Hidden Paradise

by Janet Mullany

He cleared his throat. “Anything interesting?”

  An annoyed sort of hiss from Chris and an envelope landed on his desk. “I thought you’d set this up as an ebill.”

  “I did. They said it might take several billing cycles.”

  “Another Christmas job application.” Paper rustled. “A student who wants to work in the kitchen. I’ll pass this on unless you’d like to take a look?”

  “No, it’s okay.” He placed the bill in his in-box, something he knew irritated the heck out of Chris. If it’s something to do now, why not just do it?

  Chris didn’t say a word.

  He’d had enough. This was childish and painful and his fault. All of it. He had to make the first move toward reconciliation.

  “Chris, I’m so sorry. I can’t bear this silence. Can you forgive me for hurting you?”

  Chris, halfway back to his own desk, stopped. “I don’t know.”

  Chris’s response catapulted him from anger into fear. “What do you mean, you don’t know? What do I have to do to convince you how very sorry I am?”

  “I don’t know if you can. The damage is done.” He sat down and became immersed in whatever was on his computer screen.

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Peter stood and thumped his fist on Chris’s desk. “Talk to me. Stop—stop fucking sulking!”

  “Sulking?” He had Chris’s attention now. His face was bright pink.

  “Yes, sulking. Try to behave like an adult about this. Let’s talk.”

  “Okay.” Chris fumbled at papers on his desk, breaking eye contact with him.

  Peter dropped back down into his chair. “Chris, honey?”

  Chris dropped his forehead to his hand, elbow on the desk. His shoulders quivered. “I—I always knew this would happen.”

  “What?” Peter said, thoroughly confused now. “Honey, don’t cry, please.”

  Chris blew his nose and met his gaze. His blue eyes swam with unshed tears. “I knew you were attracted to me because I was young and pretty. Don’t deny it. I know it makes us both sound shallow, but I hoped—I knew—we had something more than that. It’s been ten years and I’m not the pretty boy you first met.”

  Peter nodded, not in agreement, because he was appalled and hurt at what Chris said, but to keep him talking, even though he probably wouldn’t want to hear more.

  “So I expected it to happen. That you’d pursue another young Adonis. And it has.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Peter said. “I don’t know what I can say. I have never expected you to remain a pretty boy. I’ve loved watching you become your own person—you really were a dreadful, superficial little tart when we first met. I love you for who and what you are. I love watching you flirt with other guys in front of me. I love your energy, your spirit, your enthusiasm and creativity. That’s nothing to do with age. You’ll always have that.” He shrugged. “Look at us. I’m getting grayer and having to watch my carbs. Aging is no fun.”

  “I’m losing my hair,” Chris said in a burst of tearful shame. He pushed his hair back to reveal a minimal amount of exposed temples.

  “Honey, it barely shows. And? So what if you are. You can shave it. You’ll look really hot. You’ll always look really hot to me.” He reached for Chris’s hand. “You know I’ve always been afraid you’ll leave me for someone more sexy, less staid. Someone more like you. And this thing with Rob. I’m so sorry. I should have just kept my mouth shut. There hasn’t been anything between us.”

  “What difference does that make?” Chris said.

  “Not much,” Peter said. “I know I don’t have the right to ask you for forgiveness, only for patience and time. I try to think of it as some sort of emotional virus. He’s straight, he’s a fantasy, and one day I’ll realize I’m not infatuated with him anymore. That’s all. I still love you. You’re still part of me, the best part of me, my soul mate.”

  Chris gave a small smile and squeezed Peter’s hand. “I love it when you go all spiritual on me.”

  “Good.” He leaned over the desk and kissed Chris, a small, tentative kiss on the mouth. He hesitated.

  Chris looked at him, knowing, ironic. “I have a feeling you want to go all physical on me, too.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. I—I’ve missed you in bed. I miss not being able to have sex anywhere, anytime.”

  Chris smiled. “Yeah, remember when the Paint Boys walked in on us?”

  “And Simon said the only substances he allowed to be spilled on his drop cloth were ones he created?”

  They both laughed, a little tentative and shy with each other. Peter leaned to kiss him again, welcoming the flick of his tongue and warmth of his mouth. He came round to Chris’s side of the desk and stood looking down at him.

  “Well, well,” Chris said, and stroked a hand down the front of Peter’s breeches.

  Peter took the hand and kissed it. “Let me,” he said, and dropped to his knees. “Let me do it to you.”

  He eased open the brass buttons of the fall of Chris’s trousers, hearing a moan—his own—as the full beauty of his lover’s erect cock sprang forth. A drop of liquid welled already at the slit within the broad, velvety head. He knew he could make Chris come quickly but he wanted to draw out the pleasure, to give as much as he could.

  Chris sighed as Peter drew his tongue down, around, nibbling at the shaft. “Hey, big man,” Chris whispered. “Want me to do you, too?”

  “No. This is all for you. Lie back, enjoy.”

  Chris’s hands caressed his head. “Oh, baby, I’ve missed you. Missed this. Missed your mouth, your cock, your ass.” His hips lifted, pushing his cock deep into Peter’s mouth. “You’re teasing me. You’re going to make me wait.”

  “I’ve missed you, too,” Peter said. “I love you. I love doing this to you.”

  He sucked and nibbled and stroked, engulfing Chris’s cock completely and then withdrawing to draw his tongue down ridges, around the softness of his balls, with a kiss to the tender skin on the inside of his thighs. Chris moaned and panted, murmuring encouragement and endearments.

  Peter buried his nose in the soft nest of Chris’s pubic hair, his lover’s cock deep in his mouth, swelling and tensing. He marveled at this man’s scent, his touch, his helpless groan, the clutch of his hands as Chris gasped, incoherent and lost, and flooded his mouth with his semen.

  “Nice one,” Chris said, his eyes narrowed in pleasure, sprawled and relaxed in his chair. He leaned to kiss Peter’s mouth, lapping at a drop of semen that lay warm on his lip. “Now, how about you? Undo your trousers, lover.”

  Still kneeling at Chris’s feet, Peter unbuttoned his trousers with trembling fingers.

  “You’re mine,” Chris said. He dipped a finger into the semen that oozed still from his cock and held it to Peter’s mouth. “Mine. No one else’s. Stroke yourself. Make it good. Make it slow.”

  Peter gazed into Chris’s eyes and stroked himself, thrilled at having to obey. Chris sprawled, arrogant and beautiful in his chair, and watched, now and again dropping his hand to pinch and stroke his own awakening cock. “You’d better not come over my trousers, lover. Viv’ll be mad at me and I’ll make you explain what the stains are. But I want to see come fly out of you. So just you be careful, okay?”

  “Yes, Chris.” He kept a steady, even stroke, feeling the tension build in his thighs and balls.

  “Stop,” Chris said. “Stand up.” He guided Peter into his mouth, sucked hard and swirled his tongue around the shaft.


  Chris released him, lips wet and shiny. “Okay. Finish yourself off.”

  Peter stood before him, hand pumping hard, hard, and came over Chris’s shirt with a helpless whimper.

  “What a mess,” he said, embarrassed by his copious ejaculation.

  “What else is all this linen for?” Chris said, mopping up. “I’d better go and change my shirt.”

  “Mmm.” Peter slid his hands inside Chris’s shirt, loving the smooth planes of his chest, the hard nipples. “Thank you, honey.”

  “Okay, fun and games are over,” Chris said. To Peter’s disappointment, he tucked his cock away and buttoned up, smoothing his trousers with a flirtatious sideways glance. “Saving it for you for later. And you save it for me, okay? Even if we’re half-dead with exhaustion, you know a quickie will help us relax.”

  “I love you,” Peter said. “I can’t wait to have you in bed again. I’ve missed you, missed cuddling.”

  They kissed, a hard quick embrace before getting on with the day’s business, and it was only later that Peter realized Chris had not said he loved him back.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Mac

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, drawing the bathrobe more firmly around himself at the sight of Sarah in the doorway. Behind her a blonde, horsey Valkyrie grinned at him. “Uh, hi, Annabelle. What are you—”

  “Surprise, surprise.” Sarah flung off her bathrobe and Mac’s jaw dropped. Her body was tight and slender with high, round breasts—his hands curled in anticipation of cupping them—long, slender legs, a manicured strip of pubic hair. Annabelle giggled and untied the sash of her bathrobe, letting it slide from her shoulders.

  Oh, God.

  “You know, I was really hoping for a massage,” he said. “My back’s pretty stiff and…”

  “Just your back?” Sarah purred. “Oh, poor baby. Don’t worry, we’ll give you a happy ending, won’t we, Annabelle? You won’t feel any pain at all.”

  “I can’t fuck a married woman,” Mac said, rearranging his bathrobe so that his erection didn’t show.

  “I’m not married,” Annabelle said. She raised her hand to the back of her head and shook out her hair from its usual ponytail. Honey-blond hair cascaded onto her shoulders.

  “Yes, but…” He ran out of words as Annabelle and Sarah twisted in a sinuous embrace together, kissing deeply. This was really happening at the wrong time, in the wrong place and with the wrong woman. Women. He should leave.

  “Nice to see you, girls,” he said, wondering where his clothes had gone. “And, uh, thanks for the show.”

  He slipped from the table and edged toward the door. He couldn’t help it. He looked back and saw Sarah drop her head to suck one of Annabelle’s generous breasts.

  “Shit.”

  “That’s not very nice, Mac,” Annabelle said in the sort of voice she used when she was bullying him during a riding lesson.

  “Nothing personal.” He took a step away, but somehow his motor skills were confused and he moved in the wrong direction.

  “Doesn’t Annabelle have lovely breasts?” Sarah said.

  He made a strangled noise in his throat and before he knew it he’d taken yet another step toward them both.

  They both giggled and stared at the disturbance beneath his bathrobe.

  “I told you he had a big one,” Annabelle said, elbowing Sarah.

  “Why are you doing this?” Mac asked.

  “It’s for your birthday,” Annabelle said.

  “My birthday’s in October.”

  “My bad. Wrong date.” Sarah cupped her own breasts and that was the end of Mac’s good intentions.

  His bathrobe dropped to the ground and the red silk couch creaked as they descended on it, Sarah in his lap, Annabelle kneeling at his feet, her busy tongue lapping like a cat’s between Sarah’s thighs. His cock pressed up against Sarah’s back, her breasts in his hands.

  “Stop,” he said. “Kiss each other.” He dropped his hand to Sarah’s little tuft of pubic hair and explored her slick wet folds while she gasped and moaned and fondled Annabelle’s breasts.

  A loud splintering sound followed by the tearing of fabric came from the couch and it canted slightly to one side, depositing them onto the pile of discarded bathrobes. A stack of condoms fell clear from the robes and Mac grabbed Annabelle’s round ass, hauling her to her knees and positioning her the way he wanted.

  “Eat her,” he said as he rolled a condom on. He watched Annabelle licking at Sarah’s pink exposed pussy as he entered her from behind, and for all it was clumsy and ludicrous and though he had only two hands with which to keep his balance and get as many handfuls of breasts (four!) and butt as he could, it was amazing. Just amazing.

  “I hope I remember this when I’m ninety,” he said. They stopped their licking and gasping and moaning and stared at him. “Never mind, keep licking her. Oh, yeah.”

  So much to do and watch and stroke and fuck, all this generous female flesh and seemingly endless appetite; the joy of discovering new ways, new angles and positions to pleasure and be pleasured; the glorious slippery mindlessness and freefall into orgasm. And coming back to himself, finally, tangled together with the other two, he heard above the thunder of his heartbeat, the click of the door closing.

  “Could you handle another one, Mac?” Annabelle, her face rosy and sticky, grinned at him. “Don’t think so.” She squeezed his cock. “Good thing she went away.”

  “Try some oil,” Sarah said. She’d done some miraculous things, miraculous in a very dirty sense, with massage oil and his ass, earlier. She waggled a finger at him.

  “Why don’t you two carry on,” Mac said. “Give me a moment.”

  He sprawled on the nest of bathrobes, towels and pillows on the floor and watched with the lazy appreciation of a sexual gourmet as Sarah and Annabelle tangled on the massage table, stroking, licking, sucking. It was a beautiful sight. As for him, he was exhausted, sated, played out, screwed out, fucked out, spent. Perhaps he’d never get another erection in his life, but at the moment he didn’t care. Much.

  But there was one thing he had to know, now that he was regaining some sanity.

  “Sarah, Annabelle?”

  They looked at him with annoyance, a useless male appendage. “What?” Sarah said.

  “Why?” he asked simply.

  “I fancy you something rotten,” Annabelle said, smirking.

  “And I’ve done everyone else,” Sarah said with a shrug.

  Their answers left him confused and dissatisfied. It wasn’t enough. But he’d fucked women for the same reasons, so why did he feel cheated at being the mark, the target? He contemplated Sarah and Annabelle, shiny with sweat and massage oil, moving softly and rhythmically together. They’d abandoned performing for him. Now they seemed intent only on each other, and he felt a brief stab of envy for women’s ability to have orgasm after orgasm. In fact, he was redundant at this point, too depleted to join them on the table—besides which their combined weight had already wrecked one piece of furniture—and suspecting that they’d push him away. He wasn’t sure he wanted to join them, anyway.

  He stood, wincing, and for one moment regretted he hadn’t had a massage where he’d needed it. On weak legs, he made his way to the bathroom, where his clothes lay in a heap on the floor, and dressed.

  On his way out, he took a last look at Sarah and Annabelle, who didn’t even look up as he left, then gave a fr
iendly nod to the receptionist who was chatting on a cell phone and barely noticed him, either. He glanced at the clock and saw he had over an hour to shower and change for dinner, and— Oh hell, what if Lou had turned up, as he’d asked her to in his note? When he opened the bathhouse door, it was deserted, to his relief. Or his disappointment. He couldn’t decide.

  * * *

  HE SAW LOU NEXT BEFORE DINNER as they mingled in the drawing room and his exhausted libido perked up when he saw the impressive cleavage she sported; admirable for a woman with small breasts. She nodded at him, one acquaintance to another, and unfurled her fan, turning away before he could figure if her bodice really was mostly transparent or whether it was just a figment of his overheated if exhausted imagination. As he walked toward Lou, Sarah gave him a small, private smile. She looked as fresh as a daisy.

  Viv took his arm. “Quite a shiner you have there, Mac. Should I ask what the other guy looks like?”

  “Boxing. You know.”

  “I hear you’re sweet on Lou.”

  Sweet on Lou. Something struck him in the vicinity of his chest and for one dreadful moment, he thought he was having a heart attack. He waited for pain to radiate down his left arm, realized he was holding his breath and released it in a loud huff. “She’s okay,” he said.

  Viv stared at him, the ostrich feather in her headband nodding against his cheek. “Are you sure you’re okay? But anyway, you’d better watch out. The Paint Boys are showing interest.”

  “Huh?” He followed her gaze to see her arm in arm with them.

  “You know what they like,” Viv continued.

  “Paint?”

  “Yes. But they also like doubling up.”

  “Doubling up?”

  “You’re pretty dense, tonight, Mac, for a man of letters. They like threesomes and let me tell you, they’re pretty good.” She gazed at him with concern. “Are you sure you don’t have a concussion?”

  “I’m fine,” he said. “Just tired. It’s pretty strenuous being a Regency gentleman.”