Midtown Masters

by Cara McKenna

  “What’ll we do with all that stuff when we retire, anyway?”

  “Divvy it up, I guess. Take turns picking until there’s nothing left but the dregs?”

  “I want that gorgeous stainless plug,” Meyer said, setting a plate in the dish drainer.

  “So do I.” She found the bottle and refreshed John’s glass. “We’ll have to rock-paper-scissors for first go.”

  He sighed. “This could be the end of our friendship.”

  “Unlikely. It’s survived much weirder circumstances.”

  Meyer wiped the sink clean and wrung out the sponge, rinsed his hands. “All right. Let the filth commence.”

  She rolled her eyes and shut the fridge. “Classy filth, you mean.”

  “At our price point, that goes without saying.”

  “We’re not working tonight, darling husband.” She grabbed her own glass from the table.

  “No, true. This is strictly pro bono.”

  Suzy led the way to the living room and delivered John’s wine.

  “Thank you.”

  Suzy sat beside him, and Meyer scooted her old canary-yellow wing chair closer, sitting kitty-corner from them, crossing his legs. He smiled luxuriantly at John, looking like the devil. “I want to ask you, so, so, so badly. But I’ll restrain myself until you’ve finished your drink.”

  “Ask me . . . ?”

  About whether you watched the video, Suzy imagined. And what you thought of it.

  “All in good time,” Meyer said, bobbing his tea bag.

  “Meyer’s not happy unless somebody’s sweating,” she told John.

  He cleared his throat. “So I’m coming to realize.”

  “Is it just me,” Meyer asked, “or has this been the longest week in history?”

  She smiled. “Not just you.”

  “Longest and shortest both,” John said.

  Meyer sipped his tea. “Nervous?”

  John nodded. “A bit. Bear in mind, two weeks ago I hadn’t even kissed anyone in eight years. How I’ve found myself here is beyond me. Though that’s not to say I’m not pleased.”

  “Pleased but nervous,” Meyer corrected. “What about?”

  “Just . . . wherever this is going.”

  Meyer eyed John’s still fairly full glass but went ahead and asked it. “Did you watch the sample?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “And . . . It’s rather intimidating.” He looked down, to his knees or hands. “As well as unspeakably exciting.”

  Meyer smiled broadly, so wide it revealed his canines, giving him the look of a delighted wolf. “That’s good to hear.”

  John met his eyes. “I can’t hope to replicate what Suzy can do for you, and I don’t even know if I’m ready to try.”

  “But you’re here. So, what? You’re ready to try to try?”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s precisely right.” He took another taste of his wine, looking like he needed it.

  “Finish that,” Meyer said, nodding to the glass, “and I say we adjourn to Suzy’s room. We’ve got so little time together, let’s not squander it on small talk.”

  “Don’t be pushy,” Suzy warned.

  “I’m nothing if not pushy.”

  “That’s true,” John said. “And actually I rather like that about you.” And with that, he emptied the last of his wine in two long swallows.

  Suzy blinked, surprised. And relieved. Another version of John she’d yet to meet. “Well, I guess that settles that. Follow me, boys.”

  She led them down the hall to her room, pushing in the door. “Hard to compete with the Parkses’ setup. That’s why I didn’t show you the rooms back-to-back—Mrs. Parks has a decorator, and Suzy does not.”

  “No, this is much better,” John said, stepping inside and surveying the room. “The Parkses’ room feels like a hotel. A very nice one, mind you, but this is far more inviting.”

  That made Suzy take a second look at her own domain, flattered. At her battered old upcycled bureau, painted poppy red; her framed Yeah Yeah Yeahs concert posters; her Moroccan blue sheets and pillowcases and bright, patterned comforter. This room was definitely grad-student territory, but she had to admit, that bed looked like more fun than the Parkses’. Plus, she’d already set the mood, with just a single soft reading lamp glowing and a half dozen candles flickering atop her dresser.

  “Makeout central,” Meyer said, bouncing at the edge of her mattress. “When’s the last time this bed saw any action, anyway?”

  “Solo performances don’t count, right?”

  “No. And neither does me nodding off fully dressed and finding myself here at six in the morning.” Meyer did have a habit of doing that—hanging out after a camming session while Suzy got ready for bed, then passing out in a post-orgasm haze. Sometimes she’d spoon herself against his back when that happened, but that probably didn’t qualify as ‘action,’ either.

  “You two have gotten up to things,” Meyer said slyly. “Things I feel terribly left out of.”

  Where was he going with this, precisely?

  “John’s gotten to watch us together,” he went on. “And you’ve watched John and me. But I’ve never watched the two of you. Not so much as a kiss, come to think of it.”

  “Is this a request?” she asked, playing coy, unclasping her necklace.

  “It is. I’m nosy. I’d quite like to see what you two look like, together.”

  She decided to run with this, not wanting to give him a chance to say much more—some remark directed at John along the lines of, I want to see exactly what she’s taught you, or some such challenge, something that might kick John’s anxiety into gear and undermine his dick.

  “You want to be the voyeur, huh?” she asked Meyer, and kicked her flats to the floor by the door.

  He smiled at each of them in turn. “I’d prefer to be the director, but as John was always such a gentleman when he sat in that seat, I can do the same. Just show me what you two get up to when you’re all alone.”

  Suzy was game, but wouldn’t say so. She looked to John. It ought to be his call to make.

  His blue eyes jumped to Meyer. “I’ve never . . . I can’t put on a show half as compelling as yours.”

  “I’m not asking you to. I just want a peek behind the curtain. My delicate male ego was hoping that my eyes on you would be gasoline on the fire, but if you disagree, I’ll get over it.”

  Suzy watched John’s face, saw something shift. The worry creasing his brow softened and his eyes grew unfocused momentarily. He was going from worrying about his performance to imagining Meyer’s gaze on him, she bet. When he looked back to her, there was curiosity in those eyes, hesitant hunger.

  “We could mess around,” she told him. “And if it gets to a certain point where it doesn’t feel right, we could tap Meyer in, take the pressure off. How about that?” she asked Meyer.

  “Even better.”

  John nodded. “I can handle that.”

  Meyer smiled. “Then let the show begin.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  I think I can handle that, John amended to himself as he sat on Suzy’s bed. One could never guess precisely what one was signing up for with these two, but he wanted to find out far more than he wanted to run, which really was monumental progress, when he thought about it.

  “Back in a trice,” Meyer announced. He exited, turning down the hall in the direction of the Parkses’ room and leaving John and Suzy to stare questioningly at one another.

  “Just tell me he’s not going to get the camera,” John said, mustering a nervous smile.

  “He knows better than that.”

  “Phew.”

  “Whatever happens tonight, we’re recording it on good old-fashioned memory tape.”

  He smirked. “Unreliable, but discreet.�
�

  “Exactly.”

  Meyer reappeared, lugging something large but blessedly innocuous—a chair. The same wooden chair that sat before the Parkses’ computer desk. John swallowed, imagining all the things that chair had borne witness to. Things so beyond his ability to deliver.

  That doesn’t matter. He only wants to see us. But could John perform with an audience? Dear God, why had he agreed to this?

  Meyer set the chair a few feet from the foot of the bed. He arranged it so he could sit straddling its back, arms crossed along the top. He smiled expectantly, making John feel at once hot as sin and clammy as . . . as . . . shit, something supremely clammy. Even similes were beyond him just now.

  If this was going to work, John knew he’d need to pretend Meyer wasn’t here. At least to start. He turned his attention to Suzy, finding her smiling as well, looking mischievous, maybe a touch shy, even.

  It’s just us two. Just like that first night, like that morning after. Only now I’m here in her room. On her bed, in her sheets.

  And there they were, those dark eyes on him. Now her hands. They made slow and careful work of each other’s clothes, kissing as they went. John felt those nerves transforming, from a jangle to a low, hot hum. He felt his cock responding, even as Suzy stripped him bare. He thought he could sense another man’s eyes on his body.

  He liked it.

  “What do you need, to start?” John asked her.

  “Not much. Your fingers, just for a minute.”

  “Sure.” He found her wet.

  When the time came, Suzy rolled the condom on.

  John was on top once more, and there was no awkward angling this time. No hesitation aside from a meeting of their eyes, then she was guiding him with her hand, welcoming him deep. Pleasure echoed through him, hot and dizzying.

  John would’ve guessed he’d need to banish Meyer from his awareness in order to make this happen, but something curious happened. As they found their pace, consciousness fell aside. He got lost in Suzy’s heat, in the strokes of her hands and the sounds she made, the quiet words they traded, the motions of her eager hips. There was no worry about losing his erection, or even about his performance. This wasn’t a performance. It was just him and Suzy.

  Me and Suzy and Meyer. When the thought broke through, he welcomed it. Maybe he couldn’t teach the man anything, but he could show him what the two of them had turned him into. A man who could do these things. A lover.

  “I’m close,” Suzy said in time, and he felt her fingers rushing between them.

  “What can I give you?”

  “A little faster.”

  He offered that, and his own excitement mounted as he watched her face. Her gaze was pinned between them, hand working furiously.

  “Let me hear you,” she whispered.

  Nerves tried to clam him up, but John ignored it. He moaned for her—for both of them—soft, low tones from deep in his chest, sounding in time with their writhing bodies. He let her hear exactly what this sex made him feel, and she rewarded him with so much more. With the squeeze of her legs and a bite of fingernails, a sweet cry as she came undone beneath him. He kept working until she grew still, breathing heavily, rubbing his shoulders with idle distraction. He leaned down and kissed her forehead. Perhaps not the show Meyer craved, but John couldn’t help himself. What he felt for her would never resemble pornography.

  There was no question if it was John’s turn. Not yet. Not if he wanted to see the deeper invitation of this evening through, and he did.

  He secured the condom and slid out. Absurd as it was at this point, modesty had him gathering the sheets into his lap as he moved to lie at Suzy’s side.

  With a luxuriant mmm, she nipped at his chin, kissed him there, sighed her approval.

  “I don’t know about you two,” Meyer said, standing, “but I feel terribly overdressed.” He tugged his sweater up and over his head. Undid his belt, pushed his slacks to the floor. He stepped out of those and his socks, stripped away his undershirt so he wore nothing but his shorts. He moved to the bed, lounging casually at its edge, propped on an arm, one leg tucked under his butt.

  “I didn’t hear any shouts for an encore,” Suzy said, pouting. Easy for her to tease, John thought. She’d come. He was still half-hard behind the sheet wadded in his lap. He could barely think straight, to say nothing of cracking jokes.

  “It was a command performance,” Meyer told her. “Sheer perfection. But the thing is, I discovered while watching you that I actually prefer being on the stage myself.” He patted the covers. “In fact I thought I was going to climb out of my own skin, waiting for my chance to join the fun. That’s all right, isn’t it?” he asked, turning to John. “That I join in?”

  John nodded. The ache between his legs was probably half the doing of Meyer’s eyes, after all, and a dizzying combination of wine and lust had left him bold. “I’d like that.”

  A slow smile, a long pause. “You like men.”

  “You know I do.” You just want to hear me say it. How strangely thrilling, to be confronted by someone this way. He felt heat chasing up his chest and neck to settle in his face.

  “Tell me about it,” Meyer said. “How does it manifest itself?”

  He gave that some thought. “I suppose it happens half as often as I find myself attracted to women, perhaps a little less. But in much the same ways.”

  “What ways are those?” Meyer asked. He moved closer, settling between them, his gaze moving from John’s eyes to his mouth, then to his neck, where his fingers alighted, stroking softly, up and down his jugular. John swallowed, face flushing anew even as his cock grew heavy and warm between his legs.

  “Crushes,” he managed to say. “Little more. It starts as admiration, or perhaps even envy in the case of men, and sometimes it . . . ripens. To desire. Very simple desires. To kiss someone. Touch them.”

  “Touch them how?”

  He hesitated, unsure what to say. He was face-to-face with the man who most embodied sex and masculinity to him.

  When the pause had lengthened to silence, Meyer said, “Never mind. Don’t tell me. Show me.”

  John hesitated only as long as it took to draw and release a breath, then did as he was told. Did as he desired.

  He cupped Meyer’s jaw. Like his own, it was rough—the both of them shaved daily, but compared to Suzy’s smooth skin it was sandpaper. It didn’t put John off, though. Quite the opposite. The way his palm dragged across Meyer’s cheek zapped him straight down the middle, settling deep in his belly, restless and . . . rowdy. He eyed Meyer’s mouth and felt his own drawing close. Their lips could only be three, four inches apart, eyes close enough for John to see where the blue of Meyer’s outer iris met the amber that ringed his pupil.

  “I won’t tell you to.” Meyer’s voice was as low and soft as John had ever known it. So near he could hear his tongue shaping each word.

  “I wish you would,” he whispered back.

  And for the thinnest of split seconds, the most brazen man in the world looked upended.

  Meyer replied not with words, but with his mouth. He brought it to John’s, the meeting slow, smooth, light—just a brush of warm lips.

  Emboldened by everything that had already happened on this bed, John took it further. A little deeper, a little dirtier. Exactly as Suzy had taught him, though he reveled in how different this felt. It seemed right if it got a little sloppy, a little overeager. It was hard for it not to feel aggressive, the way their stubbled jaws rasped, and with Meyer’s fingers clutching his hair.

  They found their way onto their sides, knees touching if not yet locking. Meyer held John’s head and kissed him deep, obscenely so. The sheets were a tangle between their hips and John felt his cock growing angry, trapped, and frustrated. His hands were hungry now, taking liberties. He slid his palm down Meyer’s arm, then his front, feeling t
he muscles he’d watched all those nights, the ones that clenched and shone with sweat when he took John’s written orders.

  Not tonight. Tonight, Meyer was in charge.

  He spoke amid the melee of their mouths. “You’re different this time.”

  “I know. I like it.”

  “So do I.”

  They kissed for who could say how long—a minute? An hour? John felt Suzy behind him. She was sitting up, one thigh warm against his back and her nails drawing soft lines through his hair, giving him the most exquisite chills. He wondered what she thought of her view, watching two men kissing on her bed. He wondered if she’d ever think of this while she touched herself, and all the excitement pulsing through him caught fire, arousal throbbing in every nerve, every cell.

  “Talk to me, John. I do so love your voice,” Meyer spoke.

  No hesitation met that order, only blind obedience. John opened his mouth and let the truth rush out.

  “As much as I’ve imagined it was me, with Mrs. . . . with Suzy,” he fumbled, hot and bothered and famished beyond reason, “I’ve imagined the opposite. Your hands on me, the way I’ve seen them on her. Your hands, your mouth . . .”

  “My cock,” Meyer supplied, the word landing like a slap—sharp for a second, but chased by a rush of heat.

  “Sometimes.”

  “How?”

  Christ, his face was aflame now, surely. “When she touches you, sometimes I wonder what it feels like. What you feel like.”

  “Find out.”

  John stroked his palm along Meyer’s side, their skin already damp and hot, the contact dragging. His body was lean and taut, not bulky, but intensely masculine. Suzy, while petite and slim, was soft in her hips and backside and breasts, her belly. Meyer was hard, all but fatless, yet it excited John just as Suzy’s feminine feel had done.

  Is he hard elsewhere? Was their kissing enough? Christ, he hoped so. To imagine he excited Meyer even half as much as Meyer excited him . . .

  He was kneading the shape of Meyer’s hip, firm muscle and restless bone behind soft cotton. His thumb ventured a little farther, tracing the seam where his thigh and trunk met.