by Kevin Sean
Six Night Stand
The Lexingtons: Book Three
Kevin Sean
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events reside solely in the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters are eighteen years of age or older.
© 2020, Kevin Sean. No portion of this work can be reproduced in any way without prior written consent from the author with the exception of fair use except for review and editorial purposes.
This title is for adults only. It contains naughty banter, explicit sex acts, adult themes, and material that some folks might find offensive. Please keep out of reach of children and the faint of heart.
Contents
Also by Kevin Sean
Prologue
1. BEN
2. LOGAN
3. BEN
4. LOGAN
5. BEN
6. LOGAN
7. BEN
8. LOGAN
9. BEN
10. LOGAN
11. BEN
12. LOGAN
13. BEN
14. LOGAN
15. BEN
16. LOGAN
17. BEN
18. LOGAN
19. BEN
20. LOGAN
21. BEN
22. LOGAN
Also by Kevin Sean
Acknowledgments
Also by Kevin Sean
THE LEXINGTONS
Back to Reality (Book 1)
The Issue With Love (Book 2)
Six Night Stand (Book 3)
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Prologue
BEN
I never saw him coming.
I never saw any of this coming…
I went into our first encounter expecting nothing more than casual sex. A steamy fling between the sheets meant to last for one night only. No strings attached.
I thought I would be better off without love. We both thought our emotions would be better left unsaid. Even when it became clear that the two of us could never remain strangers.
I walked into his world expecting to experience nothing more than a blip in the chapter book of my life. I never expected that perfect storm of a week. Seven days and six nights, which would change my world forever.
Every kiss, every caress, every whispered word between us… when taken and examined on their own, they seemed like almost nothing. Negligible. Meaningless. But put together, laid back to back, understood as the sum of so many secret parts… together, we were everything.
I had no way of knowing.
No, I had no way of knowing that those six nights with Logan Lexington (how is it possible that they were only six brief nights?) would be the start of… well, everything. Those six nights were the start of a journey far beyond the realm of my imagination.
1
BEN
I wish I was inspired to paint something beside’s my ex-boyfriend’s ass.
Or just inspired to paint something, period.
It’s been 369 days since my relationship ended, 370 days since I last put a dick in my mouth, and 371 days since I last produced a half-decent piece of art. Not that I’m counting or anything.
I hold up my paintbrush for the umpteenth time today, hoping inspiration will strike me on this go. Maybe squinting extra hard at the blank canvas in front of me will help. It’s covered in faint forgotten pencil and eraser marks from weeks ago.
On the wall looking down on me is a naked full-body portrait of my ex. We make extended awkward eye contact.
“What are you looking at?” I ask.
I could swear that his little painted-on acrylic eyes narrow. Smart ass.
Why the hell haven’t I already thrown this thing out already?
Overtaken by my distaste for the painting (and inspired by the HGTV home renovation show I was bingeing until an ungodly hour last night), I tear the painting off the wall and toss it out of the bay window. I hear a clunk on the street below.
I hope that helps with the Feng Shui. I don’t understand how Feng Shui works, but this tiny apartment is undoubtedly lacking in it.
My ideal course of action now would be to paint a new picture to replace the one I just gave the boot. To paint something which sparked joy within me, that’s what I would’ve done a year ago. Today I just stare at the painting supplies before me—and I wait.
I wait for the perfect ray of fractured, colorful light to filter in through the stained glass decoration hanging in my studio apartment’s bay window overlooking the rainbow crosswalks of Castro Street. I wait for a parrot to fly by singing a Mariah Carey love song or a sky-writing plane to leave a sweet message in the clouds.
I wait for something, be it ridiculous or romantic, to occur. I wait for anything to happen which might make me feel artistic and give me a fraction of the desire to paint that I once had, a fraction of the urge that I haven’t experience in so long.
But there’s nothing. Nada. Zilch. No ideas for a painting come to my head, no artistic revelation awakens within me.
My mind is as blank as this 30 by 40 inch canvas.
That I made a living painting nude portraits of my ex-boyfriend hasn’t helped me deal well with this whole “getting over the breakup” matter. And make a living I did, at least for a while there. When I was still inspired to be artistic, when we were together…
When we were together.
In my head I add up the months, weeks and days that have passed since then. It’s pathetic for me to be just as sad now as I was a year ago.
Since then there have been so many long, lonely days… And even lonelier nights.
But today? This day will be different. Today is the day I brave the bold, beautiful city I call home. I’ll get inspired by the sights of San Francisco and then lay out my brushes and paint tubes and palette and let inspiration flow for the first time in far too long.
That’s the plan, anyway.
I’m halfway through a cup of coffee that I sleep-walked into the kitchen to make. The kick of caffeine helps my brain think of routes, places of interest and people to see while I’m out and about. Since the breakup I’ve been a bit of a homebody, which doesn’t help with my painter’s block.
I’m mid-muffin bite when suddenly, I hear a whoosh, a crash, and a delicate meow. A plastic cup from one of last year’s pride parties goes flying across the table and lands in my lap. Seconds later, a cloud of thick auburn fur follows it.
“Jade! Sure, the DJ wasn’t great that night, but don’t take it out on the cup!” My cat blinks her knowing light-green eyes, as if to say and I’d do it again. She’s gorgeous and insane, just like the America’s Next Top Model contestant I named her after.
A quick massage of her neck and a pat on the belly mollify Jade, so I carry her to the hammock cat bed I made for her and place her down. She purrs and curls into a sleepy ball.
A quick glance out the window indicates that it will be sunny today, but after spending eight of my twenty-six years of life in this city, I know you can never be too reliant on the weather staying in one state for all too long in San Francisco. I click on the weather app on my phone to gauge what activities will be most appropriate for today’s staycation in the city. Looks like it’ll be warm till the evening. Perfect for my ideal itinerary.
I’m glad to be getting some time outdoors today, because the weather prediction for the next week is downright depressing. Seven days straight of rain, rain, rain.
Ugh.
There are so many things I love about living in the city of San Francisco. But having to go through a week of rainy days one after the other is not one of them. I’ll make this sunny day count.
The urge to go for a trip to Fisherman’s Wharf or some part of the city with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge pops up inside me. I’ll do something active, explore a little, and wear myself out enough to wake up tomorrow rejuvenated, reinvigorated, and re-inspired.
I open my top desk drawer to see if I have any coupons for restaurants for lunch. Instead, I spot a post-it note from months past. On it is a flower with a smiley face and, scrawled in loopy handwriting, “Your time to bloom is soon!”
I still remember the flowers the note came with. Brilliant orange and purple blossoms which accompanied gift-wrapped high end paints. Best birthday present ever.
Montana may be an absolute loon of a person, but she is an excellent gift giver and an even better friend. When did we last see each other? Yikes. I ought to check in on her.
I pull out my phone and send her a message.
ME: Hey. I miss your face. Are you free today?
MONTANA: Yasss!! I’m so down.
MONTANA: Glad you’re still alive! Long time no see, luv
ME: I’m sorryyyyy I’ve been a really boring hermit lately
ME: I’m the worst.
MONTANA: You said it, not me. Love you no matter what though!
MONTANA: Do you wanna go to a rave tonight?
MONTANA: Or we could meet up in Great Meadow Park
MONTANA: I was gonna have a one woman picnic there later this afternoon…
ME: A picnic sounds perfect. I’ll bring Trader Joe’s snacks.
ME: I need to readjust to leaving the house before I can handle expert-mode social situations like a rave!
MONTANA: Fab. I’ll make it a menage-a-two, then!
MONTANA: Unless you have a new lover you’d like to bring along, of course ;)
There’s a faint pang of sour sadness in the back of my throat and deep within my chest. A new lover. It feels like I’ve missed an attempted punch in the gut. The message stings, no matter how sweet and light hearted Montana’s sentiment is.
I’m still trying to get over the last love, the breakup which fucked me up so bad. When I have my shit together enough to use a paint set and brush again I’ll take that leap of faith and pin my heart back on my sleeve someday. At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself for the last year.
How would Montana know I’m still sensitive about my broken heart, though? I haven’t confided in her about how unproductive I’ve been with my painting or the fact that I barely ever leave the house anymore. My irrational lingering heartache isn’t her emotional burden to carry.
I realize I never answered her quarter-life-crisis-inducing text.
ME: Nah, just lil ole me myself and I!
ME: Gonna explore a little down by the wharf right now
ME: Keep me updated and I’ll meet you there after. :)
MONTANA: Yay! Lemme know when you’re on your way
MONTANA: Ciao chico <3
I’m glad I reached out—if there’s anyone I want to see today, it’s Montana.
When Zach and I first split and I was an absolute mess of a person she was there for me. She was a saint, bringing me soups and casseroles and edibles (which I didn’t ingest, but… it’s the thought that counts). But then I pushed everyone out and shut the door.
I should’ve let her back in sooner. Some quality time with Montana is long overdue.
If I want to seize the day while the sun’s still out I had better get moving. So I scramble to piece together an outfit, pairing a black denim jacket with dark navy trousers. I layer the jack on top of a bright pink and purple tie-dye button-up blouse.
The fashion industry considers black to be universally flattering, but I love bright colored clothing. I usually try to wear at least one crazy colorful piece.
I take a quick glance in the mirror to make sure I don’t look like I just got robbed or had rough morning sex. If only. It’s a good thing I checked because my hair is a mess. A quick finger combing tames my messy brown curls. After a spritzing of cologne, I’m ready to roll.
Considering the fact that I’ve essentially been living my life as a celibate hermit for the last year, I don’t look half bad. I give Jade food, water, and a speedy belly rub on my way out.
My spirits lift once my feet hit the sidewalk and I’m outside on the street, surrounded by the eccentric, adorable, and very gay neighborhood that is the Castro. Rainbow flags abound on the doors and windows and balconies of both residences and businesses.
Now that I’m out in the streets of my neighborhood, among my people, I get an instant sense of relief from the disappointment and sadness which lingered in my apartment. I need to stop being such a shut-in. I can already tell that the fresh air of the city streets is working wonders for my body and spirit.
I bet that just roaming the area right around my house will inspire me. I mean, I’m seeking inspiration for paintings of naked men. I live in the world’s gayest neighborhood, so that shouldn’t be too hard of a task to complete.
The Castro is a veritable hotbed of homosexuality. And jeans that show off tight asses, like the pair the man walking in front of me is wearing. I don’t want to ogle, so I turn my head away from the hot pedestrian.
I land my eyes instead on a construction worker working on repairing a manhole and wearing an even tighter pair of pants. The bright orange thigh-hugging trousers don’t appear to be safety code compliant, but city hall won’t be getting any complaints from me. Not if Bob the Builder here keeps jack hammering that drill into the sidewalk.
The intense vibrations of the drill are making his ass bounce up and down like crazy and making my cock hard as hell.
Hmm… perhaps I will get inspired to paint something. At the very least, I’ll definitely be inspired to run back up to my bed and start touching myself.
Why can’t I be as inspired as I am horny on a daily basis? I miss being able to gaze at a man’s body and envision paint strokes as vividly as I could envision stroking his dick.
I know it isn’t the same. It’s never that easy. A hot muscular man in front of my eyes doesn’t just automatically translate to a beautiful painting on the canvas.
I don’t just need to be inspired by a muscular body and nice ass, I need to experience an emotional connection with the subject I’m painting. When the passion is there, connecting artist to muse—that’s when I produce my best work.
I’ve gone too long without having that art-inspiring connection with anyone. Months and months too long. If I want to get inspired, I need to do something. So I pull open my phone’s note taking app and scroll through the list of options I have jotted down for today’s itinerary.
I’m so focused on my phone screen that I don’t see the tall, handsome guy with a golden retriever headed straight towards me. Next thing I see, I’m walking into a wall of abs and pecs while a dog leash wraps around me.
“Crap! I’m so sorry,” says the stranger as he untangles me from the excited puppy who has ensnared me in its adorable clutches. When I’m freed, he pats his hands together and smiles at me. His teeth are perfect, just like his smile. “I’ve been meaning to train Cinnamon to sniff out cute guys…”
Fuck. Why is this happening to me? I ought to be happy that a hottie is hitting on me, but I’ve been out of the dating game for a long time. I have the flirtatious bantering skills of a baked potato. I’m not sure where to begin showing I’m interested in him.
“I…. Like your beard!” I croak out. “It… matches your dog’s fur.” Oh God. Why did I say that? “Very… fur-shionable.” And why did I say that? I’m about to file a cease and desist order against myself.
If I’m disturbed by my own clumsy attempt at flirting, I can’t imagine how this poor pedestrian feels.
“Ha! Very clever. Cute, too,” he responds with a grin. Apparently he’s not
as disturbed as I am.
He looks at me for a second longer, eyebrows raised in amusement, and continues. “I can give you all my best dog and beard grooming tips sometime if you let me take you out for dinner. Could I get your number?”
Wait… what? Why isn’t he making a mad dash across the street? He can’t still be interested in me.
“I…” I start. I’m not positive how to finish. I should say, Sure thing! Here it is, hot stuff, or I’d love to give you my phone number. Those are sane, reasonable answers to a hunk asking you out. But apparently I’m not going for sane or reasonable because all I say is: “I don’t have a phone, sorry.”
It’s a terrible lie. I realize immediately that it’s embarrassing for me to try using this excuse, and it’s embarrassing for him to have his intelligence insulted like this.
Especially when I’m still holding what is clearly my personal cell phone in my right hand.
I throw my hands behind my back and double down on the lie. “Nope, no phone. I… watched a documentary on the Amish. After that I went off the grid for a while. But I live in this apartment right here, so… if you’re ever walking by and want to get a cup of coffee, you could throw some rocks at my window? Y’know, the old fashioned way!” When did I become a wise-cracking street preacher?
The handsome stranger gives me a curt nod, his face frozen in a gorgeous state of discomfort. His eyebrows have changed shapes, flipping from arched in amused surprise to furrowing in confused fear. His eyelids flutter, making it look like he’s blinking a morse code message for help.
