Jake leaned down, and let his lips touch Noah’s. They kissed more, Jake’s beard scraping against his neck. He heard Noah’s breath again, short bursts, and when he pulled up, he saw that Noah was stroking his own hard cock. He was close to blowing again.
“Let me shoot my load all over your beard,” he said.
Jake lay down on his back, and Noah straddled him, jerking his cock. He rubbed it against the dark whiskers of Jake’s beard, and then he shuddered as he quickly released. White come splattered across his beard, seeping into the dark whiskers. Noah ran his the tip of his cock across his beard again, and then finally let out of a sigh of relief. Shit, the dude had just come twice in a short amount of time, both orgasms carrying a big load.
Jake couldn’t wait to come again himself. He knew the guy wanted to be fucked again.
Which is why what happened next surprised him.
“Ok, thanks, man. You were good, just what I wanted. Keep the beard man, you’re sexier with it, made this time better than the last time. But the night’s over, I’ve got a big audition in the morning and you took my mind off it for a while. You’ll see yourself out, right?”
“What do you mean…you’re kicking me out?”
“Dude, you were hot. Actually, I think you were better this time.”
“We’ve met before?”
“Hell, yeah, we’ve fucked before. I keep notes, man. Like I said, the beard does wonders. That’s why I was willing to…you know, have you again.”
Only when Jake was dressed and back out on the street, the cold seeping into his exhausted body, did he remember having already fucked that guy once, no more than a year ago. They’d gone back to Jake’s apartment. But how was it he didn’t even remember their encounter until the moment Noah tossed him out and the memories came flooding back, like its own orgasm but hardly as satisfying. He’d left that abruptly their one other time together. Given that he’d now taken to fucking men he’d already done and didn’t remember, Jake Westbury realized one thing: he had to change his bad-boy ways.
Maybe he needed to keep a diary, too. It might be good to remember who you had sex with.
***
Jake returned home, his apartment even quieter than when he’d left it. It was nearly three in the morning and outside it had begun to snow. He dropped his leather jacket on the sofa, went into the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of beer. He didn’t need it, he should just go to sleep and try and erase the foolish night of anonymous sex he’d just endured. Sure, the release had been great, but he felt used as well. Noah—fuck, he wasn’t even sure that was his real name, he didn’t remember even having screwed someone with that name, much less met one—he’d just wanted a cock to service, and the man behind it be damned.
Jake wandered into the bathroom, peed, then stared at himself in the mirror.
The guy had liked his beard, it’s what had attracted him to Jake. Or so he said. Did it really make him look sexier? Or worse, older? Had the shaggy blond guy been looking for more of a daddy type tonight? Jake hated to think he was outgrowing the one-night stand world. He had lived in it since he’d arrived in New York in his early twenties, ready to party, have sex, make his mark. But almost two years ago he’d begun to feel the urge to settle down. To meet one man. It was the pretense in which he’d gone running off to London two summers ago, and while the accents may have been different, Jake’s actions weren’t. He’d screwed anyone who would have him, and in the process he’d felt used himself. A familiar refrain, he decided. He also decided, for now, the beard would stay, and so he turned off the light of the bathroom and padded back into his living room.
There, like a taunt, were the three posters on his wall which had dictated his life’s direction.
Vintage posters in black frames, each representing one city: Paris, Rome, London.
They’d been his inspiration, and of course they’d led to Matt’s and Freddie’s decision to follow in his wanderlust-filled footsteps. He missed them both. Matt had remained behind in Paris, and he hadn’t seen him since the start of their summer excursions. The last time they’d spoken had been just after Jake’s breakup with Aaron. Freddie he’d at least seen more recently, but he was so wrapped up in Santo’s skyrocketing career, happy to ride his coattails. Matt had wanted to fall in love, and he had, and Freddie, the jokester, claimed the same, but Jake knew his horny friend was merely in lust with his furry stud. Not that he blamed him; Santo was fucking hot.
That left Jake. Alone.
Upon his failed romances in London—notably with Hunter Abbott, who had rocked his world, altered its axis, and then tossed him aside like a rag doll—Jake had returned to the scene of the plan: Gaslight. It was that first night back in town, over Labor Day weekend, that he’d first set eyes on Aaron. They had gone out on a date, they had kissed, and then on another date and still only kissed. On the third date they finally went to bed with each other, and for the next nine months, through good and bad, they’d been together. The sex had been fantastic, the best Jake remembered. But Jake was persistently moody, perhaps needy, and Aaron finally tired of it. He’d ended their relationship just before the holidays. Which meant Christmas had sucked this year. Now a new year had begun and he had regressed to his same pattern: screwing strangers, and in tonight’s case, a strange he’d already screwed.
“Fuck,” Jake said, pulling at his beer and dropping to the sofa.
Maybe what he needed was to shake things up again. He had money saved, thanks to the strange events he’d become embroiled in during his stay in England, so he could just pick up and go wherever on a moment’s notice. But where? And would that even solve anything? He’d tried that, and he’d failed. What was to say this time it would be different. His eyes grew tired, his body agreeing. He didn’t even have the energy to get up and put himself to bed. So he fell asleep on the sofa, closing his mind off to whatever this day had brought, wishing to push away aimless thoughts of tomorrow.
Maybe that was the problem. He had nothing to look forward to.
That all changed a few hours later, as the ringing of his cell phone stirred him from a beer-induced sleep. He was disoriented, his eyes struggling to open, especially since his first view was of the empty beer bottle on the floor. Then he recalled Noah, fucking him and then being kicked out unceremoniously, returning home and feeling empty and sorry for himself. The follow-up ring of his phone shook his thoughts and he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He reached into his pocket to answer it. The caller ID said Matt.
“Fuck me, speak of the devil,” he said.
“Nice greeting,” Matt said. “You eat with that mouth?”
“Uh, do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Do you?”
Truth was, Jake had no idea and he looked around for something with the time. His cable box blinked at him, indicating it was 9:13. No wonder his body ached, he’d slept in his clothes in an awkward position on the sofa. That, coupled with the positions he and Noah had done all made for a sore Jake.
“It’s still early here,” Jake said.
“Yeah, yeah, time change, all that crap. Listen, Jake, what are you doing in April?”
“April? I don’t know what the hell I’m doing this morning.”
“Well, get your gay planner out.”
“Don’t you mean day planner?”
“I was making a joke…wow, you’re in a mood.”
“So are you, a good one. Can I tell you to shut up and get to the point?”
“I’m getting married.”
The words bounced inside Jake’s addled brain, but they failed to land with any impact. He had trouble absorbing what his friend was talking about.
“Did you just say you were getting married?”
“Anton proposed. I accepted.”
“You’re such a bottom, Matt.”
“Hey!”
But still, Matt laughed. The sound hurt Jake’s head.
“Sorry, um, congratulations.”
“So get y
our ass on an airplane. You’re coming to Paris.”
“Paris.”
“Yeah, like that poster on your wall. But better, because it’s real, and it’s romantic.”
“Great, just what I need.”
“Who’d you screw last night?”
“Never mind my life. So, this is really the real thing? True love and everything?”
“Yup.”
“That’s what you always wanted, Matt. I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks.”
“Does Freddie know?”
“He does, and he’s trying to arrange his and Santo’s schedule.”
“Ah yes, the sexy Italian.” His tone was almost bitter. “Both of you, so fulfilled…”
“Jake, are you okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s all good. Look, let’s talk later, when I’m more…awake.”
“You mean sober.”
“You’re an asshole, Matt.”
“That’s why Anton loves me.”
The visual was too much to take, and Jake finally managed to end the call. He put the phone down, stood up and stretched his tired body. He thought about his last thoughts before he’d fallen asleep, of wanting something to look forward to. But was this it? Matt’s wedding? He really was thrilled for his friend, but it only illustrated just how far backwards Jake had fallen in his own quest to restart his life.
He realized that with Matt’s news came a greater complication.
There was no way in hell that Jake Westbury was going to a romantic destination wedding without a date. Trouble was, who was that going to be? Jake stared at the window of a brand new Manhattan day, one coated with a layer of fallen snow, and wondered just who in this crazy city was waiting for him. And if he even managed to cross paths with him, would Jake even recognize the signs? Or would he just fuck him and leave in the middle of the night, the dark sky hiding his regrets?
That’s when Jake knew what he had to. At least, for now.
He went into his bedroom, threw off his clothes, and climbed into bed and fell back asleep. He couldn’t worry about life if he hid himself beneath the blankets. No way could the world intrude upon that kind of serenity.
CHAPTER FOUR
Matthew
“You don’t have to do that, really.”
“Matt, you’re getting an engagement party and that’s the end of the discussion.”
“Simone…”
“Besides, this is Paris. It’s what we do. We celebrate life. Haven’t you learned that yet?”
“With you to remind me on a daily—sometimes hourly—basis, how can I forget?”
“Without me, you’d be moping around the streets of New York by yourself.”
She was right about that. While Matt had made the decision to come to Paris, it was Simone who had challenged him to truly embrace the city’s romantic side and leave Manhattan cynicism behind at the airport. Funny coming from her, considering she was an unmarried, unattached cynic who at almost 40 lived for her work.
“Fine, do what you’re going to do. Just tell me when, where, and who.”
“This Friday, my office, anyone you want.”
“Oh, uh, so soon…”
“You sound like you’re rushing me off the phone, darling,” she said.
“I have an appointment soon, a new artist with, I think, lots of potential.”
“Then get to work and make that gallery a raging success. Ta-ta till Friday,” Simone said, and without another word she broke the connection.
Matt shook his head as he set his cell phone down on the desk. Simone Richlieu redefined one of a kind, a girl from the Midwest who had forsaken all things American for all things Parisian. An interior designer, her good taste was matched only by her biting attitude, and both had won her many fans along the wide boulevards of the city of lights. From Sacre Coeur to Montparnasse to Saint Germain and beyond, there wasn’t an arrondissement that didn’t at least know her name, if not her well-earned reputation. Yet Matt knew one thing about her that no one else did: her real name: the less refined Sally Richlieu. She’d worked steadfastly to rid herself of that hated first name, not to mention her entire Peoria-laden past, and only her best friend from high school knew the truth. She had often said she would literally kill him if he ever revealed her truths. But as much as a shark Simone was, she had a heart of gold. For a friend, she would do, and had done, anything.
Take him and Anton.
Upon his arrival in Paris 18 months ago, Simone had invited him to a cocktail party, where in turn he had met her partner, a self-absorbed, but handsomely stylish man named Gavin Simon—together they ran an interior design firm they called Simone & Simon. Matt had been attracted to Gavin from the start, and he’d gone out with him, and then he’d allowed himself to be seduced by him, but dark-haired, sexy Gavin proved far too selfish even in bed, and had left Matt feeling even worse about his loneliness in Paris. But the one-nighter had led Matt back to the banks of the Seine River, where he’d days before encountered the cute painter who was now his fiancé. Gavin and Anton also knew each other, and Matt, becoming caught up in their small-world drama, had led him to living at the slant-roof garret, and in turn, had brought Anton into his bed. Cause and effect, all of it heightened by the beguiling romanticism of Paris.
And now he was engaged to be married. A dream wedding, to take place…where?
That was a good question.
The answer would have to wait. He was jarred from his thoughts by the ringing of a buzzer downstairs. Putting down his cell phone, Matt made his way down the iron circular staircase that led from his upstairs office to the main space of the Gallerie Passione. The walls were empty right now, making the room feel large, imposing, as though taunting Matt to find something worthy to put upon its walls. Perhaps the man at the front door would provide a solution to his next show. It was raining, he noticed, and the man huddled beneath an umbrella. A large black portfolio rested in his other hand. Matt quickly turned the lock on the front door, opening it wide so his guest could enter easily.
“Thank you, wow…I haven’t seen rain like this in weeks, back home,” the man said in a Texas-twanged English, fumbling to close his umbrella. He finally managed it, leaving droplets of rain on the polished wood floor of the gallery’s main room in the process. Matt saw the water bead. “Are you Matthew Donovan?”
“Matt,” he said, “Yes, you must be Rich.”
“Rich, sure, but a poor artist. Parents with an ironic sensibility. Actually, I go by the name Stone.”
Matt laughed, closing the door behind him and shutting out the awful weather. It was four o’clock on a random Thursday in early March, nearly a week since his engagement, and he was thankful for the distraction work afforded him. He took Stone’s jacket and put it in a nearby closet, his umbrella leaning against the wall. Matt got a chance to check out his guest and decided the nickname suited him. He was probably mid-twenties, with a severe haircut of black hair and a heavy shadow of beard; a pencil-thin mustache giving him a Parisian essence, even though Matt knew he too was a transplanted American. What was easily discernible was how attractive Stone was; high cheek-bones, toned body, just over six feet. Simply model gorgeous with dark eyes over thick eyebrows. A stone statue of beauty. He was a friend of Matt’s lesbian associate, Sheeba Handers, a man she’d gone to school with back in Dallas.
“Welcome to the Gallerie Passione,” Matt said. “Can I get you anything?”
“I hesitate to say water, since I’m already drenched. The umbrella was used to protect my portfolio more so than myself.”
“Come on, I’ve got a bottle of wine chilling upstairs, let’s be French.”
“I like the sound of that, thanks.”
Matt escorted his potential new artist upstairs, got him settled inside his office. It was really an open space, a balcony that looked down on the rest of the space. A framed portrait of Anton and Matt hung behind his desk, beautifully lit against blood red walls, along with the name of the gallery painted
in script on the far wall.
“Nice office,” Stone said, “and in a great neighborhood. How did you ever finance this?”
“Ah, that’s a long story, but you know the song ‘With a Little Help from My Friends’?”
“Sheeba?”
“Her father tossed in some money.” Sheeba’s father was a rich oil tycoon who would do anything to his height-challenged daughter. She was tiny and round, and she liked women. Nothing about her said Texas.
“He always does that. He thinks he’s buying her love. Speaking of, how is she?”
“You haven’t seen her yet?”
He shook his head. “I arrived this morning after a long flight—Dallas to New York, switch terminals, Air France to De Gaulle. I dropped off my bags at some youth hostel near Gare de Nord, and then I high-tailed it over here. Got lost. My map got soaked.” He paused and realized he was rambling. “I think I’m jet-lagged. What time is it?”
“Happy Hour,” Matt said, using an American idiom on purpose. “Relax, uh…Stone. Let me get that wine, it will help you unwind.”
Matt turned to a small refrigerator at the far end of the office, withdrew a bottle of Sancerre and retrieved two glasses from a shelf above it. Cork quickly removed, he poured two glasses and handed one to Stone, then sat down behind his desk with his. They cheered and toasted to new discoveries. Matt loved how Paris worked; if you wanted a glass of wine, you had it. No social anxiety came with it, no matter the hour. No judgment. Civility was always a sip away.
“Thanks, I think I needed that.” He set the glass down on the edge of the glass-topped desk.
Matt decided to get down to business. “So, Stone, I’ve clicked through your website. You’ve done some impressive work.”
“Thanks. But…you know, nothing like seeing art up close, right?”
“That’s why we invited you come see us,” Matt said.
“Us?”
“Well, I realize it’s just me right now. But Anton…my, uh, actually, he’s my fiancé. He’s got a share in this gallery, along with the investors. But they let me run it and Sheeba acts as my assistant. We’ve had some pretty successful showings here already, but we’re still trying to make a name for ourselves. In Paris, the art world is very snooty, very exclusive and old school, and they don’t just accept you because you’ve got the deep pockets to open a gallery. Reputations are hard-earned here. Which I why I can take a chance on unknowns. Trust me, the community looks down on us, but secretly admires our dedication to being the outsiders.”
American Hunks Page 4