by Jayne Rylon
I tap my fingers on the leather steering wheel as I glide down the highway at a speed precisely one mile below the limit. Careful, cautious, calculated. That’s how I usually am. This impulsive and nontraditional gift might be part of my growing unease. Or maybe Kaden Finch himself is spurring my reservations. Aren’t artists supposed to be the sophisticated, enlightened ones among us?
If he hadn’t come so highly recommended I’d have turned around and taken my commission right back out the door with me when he judged me on first sight, as so many other people do. If all he can see is what’s on the surface, I’m not sure Ronaldo is going to get my message or that my ultimate act of submission—making myself an object for him to own—will shine through the final artwork.
It was either Finch’s reputation or his impish charm that had me glued to his weathered plank floor, taking his unintentional abuse and sort of liking it.
How fucked up does that make me?
Oh, come on. Be honest. It was the tattoos clinging to his defined bare chest that had me reluctant to storm out of the place. Not to mention the fact that he, like me, seemed to be something other than he first appeared. Something opposite from what stereotypes might suggest. I know well that assessing scan he raked over me.
Despite his boyish looks and compact stature, that man is nobody’s twink. I bet he gets even more riled than I do when someone is foolish enough to make that mistake.
Kaden’s hair rebelled against gravity in a spiky disarray and his scruff was somewhere between forgot-to-shave-this-morning and an ungroomed goatee. The mussed look enhanced his creative ambiance, whereas in my corporate existence it would somehow signal a lack of responsibility or authority.
Funny, since it’s clear by the way he eye-stalked me—especially after realizing that I’m entirely different in the bedroom than the man I am in the boardroom—that he’s a full-on predator.
If I didn’t have a man who filled that role in my life already, I might have led Kaden on a wild chase just so I could feel him catch me, take me down, and make me enjoy falling beneath him.
I shiver. Hopefully this session wraps up sooner than I anticipate so I can rush home to Ronaldo. I have a feeling that I’m going to need some relief afterward.
Only because of how Ronaldo will react to my present, I try to convince myself.
Only that.
Right about then, I pull to the curb outside of Kaden’s studio. Despite arriving twenty minutes early, he’s waiting. Punctuality is another thing I wouldn’t have expected from him. Could he be as excited as I am to work together today?
Leaning up against the roughhewn stone façade, his arms are crossed. One booted foot is planted on the rock behind him. For the first time, I really consider what it will be like to be naked in front of the appraising stare he levels through the windshield of my car.
I swallow hard.
Out of habit, I leave the car running when I climb out, round the hood, and open the door to usher Kaden inside. “Let me put your supplies in the trunk for you.”
I try not to blush when he nods approvingly before sliding into the passenger seat where he looks entirely out of place. Instead of studying the contrast between his stained knuckles and the sleek zebrawood veneer of my door handle, I hustle to pack his easel, canvas, a backpack, and two toolboxes full of paints and brushes into the car.
When I return to the driver’s seat, I have an instinctive desire to ask if he wants to take the wheel, but even I know that’s not appropriate with someone I’ve barely met. Hell, he doesn’t own a car and may not even drive. It’s just that he has a way of looking at me that makes me want to yield.
Kaden grins and toys with some of the knobs on the dash without asking, setting things as he likes while I return us to the flow of traffic and head out of town. “Maybe someday I’ll trade in my bike for something half as fancy as this.”
“You ride motorcycles?” Could the man get any sexier, really?
“Nah, I mean my bicycle. Us hipsters downtown prefer to travel Mary Poppins style. Don’t worry, there are no streamers in my handlebars. I’m not that gay.” He offers me a lopsided grin that makes me fairly sure he doesn’t hate me for ruining the planet with my fossil-fuel-guzzling vehicle. It also makes me imagine how simultaneously cute and cool he must look pedaling down the street on a vintage bike. He keeps me on edge. Most people don’t. I can’t quite figure him out. I guess it’s the weird balance between authority and humble self-denigration he manages to strike.
Not that it matters much what he thinks. Except it keeps me from feeling too guilty to enjoy one of my favorite indulgences. I rev the engine and draw a chuckle from him as he’s flattened against the Italian leather.
Kaden practically purrs as he settles in, the seat hugging his frame as we slither around tight curves in the road that leads into the countryside and toward the shore. To my beach house.
“So where exactly are you taking me?” he asks.
“Seaside.”
“Nice neighborhood. Or so I hear. Never been myself.” He picks at the threads on the tattered knee of his jeans. “I’m more of a Jefferson Boardwalk kind of guy.”
“Hey, nothing wrong with that. I can demolish a corndog in three seconds flat and the people-watching isn’t bad either.” I think back to the times I spent there in my younger days before I built my empire from scratch. Too bad Ronaldo wouldn’t be into it or I’d ask for a date night. Holding hands, playing the rigged games, being blasted by cheesy music while eating greasy food…nope, not his thing in the slightest.
“If you mean that spot where the bodybuilders show off for the crowds in the open-air gym...” Kaden hums appreciatively. “A definite sightseeing destination.”
I hadn’t, but now that he mentioned it… “Yeah, there’s always great scenery there, too.”
He laughs then turns serious again as he stares out at the growing expanse of sea grass and dunes. “Nothing like this, though. This is true beauty. Makes me think about trying a landscape instead of portraits all the time.”
“I love sitting on the porch, watching the waves and listening to the birds circling above the shore.” It’s one of the few things that helps me relax after intense negotiations. Besides sex, of course. Giving up control, even for a moment, is such a relief.”
“I can see how a guy like you would need a place to unwind.” He shoots me a glance that makes me sure he knows exactly what it takes to settle me down. Not in a weird way either. More like a basic understanding…a camaraderie.
The best tops are guys who’ve visited the flip side, who understand how difficult it is and how it affects their partners. Maybe I wasn’t wrong about Kaden as I thought. He gets me on a level that’s hard to explain. Slightly unnerving because there’s nowhere to hide, but also comforting because I don’t need to.
I’m used to making small talk with business associates, constantly trying to recall their interests, the names of the people close to them or finding out about causes they’re committed to furthering. It’s a habit. A skill I’ve honed over the years.
With Kaden, conversation is effortless. Natural. It seems that without trying, we keep gravitating toward topics beyond meaningless bullshit. He lures me in by opening up first, explaining how he fell in love with art as a way to overcome his shyness and study men as intensely as he liked without making himself a target for ignorance or hatred. I find myself rewarding his trust by sharing how I founded Clearwater Industries with an inheritance to gain a sense of security after the death of my parents at an early age. Stuff I don’t normally disclose to near strangers.
Before long, I’ve forgotten about my nerves or self-doubts. I roll up my sleeves and crack the sunroof to let in a few rays of sunshine. A breeze strikes my face with a briskness that brings me fully awake for the first time in a while.
I grin over at Kaden and catch him staring. “What?”
“I’m starting to understand some boys’ fascination with four-wheeled toys.”
&nb
sp; I can’t help but press the accelerator to treat him to a wilder ride.
By the time we approach the gated lane leading to my favorite beachfront property, we’re both flushed. It feels traitorous to admit that even a sliver of my elevated heart rate might be caused by something other than our trip out here.
Hey, I’m only human. Even Ronaldo would have to admit Kaden is something special, appreciate him like a fine wine. I’ll never act on the attraction zinging between us. Loyalty is something I prize above executive power or crushing my competition in the stock markets. Somehow I get the feeling Kaden agrees.
It’s one of the reasons I’m comfortable enough with him to go ahead with this plan.
Besides, this entire outing is about showing Ronaldo how much he means to me. Why can’t it be as simple to communicate with him as it has been with Kaden so far this morning?
It’s been so long since I experienced such an easy familiarity that I forgot what it can be like to simply be without considering every possible ramification of my words or actions. How they might be taken out of context or used against me in an argument. Then again, this could be part of what makes Kaden’s artwork shine. Maybe he’s loosening me up to eliminate any potential barriers during our session, like some kind of artistic foreplay.
If so, it’s working.
Wanting for some foolish reason to impress the man, I don’t pull around back to the private parking area and garage. Instead, I cut the engine in the round drive that encircles a marble fountain and formal landscaping out front. Garish for my tastes. Ronaldo insisted on the improvements. Kaden’s thinly veiled awe makes me think they might not be so bad after all.
Plus, it will be easier to carry his supplies through the front door since it’s closer to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the sunny beach, which should provide excellent lighting for his work.
Suddenly, I realize I’m not only going to be naked while he stares at me. I’m going to be staring at him staring at me, with nothing to occupy me other than reading every detail of his expression. Will he like what he sees? It’s not that I’m modest. In fact, I sort of get off on displaying the result of the time I’ve spent sweating my balls off in my home gym. That’s sort of the issue.
A stirring in my groin makes me think I’d better keep the air conditioning on full blast and mentally review the facts and figures of my upcoming business deals to keep anything unwanted from springing up. Or is a raging hard-on something that should be captured in my painting for Ronaldo?
That could make this afternoon a hell of a lot more interesting, awkward, painful…
All of the above.
Am I supposed to be like those serious complications listed in Viagra commercials? Maintaining a four-hour erection sounded like a good way to end up in the hospital or die from unspent desire. Or it could make for an amazing night if I rush home afterward so Ronaldo can take care of me properly.
Now that doesn’t sound half bad.
Kaden looks up at me and catches the wicked tilt of my lips. He snorts as he gestures to the trunk. “I don’t want to know what you’re thinking about, but remember that expression for when I’m sketching. Let me get my stuff and then I want to see that face again. It’ll be perfect for your guy’s portrait. I hope he knows how good he’s got it with you.”
It’s been a while since someone complimented me outright. I’m not embarrassed to admit it only increases the electricity humming through me. Sometimes it’s hard to say if people gravitate toward me because they genuinely want a relationship—a friendship, partnership, whatever—or if it’s my money and what it can buy that motivates their kindness.
With Kaden it’s easy to tell.
He’s not asking for anything. I discovered him, hired him, and I’m finding that I genuinely like the guy. I’ll have to send lots of business his way. Or maybe our entertainment division should follow up with him about doing a documentary on his work. He has star quality that could make us both a ton of cash.
“If you take the canvas, I’ll get the rest,” I offer. Though I have the urge to handle it all for him, I’d rather not risk messing up the painting. His other supplies are far heavier anyway. If I can make his burden lighter, I want to. Not because of the magnetism I’m doing my best to ignore between us. It’s just who I am. Doing things for him or other people I respect makes me happy. What’s wrong with that?
I set a couple things down to key in the entry code, then use my chin to gesture toward the living room. When I catch up, I’m shocked to find that a man who idolizes natural beauty isn’t riveted by the multi-million dollar view of the ocean, which never fails to capture my attention.
Instead, he’s watching me and has totally busted me reacting to the scenery.
Like every time I glimpse the sea, peace washes over me. If I smile any wider, I’m likely to rip open the face Kaden seems eager to immortalize.
He teases me. “You’re that excited about getting naked for me?”
“You wish.”
He turns away. Either my imagination is playing tricks on me or he murmurs, “Damn straight, I do.”
Then louder, so that I can’t mistake it, he says, “It’s time. Let’s do this.”
Like a good boy, I peel off my shirt and toss it into the corner.
4
Rogan
It’s oddly intimate sitting in silence, posed exactly as Kaden molded me. He stalks in an arc around me, judging me from every perspective then tweaking my position until he’s satisfied with what he sees.
His assessing stare lasers over me. He hums low in his throat then strides to his supplies.
Professional, yes. Impersonal…not quite.
I’m laid out on my back on a low, tufted leather bench. The outside edge of my left foot rests on the floor while my right foot is propped on the seat, causing my knee to bend. One arm is raised, folded sharply behind my head, flexing the muscles there as well as highlighting the definition along my ribs. My head is pillowed on that palm while the heel of the other is situated low on my abdomen.
This perpetual quasi-crunch is pretty damn flattering even to my untrained eye. Comfortable, well, that’s another matter. My fingers detect the beginnings of a quiver where they splay low across my pelvis, nearly brushing the base of my dick. The stiffness and discomfort I’m sure to feel tomorrow will be worth it to look my best for Ronaldo, make him proud to call me his.
The look comes off casually sensual, though each minute detail—down to the angle my jaw is tilted—is deliberate. Calculated to appeal.
I’m staring directly at Kaden now, unable to look away even if I wanted to. Every bit of me is exposed, including my semi, which has naturally flopped onto my thigh in plain view.
“Feel free to add a couple of inches,” I joke as I glance at my cock then back toward him in an effort to cut the tension. No sense in trying to pretend it’s not on prominent display. The centerpiece of an erotic arrangement he’s fashioned out of my body with a firm and unapologetic grip on each of my various parts.
He waves me off. “Anyone who looks at this painting is going to assume I already did.”
“Fortunately, Ronaldo knows it’s not false advertising. Nobody but him—and you, I suppose—are going to see it until I’m dead.” The contract he sent to my assistant earlier in the week gave us the right to keep the portrait in a private collection for the rest of our lives. After that, our estate would bequeath it to a museum Kaden had named as the intended recipient of his oeuvre.
I’d checked out the place online and had been impressed by the institute’s commitment to protecting and displaying art by LGBT creators. In fact, I started the process of becoming a benefactor after researching their conservation efforts, their current collection, and outreach programs funded by grants they issue. I’m happy to contribute both now, and later, to their cause. Kaden’s life’s work deserves to be enshrined in a magnificent hall for everyone to enjoy.
As soon as my privacy is no longer a factor, an
yway.
“You could be the world’s next David.” He eyes the blank canvas as if he can already envision the finished piece. “I have a feeling this is going to be one of my best yet.”
With that, he gets serious about his work. Instead of crossing to the pad of paper and the satchel full of colored pencils for the layout-blocking sketch he told me he’d do first, he reaches into a padded black backpack and withdraws a fancy camera from within.
“Wait. You’re going to take pictures of me like this?” I shrink from the lens aimed in my direction without ruining Kaden’s handiwork. I’m not sure I could stand another round of his unintentional caresses without embarrassing myself.
“Yup.” He nods as he fiddles with some dials then peeks at the preview screen on the back. “They’re insurance. I always hope I don’t have to, but I could work from them alone if you get called away to take over the corporate world or something.”
I bark out a laugh then freeze when I see him double-checking to make sure I didn’t shift too much. There’s an ingrained part of me that doesn’t like to disappoint a handsome man who has given me orders.
“I’ll also use them to reset your pose when you need a break. It’s going to take me at least twenty minutes of drawing before I’m ready to paint. After that, we’ll go as long as you can stand it today. A couple hours of me torturing you, maybe?”
In my mind, I treat it as a game. I’ll stay still as a statue for him. Beat the record set by any of his other clients. I’m kind of fucked up, I know. But I can’t help it. It’s just how I am. Competitive. Especially against myself. The fact that my body already feels the strain of this unnatural pose means it won’t be easy. Even better.
Kaden is still talking, although he’s already pretty much convinced me to be his subject. The subject of his photographs, I mean. I scrunch my eyes and imagine the expression on Ronaldo’s face as he unveils my gift to ground myself, before focusing on what Kaden’s saying again. “Once I’m back in my studio, putting on the finishing touches, these will give me a good reference for the lighting, too. Is that a problem? They’re no more revealing than the portrait will be.”