by SE Culpepper
“Oh, well, I’ve known one of them since my last few months at university. He’s a really genuine fellow. Not at all what one might expect, actually.”
Damon forced himself not to shift uncomfortably. He’d figured that growing up with friends who’d always been so well off compared to his own family had given him an excellent opportunity to become unaffected by wealth—hell, he was seeing Alarik who had to be pretty damn rich—but this get-together was different. He didn’t have a close relationship with whomever he was about to meet and it was going to be awkward sitting on a stranger’s moneybags all night.
I swear to God, he thought, if this turns into a swinging kink fest with some rich, unknown asshole trying to suck my junk, I’m fucking walking back to Ventura. He was on high alert for a room full of too-handsome men with their legs extra crossed—a gay swinger’s club. It didn’t matter that Alarik didn’t seem the type to go for that sort of thing, because Damon’s mind had been wandering in an alternate universe lately and he didn’t want to trust anything. It was like he didn’t know how to act anymore.
“We’re almost there,” Alarik assured him.
Damon nodded like whatever and waited, trying to remember to blink and breathe. Their earlier flirtation with car sex seemed like a distant memory and he wished he wasn’t such a wide-eyed freak about this shit. So what if this was outside his usual circle of friends? Shouldn’t he want to expand his horizons?
They pulled into a manicured drive with a simple white gate. The pavement beyond curved to the right so he couldn’t see what kind of home this oil tycoon/member of the royal family/drug runner actually owned.
Alarik stared at the keypad within arms reach of his opened window, and then glanced at Damon. “What’d you reckon? I hit the ‘call’ button, or the asterisk?”
Damon looked past him and nodded. “Call. Yeah.”
Alarik pressed the key and a mysterious beeping sounded. A couple moments later a man’s voice sounded from the speaker with perfect clarity. “Yes, hello?”
“Mark! It’s Alari—”
“Hey, Alarik! Lemme buzz you in, man.” There was a short pause before the gate swung open in one wide, sweeping arc. “I’ll be right out to meet you.”
Alarik drove forward and rounded the curve in the drive until an open area for parking appeared. The house was simpler than Damon expected, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t impressive. Someone had dumped some serious coin on the place. Most of the cars parked out front probably cost more than his own house. There was a restored Chevy truck, an Audi R8 Spyder, and a black Range Rover with windows tinted so black that there could be thirty clowns packed inside and no one would know it. The only car that was Damon’s style was an old Ford POS that probably erupted into flames when someone punched the gas.
Alarik parked behind the Range Rover and cut off the engine. “You’re fretting. I feel it, and I promise you there’s no need. I think you might even enjoy yourself.”
Enjoy myself how? Shooting gay porn? Lashed up in a sex swing with a ball gag?!
He’d read books where this kind of thing went down. God, what had he gotten himself into?
Alarik lifted his hand and dropped a gentle kiss on his knuckles. “Do me a favor?”
Startled, Damon swung his head around and waited for the worst. Here it comes, he thought: Would you wear this g-string for me?
“Give us a kiss,” Alarik tugged on his hand, bringing him closer in spite of how stiff his body wanted to be.
Damon thawed a bit, unbending just enough to allow a chaste kiss that would only impress a grandmother. “I’m just curious about all this,” he apologized.
“I understand,” Alarik revealed a glimpse of his beautiful, white teeth. “Do try to keep something in the back of your mind.”
“Another favor?”
Alarik chuckled and the gentle huff of air grazed Damon’s cheek. “Think of tonight… Think of being alone with me.” He grazed his thumb over the back of Damon’s hand and squeezed. “Will you do that for me?”
Damon’s breath fled like it’d been sucked through a vacuum. He gave a stilted nod as Alarik’s golden lashes flicked over his gray eyes.
“Come. Meet my friends,” he kissed his knuckles one last time. “They’ll like you.”
Damon followed obediently, half a step behind Alarik, hoping nobody else liked him too much. Only a few moments after they rang the bell, the heavy wooden door opened and a preppy guy straight out of a Banana Republic catalog greeted them. There was something about him that was vaguely familiar.
“Mark,” Alarik said happily, giving him a quick hug. “You look well—where’s the daft bastard you married?”
“I’m right here,” a deep voice called out. “Get your filthy hands off of him.”
Damon looked over Mark’s shoulder and practically swallowed his tongue as Zane Whitlow appeared out of thin air to pull Alarik into a bone-crushing hug. They were ribbing each other and talking back and forth, but Damon only heard buzzing. The Mark guy was watching them with smiling eyes, and after a second seemed to realize Damon was turning into a statue in the entryway.
“Hey there,” a hand was thrust his direction. “I’m Mark Whitlow. How’s it goin’?”
Damon automatically shook hands and sternly told himself to get a grip, but he had a feeling his eyes were a little too wild to be convincing. “I’m Damon. Damon Wright,” he stuttered.
“Welcome to our home,” Mark said with a sympathetic expression. “Once we get these guys in the backyard, I’ll grab you a drink.”
“That’d be great.” How about six drinks?
Alarik, through some sort of deeply ingrained polite streak, noticed he’d missed offering the introduction and stepped over to Damon’s side with a guilty look. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “Gentlemen, this is Mr. Damon Wright from Ventura. He was the Best Man at Mandy and Luke’s wedding and I find him irresistible.”
Zane Whitlow—Damon was incapable of separating the man’s first and last names in his head—was smiling at him and once Alarik finished the intro, he gave a very kind, normal human hello. He was better looking in person, even though he was rocking a couple days growth of very dark facial hair.
Fortunately, the attention didn’t stay focused on the introductions too long, so he was able to sink into the background as they were led through the house to a spacious backyard. There was a customized patio that included a grill the size of his own kitchen and the patio furniture was better than what Damon had in his living room and bedroom combined. He was pretty sure that he could live a complete and happy life in their backyard.
Jenny, Zane’s friend and agent, hopped up from her chair, her chest hopping right along with her, and introduced herself. She was in her late forties, he guessed, but she was a knockout. If he were the type to go for breasts, he’d have two great reasons to bark up her tree all night long. Alarik had already met her several times before, so he immediately teased and flirted with her, charming her by slow dancing her around the patio.
Damon liked the way Alarik’s eyes lit up when he was so happy like this. He liked the way his features were so expressive. From smoldering to serious, those eyes told such a great story—one that made Damon think about things like long-term relationships and other fairy tales.
Zane had to do a side step to avoid being flattened by Jenny and Alarik, and as he hopped out of the way, Damon noticed someone else standing off to the side, waiting to be introduced.
Damn. He’d never seen anyone like this man. Ever.
He was of Asian ancestry with high chiseled cheekbones and a narrow jaw. His hair was styled back away from his face in black and brown waves, wild yet perfectly placed at the same time—like superheroes look after they land on a rooftop. It was his eyes that made Damon do a double take. Golden brown, like tea with honey, with a thick brushing of dark lashes.
Even standing beside a guy like Zane Whitlow didn’t detract from his distinct appeal. He was striking. Rare.
The man sensed the attention and his head flicked sharply toward Damon who nodded politely in greeting. If he’d expected to receive a nod in return, a handshake, or shit, even a wad of spit at his feet, he was about to be disappointed.
The stranger’s gold eyes snapped over Damon from head to toe with no other reaction than blinking and glancing away when he was finished. Damon had the feeling he’d been weighed and found wanting in no time flat. If he tried to offer a hand to the other man, he’d probably pull back a bloody stump. Valerie would get along great with the guy.
“Excellent,” Damon mumbled under his breath. “Should be a great party.”
Alarik finally released Jenny, and still laughing, he turned, coming face to face with King Golden Eyes. His smile faltered and was hastily reconstructed, but it didn’t convince anyone. Damon had only seen Alarik this unsettled after their kiss in the parking lot, and the realization didn’t sit well with him.
“Max,” Alarik breathed the name, stunned.
Damon frowned and asked himself the question that was about to be on a running loop through his head for the rest of the night: Just who the fuck is this guy??
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Max Hayama.
When Alarik first realized that he was truly seeing the man standing a meter from him, it was like recognizing the subtle shift of a dream into a nightmare. He’d become the specimen in a petri dish: Zane, Mark, Jenny, Damon, and Max were all watching him under the microscope, waiting to see how he reacted to this unexpected stimulus.
He plastered a wooden smile on his face and realized that Max was waiting for him to shake hands. His muscles fought each movement as he closed the distance, which didn’t really help ease the tension his unchecked reaction had caused.
Alarik couldn’t swallow. Mortification gripped him and he recognized the sweet lies he’d told himself about Max were flimsy and caving beneath a weight of reality. Unresolved emotions snapped awake, clawing around inside of him and doing their damnedest to leap from his throat.
You never understood what he wanted. You made the right choice and moved on. You had to.
The discomfort in knowing that everyone watching him would see his lack of control still wasn’t enough to snap him from his shock. God, he was making such a fool of himself.
As if everything weren’t painful enough, Max held onto his hand a fraction too long and spoke in fluent Finnish, asking him how he’d been and how his aunt and uncle were. Alarik automatically responded in kind, accustomed to switching back and forth between languages with his adoptive parents.
This was Max’s disarming way of reminding him that they’d shared many conversations like this, seemingly alone when surrounded by people. At the moment, it was an unwelcome prompt.
Adrift, Alarik dragged his gaze away from Max’s compelling stare, searching for Damon, only to find that his date was watching the action unfold with narrowed eyes, his focus shooting back and forth from him to Max.
The invisible chains on Alarik’s joints released and he quickly stepped to Damon’s side where he snatched his hand in a finger-squashing hold.
“I didn’t know about him,” Max admitted, still speaking in Finnish. “I wouldn’t have come had I known.”
Alarik tried not to wince because he knew Damon was reading his body language and feeling his response in their shared grip.
“Max, this is rude. I’m surprised you’re braving the attention.”
“And I’m not surprised that your words still have bite.” He smiled and his warm eyes crinkled at the edges. It made Alarik’s gut ache to see it. “Before you go tonight, please speak to me alone.”
Alarik shook his head, his lips tightening as Damon squeezed his hand again. “I can’t.”
“Please do me this favor.” Max’s voice was earnest and Alarik found himself succumbing to the tone. The man had to have something important to say if he was willing to press about it. He was strictly professional, respectful, and reserved even at his worst. Talking like this in front of others was probably a blow to his pride.
“I don’t want to hurt him,” Alarik answered, trying not to meet Max’s eyes. “I’ll talk to you, but only within his sight.”
Max gave a slight bow of his head and turned to Zane, the effect of which pulled everyone from their trance. Zane had been glued to their performance as much as anyone, and with a sudden yelp, he dashed to the grill and lifted the lid. When he wiped his brow in relief that the food had survived, Mark very politely tried to steer the conversation to neutral ground.
“What language was that?” he asked, glancing between them.
“Finnish,” Damon and Max said at the exact same time, then turned scorching stares on one another.
“Really?” Mark offered up cheerily, doing his best to pretend they were all best mates.
Max’s lips tilted in a microscopic smile. “I don’t get many opportunities to speak the language these days. My mother’s family is European; she taught English in Japan. It’s how my parents met. Learning a few other languages was inevitable.”
Mark’s face was alight with curiosity while Damon’s was hardening into stone.
“What other languages do you two know?” Jenny jumped in eagerly, not realizing that her question excluded Alarik’s date from the conversation that much longer. Mark passed out more beers and Alarik watched how Damon’s hand energetically twisted off the bottle cap like he was popping off someone’s head.
“Japanese and English are easiest for me,” Max continued modestly. “My Finnish is high-school level at best, and my German and French need a lot of work.”
Alarik shrugged when Jenny turned to him, waiting for his answer. “Just English, Finnish y un poco Español for me.” His smile was shaky, but he managed to hold onto it.
“Isn’t that because you dated a couple male models from Venezuela or something?” Mark teased.
“Colombia!” Zane called out with an awful accent. “Y España, right Alarik?”
“Sod off,” Alarik grumbled, too scared to look at Damon’s face. Things were getting worse with every second. Judging from the twinkle in Zane’s eye, his friend knew that Alarik was hoping to get somewhere with his date tonight and he couldn’t let that happen without making things awkward first. The luxury of those already in a stable relationship was to make life more difficult for those trying to get laid.
Max was aware of his discomfort and took mercy on him, walking away to speak privately with Zane while the rest of them settled around the patio. Alarik was taking some comfort from the fact that Damon’s hand firmly held his own, but until he’d completely composed himself, he wasn’t going to say too much.
Jenny asked Damon a lot of questions about himself, which ended in a long conversation between him and Mark about hiking trails, mountain climbing, and other activities allowing them to spit in the face of death.
Max was staying well out of the way, but Alarik was hyper-aware of his presence. The whole scene made him want to grab Damon and flee, but the questions he knew were cropping up would multiply rapidly if he suddenly leapt to his feet and ran off into the upscale streets of Sherman Oaks.
He’d settled into a fragile calm by the time Zane asked Mark to bring out the rest of the food and, along with Damon, offered some assistance. Max overheard and immediately turned a loaded look on Alarik, silently asking him to stay behind.
“Not now,” he mouthed the words.
The scowl he received in return told him that before the night’s end, Max would insist.
***
Damon waited until Mark and Jenny bustled out of the kitchen to do what he’d been waiting to do for an hour. When they’d first arrived at the house, he’d spotted the washroom on the first floor, and in one decisive move, he snatched the plate Alarik was carrying from his hands and let it clatter to the counter top. He grabbed hold of the other man’s upper arm and led him none too gently down the hallway, snapping the door shut behind them. In that second, it didn’t matter that t
his wasn’t his home, or even that the place belonged to the most rich and famous man he’d met.
A surprised protest cracked in Alarik’s throat as he was unceremoniously slammed against the bathroom door and Damon’s body pressed against his. Bracing both arms on either side of Alarik’s shoulders, he moved in until only a breath separated them. Gray eyes, bright with uncertainty, and maybe a little fear, met his own.
He wanted to say a lot of things, some of them brutal and demanding, like Who the fuck is that asshole? and You think I don’t see how you look at him? But, the longer he stared at Alarik, the less important it became.
Damon’s hands trailed from Alarik’s neck upward into his sun-kissed, ash blond hair. God, it was so soft. He tightened his fingers until the strands gathered and pulled taut and the other man’s head naturally tilted back. Very gently, Damon ran his tongue over Alarik’s bottom lip before catching it between his own and tasting it. Alarik responded hesitantly at first, then his breathing kicked up a notch as an aching moan escaped. His hands lifted to grip Damon’s shoulders, deepening the kiss, the pressure increasing as they clung to one another.
The sound of his seductive groan awakened the animal in Damon and somehow Alarik ended up with his feet off the ground, held tightly around the waist with one arm and beneath the ass with the other. They couldn’t get close enough and Alarik’s hands were everywhere: on Damon’s neck, face, curling through his hair and kneading the muscles of his shoulders. Their breaths were heavy as they moved against each other, banging into the towel rack and the sink as they fought to deepen the kiss. At one point Alarik nearly tore the mirror off the wall as they blindly fumbled around, intent only on the mystery of one another’s mouths.
Damon abruptly released him and pushed him back against the wall, forcing him to stay at an arm’s distance. He looked like he’d been three-quarters fucked. His lips were swollen and his cheeks were high with color. Alarik’s composure after seeing Max was questionable, and after this private game in solitude, he seemed to be surprisingly easy to lead.