Six Night Stand (The Lexingtons Book 3)

by Kevin Sean

  I’ll just start free hand sketching and see what comes out…

  To my relief, the pencil flies across the paper. I guess my mind has decided on a course of action. The graphite lines keep coming, soon revealing the emerging form of a head, the rough outline of sprawling limbs and the shape of a body.

  It’s been so long since an idea just flowed out of me with such ease. I’m not sure where I’m going with this, but I don’t care—I sketch faster and faster, high on the rush of feeling inspired for the first time in forever.

  By now my mad dash of pencil marks and eraser smudges have coalesced and a concrete image is making itself clear.

  It’s a man outstretched on a bed, his naked body surrounded by messy sheets. One corner of the crinkled fabric has draped across him just so to cover his private parts, but the rest of his Greek god-like body is on full display: chiseled abs, muscular arms, thick thighs.

  I can’t help but get a little horny from my work. Blood rushes to my cock. I love getting excited by a project in progress—it tells me I’m doing the job right. I am an erotic painter, after all. I rely on my own instincts and sexuality to pin-point the fine line between nudes and neoclassical art.

  Before I know it I’m dipping paintbrushes into the hues which I’ve hand-mixed. This sexy man of mine needs some color to bring this picture to the next level.

  Each brushstroke adds a new dimension to the man I’m painting: The peachy tone of his skin. The shadowy contours of his chest. The icy blue ferocity in his eyes.

  Suddenly, I realize the obvious. I’m painting Logan Lexington.

  This bed, that face, the sculpted sexy body… there’s no mistaking the fact that it’s all Logan. I’m actually pretty impressed by my ability to recall the specifics of his naked form—or I would be, if I wasn’t so mortified by my subconscious decision to paint him.

  What the hell is wrong with me, painting a man in the nude while I’m a guest at his house?

  People have asked me to do nude portrait commissions in the past, but I’d always decided I’d rather not. Simply because I knew I’d never be as inspired as I would have been if I was painting Zach. It terrified me to promise people who wanted commissions that their painting would be any good at all. I couldn’t guarantee I could produce an end product, because my work until that point had always been intrinsically linked to Zach.

  I’ve never felt inspired to do a portrait of someone who wasn’t my boyfriend out of the blue. Until now.

  I’m certain that this isn’t what Logan had in mind when he invited me to use his hideaway as a creative space. I feel as if I’ve betrayed his trust. I should have known better. I was just so grateful for inspiration that I let things get out of control…

  Logan can’t find out about this.

  He will think I’m a freak if he finds out the first thing I did was paint him naked. But I can’t just throw it away either—what if Katarzyna sees the discarded painting and notifies her billionaire boss?

  I’m fucked.

  I’m contemplating straight-up swallowing the canvas to hide the evidence when I realize the easiest way to cover up my mistake is sitting right in front of me. I’ll just paint over the picture of Logan. A few layers of thick white acrylic and voila! No more naked Logan Lexington.

  Before I can do that, I must let the paint which I was just using dry, then I can cover my tracks and pretend this never happened. I take deep meditative breaths, emulating the ones I see yoga instructors on YouTube doing. In just a minute or two I can paint over it. It’ll all be okay.

  I’m mixing creamy neutral hues of paint when… Creak. The door to the hideaway swings open.

  I whip my neck around in shock. In that very instant my breathing stops and my palms get sweaty, causing the paintbrush to slip out of my grip.

  Who the hell is behind me? I ask myself even though I’m almost positive that I already know who is entering the room. My eyes meet a pair of brilliant blue ones. Sure enough, it’s Logan coming to see me.

  The same Logan who I just realized I’ve painted in the nude on the canvas in front of me. The canvas that he’s just walked up in front of and is now looking at.

  “That is one sexy motherfucker,” Logan says. He’s analyzing the painting with an intent gaze and his fingers stroking his chin. He looks more like a famous art critic appraising a classical piece than someone checking out a nude portrait of themselves. “I assumed you were talented but, damn, Ben. This is a whole other level of artistry than I’d expected,” he continues, turning to me with an enthusiastic grin plastered from one ear to the other.

  Um. This is awkward. Logan has to realize that the painting is of him, right? He must. This billionaire just has a rather twisted sense of humor. Should I go along with the joke?

  “You… you know that the painting is of….” I pause. If Logan doesn’t see himself in this painting, I need not make this any more awkward. Admitting to Logan that he’s the first (and only) man I’ve painted in the nude since I was with my ex boyfriend seems too awkward a burden to bear.

  “Of…?” Logan raises an eyebrow, amused by me seeming to lose my train of thought.

  “Of, um, nothing important,” I stammer. But I’m too late: I can see the gears turning in Logan’s head, and the clarity on his face when the facts click into place. I watch his eyes jump from a mirror to the painting, then to the palette, filled with paints mixed to match the color of his hair and eyes, and back to me, trying to block the canvas with my body. He must recognize himself in my painting now.

  “Nothing important, is it? I have half a mind to be offended!” He exclaims. My heart beats quicker, but his tone of voice sounds playful. Maybe he’s not as furious as I thought he’d be.

  “I’m so sorry, Logan. It was like I was sleep painting, I didn’t even realize what I’d done until it was too late… I meant no disrespect,” I stress as I clasp my hands together and prepare to plead for forgiveness.

  Logan must sense how nervous I am, because he reaches out and wraps my shoulder in a firm, comforting grip. “I don’t feel disrespected at all. If anything, I’m flattered! I mean, look at the shading on my abs! I ought to pay you for painting me in such a complimentary light.” Logan picks up the nude portrait to inspect it better.

  I’m surprised and relieved by his passion for the painting.

  “You’re a talented artist, Ben,” Logan continues, his words hushed and reverential. “But… maybe stick to painting and drawing, I think you need some more acting classes before you can hit the stage.”

  His joke forces me to stifle a laugh and ruins my attempt at looking serious and unaffected, instead of like I’m sweating bullets.

  “So you don’t mind that I painted you?” I ask, still shocked by this entire turn of events. When I woke up this morning, I didn’t think I’d be sketching Logan Lexington in the nude. Even more unimaginable was him loving a portrait of himself naked.

  “Of course not,” Logan insists, taking a step closer to me. I hold my breath. We’re close enough to kiss now. “In fact, I think I’ll commission another painting.” He unbuttons the top buttons of his collared shirt, freeing his chest hair and revealing his pecs.

  Desire and lust hit me like a train. I feel like I’m about to pass out, but somehow I string a sentence together. “I think we can arrange that.” I want to sound as flirtatious and confident as Logan does, but I can’t help being nervous as hell.

  I know Logan and I have been naked together before—hell, he’s been inside of me. But last time he didn’t even know my name, and we were only supposed to stay together for the night. One and done. Things are different now, and I don’t know whether that’s for worse or for better.

  Logan has unbuttoned his shirt all the way now. He takes it off, throws it to the floor, and starts taking off his pants. “I’d like to arrange my modeling session for… now o’clock, if that’s convenient for the portrait master.”

  “Of course,” I croak out. Seeing Logan, shirtless, in nothing but
his boxers with his trousers around his ankle, sends all the blood in my body rushing straight to my cock. Fuck, he’s so god damn handsome. It’s not fair.

  “It’s settled then,” says Logan, who takes this as a cue to slide off his underwear. He teases at first, playing with his fingers in the waistband and pulling his boxer briefs down just enough for me to see the very top of his ass and the base of his girth cock. Pubes and pelvic muscles burst forth, beckoning me to walk over to Logan, pull those underpants down, and suck him off right on the spot.

  I resist these temptations, however, and focus instead on organizing my brushes and paints. Luckily I already had the perfect shades mixed to match Logan’s skin tone, hair, and eyes.

  “Should I pose a certain way?” Logan asks me, still standing with his hands down his underwear.

  “Just stand or sit in a way you feel natural or comfortable.” He obliges.

  “And I’m assuming I should lose these, too,” he says cheekily, pulling off the boxer briefs with a wink. His exposed balls and cock swing when released, as if waving hello to me.

  “Perfect,” I manage to squeak out.

  After this we don’t talk. I hope Logan doesn’t mind my silence. I’m too focused on capturing his incredible body as accurately as possible to muster any attempts at small talk. To his credit, Logan is an excellent model. Beyond checking all the physical boxes of standard male beauty, he stands still and waits patiently as the quiet minutes pass by.

  Who would have thought being so close to a nude Logan Lexington would feel downright meditative?

  Our blissful silence is broken when Logan’s phone begins to buzz and ring. He looks panicked and lunges for his pants on the floor to pick up the call.

  “Hey, n-now’s not a good time. S-sorry about that,” he stutters into the phone before hanging up and hiding it under his discarded clothes. He turns back to me, looking apologetic. “It’s on silent now, that won’t happen again. I’d hate to disturb your artistic process.” He’s so thoughtful.

  “Don’t worry, my creative flow remains uninterrupted,” I respond, never putting the paint brush down. I’m on a roll, I won’t stop now.

  No matter how focused I am, I can’t help but notice how Logan sounded on the phone. I don’t think the CEO of LexTech usually stutters and sounds like a nervous middle schooler when he’s talking shop on the phone. The unusual situation of posing as my nude model has made Logan feel out of his element.

  “You know, we can stop if you aren’t comfortable…” I say. I’d hate to stop painting, but I’d hate even more to be creeping out Logan.

  “No.” He’s decisive but not commanding. His commitment to being painted by me is clear as day, sparkling right there in the back of those baby blue eyes. “I enjoy seeing how concentrated you are,” he continues. “I wouldn’t want to stop now for all the urgent work updates in the world.”

  Ditto, I almost say back. Instead, I focus on in the flawless curve of his juicy ass and continue capturing its likeness on canvas with paint and brush. I’m so focused and inspired that it feels like only five minutes pass between resuming painting and completing the piece of art. “I’m done!” I declare, jumping to my feet to stretch.

  “Already?” Logan seems incredulous. “I don’t think I’m ready to put my clothes back on,” he jokes.

  “You won’t hear any complaints from me,” I fire back. It’s hard to decide where to look: at Logan, grinning like a madman and standing next to me naked, or at my new painting of Logan, which I think is my favorite painting I’ve ever created.

  I’m back, baby. It seems ridiculous to me now that I’d resigned myself to never painting again. Clearly, I just need a push in the right erection. Sorry, direction.

  I just hope this inspiration doesn’t all go away when I leave this island. When I leave Logan Lexington.

  Logan slides on his underwear and sidles over to check out the final result. “Wow! Ben, you’re incredible. I’ve never looked better!”

  I’m blushing, I know it. “Not true! This portrait doesn’t do you justice,” I insist.

  Logan wraps his arm around me. I can’t tell if it’s a platonic side hug or a romantic advance. “I love it. Promise,” he assures me before answering my question by spinning me towards him and planting a kiss on my eager lips.

  I surprise myself by responding with equal passion and returning the kiss. I grab onto Logan and pull him towards me. It’s impossible for him to be too close. I want to wrap so tightly around him we become one.

  Suddenly I’m struck by second thoughts. I pull back, placing my hand on Logan’s bare chest “What are we doing, Logan?”

  “What do you mean? I’m kissing you,” he grins. Then his smile falters. “Were you not enjoying it?”

  “No, no, I love kissing you,” I assure him. “It’s just… this was supposed to be a one night stand, but I’m still here, days later. And I… I just want to make sure no one gets hurt.” I want to make sure I don’t get hurt. Again.

  Logan’s expression becomes more serious. He’s handsome in a whole different way now: it’s a fierce, steel-cutting beauty, not a soft, warm attractiveness.

  “Honestly? I don’t know what I want. I wasn’t expecting our time together to last for longer than one night either. All I know now is… that I don’t want to hurt you. And… that painting is pretty fucking spectacular.” I can’t help but smile at that.

  There’s so much I want to say right now, but I’m afraid I’ll sound crazy. Maybe it’s just because my dry spell has last for more than a year, but I can’t shake the feeling that when Logan and I slept together, it wasn’t just normal sex, it was something special.

  My theory is well supported by the sexual tension that’s still sparking between us even now, when I’m wearing unflattering, paint speckled clothes.

  “I’m glad you like the painting. It means a lot to me. know it sounds silly, but… I stopped painting when my last relationship ended. So for the last year I’ve tried and tried and tried to paint. With no luck. Until, well… today.” I pause, wondering how I ought to phrase what I know to be true in my heart. “I think us having sex ended up inspiring me to make art again.”

  There. I’ve said what I’m thinking. Even if my suspicions make me sound like a sex-starved psycho, at least I’ve gotten the admission off of my chest. I feel better, lighter already. I scan Logan’s face while biting my lip, nervous and impatient to see how he’ll react to my perspective on our situation.

  To my surprise, Logan isn’t sporting a distressed or confused expression. There’s no sign he’s uncomfortable with the fact that I’ve gone ahead and linked our having sex to me being productive and inspired. Instead, Logan seems almost… relieved? His face has relaxed and the corner of his mouth is twitching, as though he were suppressing a smile.

  “That good, was I?” He says mischievously.

  I realize that he’s trying to stop himself from laughing at me, not smiling with me. I’ve become the subject of amusement, not desire. I’m so embarrassed.

  “I’m kidding, Ben. I’m flattered,” Logan continues. “It’s an honor to such a talented—and handsome—artist paint my portrait.” I feel joyful and a little weak in the knees.

  “I guess the painting world will have you to thank if our session today inspires me to pioneer a new, ass cheek-inspired art movement which sweeps the globe,” I quip, using humor to boost my confidence.

  I can’t believe I’m joking with Logan about this painting, but I’m just so relieved and happy that he isn’t upset over the nude portrait that I can’t stop talking. “In the meantime, I have you to thank for motivating me to work again for the first time in far too long,” I continue.

  “It’s funny you say that,” says Logan. The mischievous curving of his mouth stops my heart. “I have a feeling we… operate similarly. If I’m being honest, when I invited you here I was looking for someone to sleep with because I find that sex is the best recourse for clearing my mind when I’m stressed at work.
Sex helps me be more productive in the long run.”

  I’m not sure how to respond to that.

  “Well, I’m happy that I was able to help you,” is my attempt at a humorous but also diplomatic answer.

  Logan’s face lights up even more. “You did help me! Really! These last two days since our night together, I’ve been laser-focused on work and churning out all kinds of marvelous ideas.” He reaches out and cups my face in his hands. It feels wonderful to be held so tenderly by him.

  Part of me wonders if I should be offended by the fact that Logan primarily invited me into his home so our sex could boost his productivity, but then again, isn’t that almost the exact same thing I did? I only came to this island to achieve professional goals—getting inspiration for art. I guess it’s a mutually beneficial situation.

  “I guess we were able to help each other,” I muse.

  “Sounds like it,” Logan whispers back before leaning in for another kiss. This time, there’s way more tongue.

  An idea suddenly sprouts in my head. “Well… if I’m helping you, and you’re helping me…”

  Logan’s expression shifts from soft and sweet to devilishly horny in five seconds flat. “Ben, Ben, Ben. You naughty boy. Are you proposing we lend each other… a helping hand for the rest of your time here?” As he says these words Logan slides his fingers under the waistband of my underwear, coming dangerously close to my cock. I can’t help but let out a low, guttural moan. This makes Logan smile even wider.

  I know now that there’s no going back. Logan Lexington and I are bound together until this storm subsides. So why not have a little fun while we wait it out?

  “I think you have yourself a deal,” I whisper, before pushing Logan’s hand further down my pants.

  10

  LOGAN