by Gwyn McNamee
There’s no way I can concentrate at the club with Luca’s scent on my skin. I don’t even want to get into my clothes with him all over me.
“I’m gonna take a shower.”
It’s a stall tactic. A way to avoid any sort of intimate talk without running out like my tail is on fire.
I rise to my feet and glance down at him as I walk around the bed toward the bathroom. He reclines against the pillows with his arms tucked behind his head, making his biceps bulge out in such a fucking sexy way, my cock stirs to life. Again.
His eyes scan my body, and a grin spreads across his lips as he focuses between my legs. “Come back to bed. We can dirty you up some more before you take a shower.”
Of that, I have no doubt.
One thing I can’t deny is Luca’s ability to take me to another plane of existence when we’re together.
“Can’t do it.”
Won’t do it.
Not today. Maybe not again. If I can ever find the will to say no to him for good instead of crawling back.
I haven’t managed it yet, though. My head and my heart war so often at this point, it’s practically World War III going on in my body. And it feels like both sides are losing.
“Why not?” He raises a dark brow. The sparkling pools of molten sex that are his eyes try to drown me.
“You know why not.”
The humor in his gaze disappears in a split-second, replaced by something that looks a hell of a lot like disappointment.
Why? Because he’s not going to get laid again or because there’s still so much between us that makes this impossible to maintain?
He watches me where I stand at the end of the bed, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t lecture me or try to start another argument about why us being together isn’t a giant slap in the face to the Hawkes like I believe it to be.
We’ve had that conversation more times than I care to count in the weeks this has been going on. It’s almost become a ritual. Show up. Fuck. Argue. Fuck. Slip away while he sleeps.
Real fucking healthy.
But this time, he just lets me go to the bathroom without another word.
I let the door shut behind me and crank the water on as hot as it goes.
Right now, the surface of the sun wouldn’t be enough to scald away the feeling of his touch across my skin, his cock driving into me, his lips pressing against every inch of my exposed body.
Jesus.
My cock is at full attention by the time I step into the shower. I let the cascading water burn my skin, trying to wash away the memories and the guilt. But they won’t disappear, and the traitor between my legs throbs and begs for my touch until it’s almost excruciating.
I could try to fight it. Turn the water to ice cold to try to shock it from my system. But I’m too weak, broken, and beaten down by the man who should—given his reputation—treat me like shit, but instead, acts like he can’t get enough of me and only wants me to be free from what weighs me down. So rather than ignore my aching dick, I reach down and take it in my hand with an angry groan.
I don’t want this. I don’t want to want him. I don’t want to need him.
Yet, lately, it feels an awful lot like I do need him. I need his touch. I need his caress. I need his assurances that everything is going to work out because I am so fucking terrified of losing my job and my friends that some days, my heart is racing so fast, I feel like it might explode.
Luca’s the only thing that occupies my mind as I stroke my length hard and fast. The water won’t wash away the pain as much as I want it to. The pain of knowing that he’s becoming so important to me that I might just risk everything for this.
The orgasm hits me hard, and I grit my teeth as I shoot streams of cum against the tile of the shower. Tile that probably cost more than I can even process, and I just came all over it thinking about Luca, the man who should be my enemy. The man who is ten feet away from me in a massive bed. The man who has worked his way into my heart.
I really am a mess.
And that man is only making me messier.
Byron is going to be pissed when he gets out of the shower and sees what I’ve done, but he didn’t leave me much choice. As soon as I saw that look on his face when he sat at the edge of the bed, I knew he was going to leave. He was going to run away from this, away from us, away from what he’s feeling, and that’s the last thing I want right now.
The last few weeks have been nothing short of eye-opening. Everything I thought I knew about my business, everything I thought I knew about myself, it all flew out the window as soon as I met Byron and let him work his way into my life.
This business will always be important. It’s why I came to NOLA in the first place. It’s why I’ve always closed myself off to the possibility of any sort of a partner or relationship.
But what about happiness? What about what makes my heart race and makes me feel alive?
Right now, it’s not business. It’s not the idea of cleaning up the Abello name. It’s not the money or the power. It’s being here, like this, with Byron.
I don’t know how it happened, but I somehow went from a dedicated bachelor for life to making underhanded moves to keep this man in my bed. I need him to keep coming back. I need him to stop running. I just fucking need him.
When the end of the day rolls around, and all the stress and frustration of trying to run and rebuild a crumbled empire has mounted, all I want is to come here and be wrapped up in that man. So much so, I even risked going to his place when he didn’t show up here the other night. Even knowing I’m being followed, I couldn’t stay away.
So, what I did may not be ethical or right, and God knows he’s going to be angry, but it’s necessary to get what I want. What I need. I don’t like taking no for an answer. Not from employees. Not from enemies. Not from anyone. I’ve given Byron time to sort through his reservations about our situation. Time to make a decision. But he hasn’t. It’s time to talk, whether he wants to or not.
The bathroom door opens, and I turn from where I stand at the bar. The sound of his bare feet padding across the floor toward the bed have my cock hardening.
“Luca? Where are my clothes?”
I pour myself a Scotch and turn around to face him. “Would you like a drink?”
He stands with wet hair, droplets of water still sprinkled across his chest, and a towel wrapped around his waist. “No, I want my clothes, so I can go home and get ready for work.”
I set down my drink and pour him one. “Well, that’s going to be difficult because I sent them to the laundry to be cleaned. They won’t be back for at least two hours, or maybe more, depending on how busy they are.”
Anger flashes in his eyes. “Why the fuck would you do that?”
To keep you here.
I shrug and walk over to him with his drink in my hand. I hold it out, and he glances down at it like it’s a grenade instead of twenty-year aged Scotch. Now is the time for honesty. There’s no point in trying to hide why I did it.
“Because I knew you were going to leave, and I wanted to spend some more time with you. Deal with it.”
“Deal with it?” His eyes darken, and he clenches his fists at his sides. “That’s all you have to say?”
“What else is there to say?”
“You arrogant prick—”
I hold up my free hand. “Now, now, there’s no need to name call.” I shove the glass into his hand and move back to retrieve mine from the bar. “Have your drink. I ordered food from room service.”
He growls.
I glance over my shoulder at him. “And don’t look so distressed. Is spending time with me really all that bad?” I raise an eyebrow. “You haven’t objected to my company the last several weeks and have practically torn my clothes off when you got here. Your cock was already rock hard for me the moment I opened the door. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
Byron glowers at me and stalks over to drop down into one of the chairs on the far side
of the room. Anger rolls off him in waves powerful enough to feel them even with all this space between us.
I lean back against the bar, completely unabashed in my nakedness. “Why are you so scared of staying here and hanging out with me?”
Every time we’re together, it’s the same. Byron tries to rush out with some excuse of needing to work or slips out while I’m still asleep to avoid confrontation.
He takes a swig of his Scotch and runs his hand through his wet hair. “You know why.”
“Do I?”
“Don’t play stupid. It doesn’t suit you.”
I chuckle and shrug. “I don’t know why you’re so angry. Why don’t you tell me because I’m honestly clueless over here?”
Byron has done his best to keep me at arm’s length emotionally even when he wants me physically close and gives in to me every moment we’re together. I know what I would like to think he was going to say, but I need to hear it from his mouth, from his lips.
He needs to say it. Not just for my benefit, but for his own. Until he voices it, it won’t be true for him, in his head or in his heart. I know what it’s like to pretend something doesn’t exist, that it’s not a reality. I lived a fake life. So, while I can sympathize with what he’s going through, I’m not going to enable him or it to continue.
He drops his head and stares into his drink. “If I sit here and talk to you, if we have any more deep, meaningful conversations, if I’m in the room with you without us fucking, I’m going to have to admit that I care. And I’m just not fucking ready to do that.”
8
That confession hurt more than the beating I took senior year of high school before I learned to defend myself, before I bulked up, before I learned not to start fights but to know how to end them.
I’ve been fighting against admitting it to him, let alone myself. So, the words burned leaving my lips more than the Scotch in my hand does going down.
A tiny smile tugs at the corner of Luca’s lips, and he takes a sip of his drink while maintaining his nonchalant pose, leaning against the bar stark naked.
It’s what he wanted. It’s what he was trying to get me to say.
Arrogant prick.
Luca is a manipulator, through and through, and he always gets what he wants. If that’s me, then it’s fucking hopeless to even resist him. I’m learning that very fast.
“Was that so hard, Byron?”
I jerk to my feet and storm across the room to stand just inches from him, so close that the heat of his body radiates against my cool, naked skin. “It was that hard, and you fucking know it. Why are we playing these games?”
“Because you wouldn’t tell me the truth. You wouldn’t tell me how you feel. You’ve been running away from me every chance you get, only to come running right back.”
“I think it was you who was running to me the other night.”
When he showed up unannounced at my doorstep earlier this week, part of me was terrified he knew where I live, but the bigger part was just so damn happy to see him that I literally ripped the buttons off his shirt trying to get him naked.
It wasn’t my finest moment. Yet, knowing he had come to me instead of me rushing to him gave me a sense of power I never thought I’d have with Luca. Rushing him out the door as soon we were both sated wasn’t exactly the “adult” thing to do and isn’t something I’m proud of even now, but having him in my domain, leaving his scent and presence and memories all over everything…it would just make it that much harder when this finally ends.
He tilts his glass toward me. “Touché. But here’s the difference between you and me, Byron. I’ve been nothing but open and honest with you about everything.”
I snort-laugh at him and take a slug of my drink. “Except your fucking name.”
“I never lied to you about my name. That’s a version of my name.”
I scowl at him. He reaches back and sets his drink on the counter behind him then takes mine and sets it next to his. His hand finds my hip where the towel is wrapped, and his thumb brushes along that hypersensitive hipbone, sending a shudder through my body and hardening my cock almost instantly.
His eyes drift down to the tent in the towel. “I’ll say it again; let’s not pretend. Very soon, you’re going to have to make a decision about whether you trust me. And until you do, you’ll keep coming back for more, just like I will with you. Because I haven’t felt like this about anyone, well, pretty much ever.”
His words choke the breath in my throat.
Ever?
Luca raises his hand and brushes his thumb over my lips. “I’ve never had the opportunity to be who I really am, to be with who I want, to do what I want to do. It’s never been an option in my life. So maybe this is all just lust, maybe this is all just because there’s an opportunity for more than a one-night stand, and I want to take it, but it doesn’t feel that way to me. It doesn’t feel that easy. And nothing that’s good is ever easy, which makes me all that more confident that this is just as good for you as it is for me.”
The back of his other hand brushes against my now fully hard cock, and I groan and lean in to him.
A knock at the door has me jerking back. “Shit.”
He grins and leans in to press a hard, brutal kiss against my lips. “Food is here. How unfortunate, I was just getting ready to indulge in something else.”
Jesus, he has a filthy mouth.
One I now can’t stop picturing wrapped around my dick.
Fuck.
He brushes his shoulder against mine as he passes on his way to the door. No doubt intentionally.
Is he going to answer naked?
He pauses to grab a robe from the closet and ties the sash before he tugs open the door.
“Mr. Abello, I have your room service order.”
Luca nods, but when the man tries to step through the door pushing the small cart, Luca holds up a hand to stop him. “I’ll take the cart, thank you.”
“You don’t want me to come and set it up for you?”
“It’s not necessary. Have a good night.”
The man disappears, and the door closes. Luca didn’t want him to come in and see me. It shouldn’t be surprising. People know who he is here. It would be a huge scandal if there were a half-naked man in his room at three in the morning. That has me rubbing at the tightness in my chest as I go sit at the dining room table in the corner. He talks a big game about wanting this to continue, yet he keeps it hidden.
He pushes the cart toward me and then lifts the lids off the two plates. “Steak frites. I hope you’re hungry.”
I hadn’t realized I was until I stare at the food and my mouth waters.
The fact that he played such a dirty trick to get me to stay pisses me off, but my stomach tells me to let it go for the moment. It’s not like I have many other choices in this unless I want to leave here in a towel.
The anger still lingers in Byron’s bourbon eyes, but he seems to have come to some sort of acceptance since the food arrived. Watching Byron wrap his lips around the piece of steak and the tiny little moan he gives has me shifting uncomfortably.
Too bad the food didn’t arrive ten minutes later.
“So, Byron, you’ve hinted at your past, but I’m curious how you ended up working for the Hawkes.”
He pauses for a moment and chews his steak, probably wondering what my ulterior motive is for asking, but there is none. I really just want to know about him and the people I came home to try to mend things with.
Byron swallows and assesses me a moment longer before finally sucking in a deep breath. “I’m from Salt Lake City. It isn’t one of the friendliest places to grow up when you’re gay. I didn’t officially come out until I graduated from high school, but people knew. I was scrawny and nerdy and not into sports or any of the other things that might have helped me mask who I am.”
My chest aches at his confession. I did have those things. Boxing, football, other “activities” that weren’t so legal. Even women.
They were all things I used to hide what I was. Once Mom and I were sent away, it was made very clear to me that I couldn’t be open about what I wanted and still hope to survive in the world I was born into.
Byron pops a fry into his mouth, then continues. “My parents are very religious, and when they found out their son was gay,” he shrugs, and pain crinkles the corners of his eyes, “they kicked me out.”
Jesus.
He takes another bite and chews slowly, and I do the same. I thought what happened to me was rough—sending Mom and me away so that he wouldn’t have to be seen with me, let anyone have anyone know his son was gay—but it sounds like what Byron went through was a hundred times worse. At least we had financial support and other family to go home to.
“I came to New Orleans because I had a friend I had met through a youth program one summer who lives here. He let me sleep on his couch, and the first thing I did was start working out,” he snorts in feigned laughter, “like hard-core working out. I had been beaten up too many times in high school, and I didn’t know how to defend myself, so I lifted. I took boxing lessons. I did whatever I could to make sure it would never happen again.”
My fists clench around the fork and knife in my hands. The very real desire to fly to Salt Lake City and track down every single human being who ever touched Byron courses through my blood. I barely suppress a growl, but I don’t want to stop his story, so I stick a bite of steak into my mouth and chew.
I may still go to SLC.
Byron shrugs. “I also looked for a job. I worked at a few gas stations, a couple fast food joints, and then one day, I drove past the Hawkeye Club.” He pushes his food around on the plate. “It kind of struck me that one of the easiest ways to blend in and for people not to question my sexuality was to work at a strip club.”
“Did it really matter anymore if people knew you were gay?” I raise my eyebrow at him.
He pops a couple French fries into his mouth and considers my question. “It did to me then. It mattered far longer than I care to admit.”