nice.”

  “Not the case for you, I take it.”

  “Mom and I were poor as shit when I was a kid. She did everything she could for me. But we weren’t going to the yacht club.”

  “And now?”

  He makes a face. “You ask a lot of questions for someone who won’t give out a first name.” But he’s grinning. “Now I’m big time. Kidding. I guess you could say it’s pretty good. It has its ups and downs.” He sits up more and takes a croissant, bites and chews. “You come down here a lot?”

  “Infrequently,” I tell him.

  “You must be pretty busy with a job like that.”

  “I have a lot of people depending on me.”

  When he says nothing more, I turn the light off.

  “I really don’t get a name?” His voice is soft, a rumble.

  I lie back against the pillows, pull the covers over my legs. I’m not sure what to say to him. I can tell him nothing of my life. Not even one thing. I feel sick as I realize the truth of that. I turn away from him.

  Vance scoots closer to me, draping his thick arm around my shoulders. “I’m gonna call you Guy. You good with that?”

  When I don’t answer, his finger traces my spine.

  “I fucking hate an empty bed,” he says. “You care if I stay in here with you tonight?”

  I swallow hard. Of course it’s not okay. But I shake my head.

  His mouth brushes my nape, but I don’t move. When he nips at me, I swallow the groan in my throat. After another beat of silence from me, he moves away, shifting onto his back.

  I can feel the cord of connection dangling between us. I could turn back toward him right now. Make up a name. I can’t tell him the truth, but I could tell him something. Just enough so we could talk a while. It’s been years since I had anyone in my bed.

  And yet…I can’t bring myself to move.

  Some time later, when I think he’s sleeping, he scoots closer again, wraps a squeezing arm around my chest and murmurs near my ear. “You know I’d let you, right? I’d do it with you. Think I might like it, too.”

  A bolt of lust moves through me, centered on my hungry cock. Something stirs in my chest. Want, I realize quickly. Not just of his body.

  I can’t say that, though, now can I? It’s dishonorable to give this thing with him another minute of my energy. I take the coward’s way out. I feign sleep.

  * * *

  VANCE

  * * *

  I don’t think he sleeps at all that night. Every time I stir, I can tell he’s awake. He never gets up, though. When I rub up against him, he doesn’t scoot away or tell me to fuck off. He doesn’t hug me either. Nothing.

  Somewhere right around the time the windows start to glow pale orange, he gets up and goes into the bathroom. I can hear it when he shuts the door. I think that’s what awakens me.

  When he turns the shower on, I steal out of bed and join him in the bathroom.

  When I get into the shower with him, he turns wordlessly to me. He blows me, and then he tries to get out.

  “I want mine.” I pin him up against the stone wall, smirking. He grabs my head, and we kiss until my lips throb—and so does my dick.

  Somehow, I get him to let me blow him. He comes fast and hard and turns the shower off as soon as he stands up.

  Afterward, we step onto the mat and he does the most affectionate thing he’s done since we met. He half kneels and dries me, head to toe. Then he helps me into his robe, leads me back to the bed, and he turns the TV on before he disappears, returning fifteen minutes later with a plate of donuts.

  We eat in near silence. Once again, he doesn’t look at me. Afterward, I watch him dress. When he tells me he’ll be taking me to the nearest port, I’m not surprised. This is how it goes half the damn time. Find someone that piques your interest, that’s the surest way to know they won’t return the feeling.

  We talk about sports as he fires up the boat’s motors. On the way to the yacht club, he barely looks at me. I tell myself it’s whatever. Just a one-night stand, after all. This was a fling. A fucking nice one.

  We wait in line for half an hour before he’s cleared to dock. Just before then, he looks me right in the eye and gives me a small, tight smile. It hits me right below the sternum.

  As he stands to latch the boat to the dock, he says quietly, “Thanks.”

  Or maybe I imagine I heard that.

  We say goodbye with a firm handshake. Other people come and go around us. The sea breeze blows my hair off my shoulder. For a second, he looks like he might reach out and touch it. Instead, he gives me the tight smile again. He turns away without a word—and that’s that.

  I wear his clothes on the boat trip back to the Sierra. That must be why I feel different. Sometime that night after I get back on board, I realize I caught the feels. For a whole day, I hardly leave the bed. I think of Lana, but more so, I think of him.

  He’s the last person I fuck on the trip. Three days later, I meet with the prospective client in George Town. She wants four murals—all on old brick buildings—to be completed as soon as possible. When I decide to stay and do them right away, I tell myself it’s not because of him—some nameless fuck I spent one night with. Every night, when I tuck in with a book or a sketchpad at ten o’clock, I tell myself the same thing. Hell is other people. Even people I could fuck.

  I just need some room to breathe. Especially after Lana.

  It’s late May before I’m finished with all four murals. I hop the last flight of the day from Grand Cayman to LaGuardia and pull a hat over my eyes to try to catch some Zs. I’m halfway to dream land when something sharp jabs my arm. I crack one eye open.

  “Cowboy!”

  For a second, I just stare. “It’s you.”

  “And do I have a name?” she teases.

  “Hell yeah you do. The girl who left me on an island.”

  “Left you?” Her eyes widen. “What?”

  I tell her what happened, and her eyes pop open wider. “Oh noo! I had no idea. I was so drunk myself. I guess I just assumed you…” She laughs, covering her mouth with one hand. “Oh my goodness. It’s not funny, I know.”

  “No.”

  But we shoot the shit anyway. She buys me a beer, and we talk about my murals and her sister’s newborn baby. Finally, when it’s dark out the little airplane windows, she curls up with her iPad. I lean my head against the back of my seat. Once again, I start to sink into sleep.

  That’s when I hear it.

  I hear him.

  My body flares white hot, like a camera flash went off inside me. I sit straight up, glance around.

  She notices and laughs. “What are you doing?”

  My gut twists as I trace the sound of his voice to her iPad. I reach for it.

  “Hey now…” She draws it back, even as I try to get a glimpse of the screen.

  “What is that? What are you watching?”

  She turns the screen to me, and there he is: Guy. He’s wearing a crisp button-up that’s somewhere between powder blue and indigo, a pair of sharp-looking white dress pants, and a navy blue blazer. Behind her iPad’s “pause” button, his blond hair looks like spun gold. He looks fucking dapper on a stage.

  “What is this?” I demand.

  “It’s Sunday.”

  “What?”

  She sighs, shaking her head. “It’s church, okay?” she says softly. “I go to Evermore United.”

  My head buzzes. Suddenly my mouth is very dry. “I don’t— What?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I know, I know. I don’t seem like the type. But you don’t have to act so shocked about it.”

  “Who is that man?” I point to the
screen.

  “That’s Luke McDowell, cowboy. C’mon. He’s one the Bay area’s most famous exports. Luke McDowell? Evermore?”

  I shake my head, my gut clenching more tightly as she sighs again.

  “Luke McDowell is the biggest pastor in America today. He runs our church. It’s got…I don’t know…a lot of people. Tens of thousands, maybe.”

  “Luke McDowell?” I rasp.

  “Not a fan?”

  I stand up, gripping the chair in front of me before I note the bathroom line and sit back down beside her.

  “You should give it a try sometime,” she’s saying. “The pre-recorded videos and podcasts. He’s got great words. That is—you know…the messages. All the McDowells went to Harvard—Luke and his grandfather and his father. A little conservative for some, but worth your time, I promise.” She grins. “Bonus points: he’s hot.”

  About the Author

  Ella James is the USA Today bestselling author of more than twenty novels. She writes emotional, hard-won love stories with steam, suspense, and Kindle-throwing twists.

  Ella is an Alabama native who makes her home in Colorado with her husband, three young children, and hyperactive dog. When she’s not writing, she can be found hiking the foothills, taking nature photos for her Instagram account (@authorellajames), and drinking the tears of her readers.

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  Questions or comments? Tweet her at @author_ellaj or e-mail her at ellafjames@gmail.com.

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