by Kevin Sean
Now, thinking about just how well that itch has been scratched, I’m getting hard too. Logan moves as if he’s waking up, so I wiggle my ass against his throbbing cock, which prompts him to moan with approval and squeeze me tighter with his beefy arms. It takes all the strength in me not to strip him down and start riding him right here and now.
Before I can keep enjoying these cuddles, the windows shake and the room the room is filled with the echoes of a crash of thunder louder than that deafening THX sound that cinemas always used to play at the beginning of movies. Never in my life have I heard such a noise in nature. It’s terrifying.
“What the hell was that?” Logan jolts to an upright position in the bed, now fully awake. “It sounded like a spaceship just crash landed into my house.”
Logan grips my arm while he scans the room, looking quite confused. I’m sure he’s just holding me like that out as a groggy, reflexive response, but I can’t help but enjoy feeling Logan touching me, holding on to me to steady himself. Using me as an anchor.
I don’t get to enjoy his touch for long, because Logan’s been awake for all of thirty seconds when the bedroom door flies open.
A woman in a maid’s uniform barrels in. She freezes in her tracks when she sees me. “My apologies, sir, I did not realize you had a… a… a guest staying here until the morning!”
“Er, sorry about that. Katarzyna, this is…” He doesn’t finish the sentence and looks at me. I wait for him to finish his thought, to say my name, until I remember—he doesn’t know my name yet. I’m not sure whether I ought to laugh or cry, this is so awkward.
I remind myself that I’m not supposed to know his name, either. But I am supposed to introduce myself, it seems, because he keeps staring into my eyes. Unblinking and intense. “I’m Ben. Ben Carpenter.”
“Good morning! It’s a pleasure to meet a guest of Mr. Logan,” says Katarzyna.
“Logan. Just Logan is fine,” my host mutters in my direction.
“Logan Lexington,” I drawl. I pretend I’m processing a newly learned vocabulary word in a foreign language. I realize I’m looking right at Logan, not Katarzyna, who I’m supposed to be introducing myself to. I shift my body language to focus my attention on the maid.
The housekeeper raises her eyebrows and looks me up and down. “You are a very handsome man,” she says in a heavy eastern European accent.
“And you are an exquisite woman!” I answer, spitting out the first response which comes to mind. Logan’s maid seems to like that, because her expression lights up and she throws her hands in the air with glee.
Katarzyna turns to her boss, newly boisterous. “Oh, I love your new friend, Mr. Lexington!” When Logan responds with silence and a soft smile, she composes herself and adopts a more serious expression. “Speaking of this guest, as I was just about to say… Due to the nasty weather outside the house, Pierre cannot bring you to work today, Mr. Logan. And I suppose that means he won’t be able to bring Mr. Ben home, either.”
Logan and I exchange nervous glances. I guess I didn’t realize just how serious of a storm was forming on the horizon yesterday.
He is incredulous and begins interrogating his hire. “What do you mean, I can’t go to work? I never miss work. Can’t we fly the chopper in to the city?”
Katarzyna bellows a hearty chuckle and bends over in laughter. “Helicopter? In this storm? You might as well try to walk across the San Francisco Bay!” She wipes a tear away, then makes a serious expression when she realizes her employer is not amused.
Logan is fuming. “This is ridiculous! Why didn’t anyone warn me that such a storm was coming? I would never have come home if I knew this would happen, I would’ve spent the night in the city. I wouldn’t have—”
He stops himself before he completes the thought, but he doesn’t have to finish his sentence. I know what he was going to say.
I wouldn’t have invited him over. He already regrets sleeping with me.
“Don’t worry about work,” Katarzyna dismisses Logan’s concerns. “Your meetings have all adapted to teleconference, Sue already sent over your schedule. I have printed and digital copies!” She whips out a binder and USB drive and grins.
“Well—I only came here to be the bearer of unpleasant news. I’ll be leaving now… this house will not clean itself!” Katarzyna decrees before Logan can protest further, waving as she rushes off with a determined expression. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Ben!” she calls back to me.
The silence she leaves in her wake is deafening. Yikes. It’s just the two of us again.
Logan humors me with a half-hearted smile which disappears as quickly as it came. For a moment I just stand there sticking my hands in my pockets and looking anywhere but at him. I feel like an awkward, pre-pubescent teenager in sex education class.
Finally, Logan breaks the silence. “Well, um… make yourself at home, I guess, Ben Carpenter,” he says, gesturing at the sprawling open space area behind us. Even if he doesn’t sound enthusiastic about spending more time with me, my heartbeat quickens hearing such a sexy man say my name. “I have a ridiculous amount of business matters to attend to, bad weather be damned.”
In my head I play a mini guessing game, taking wild ganders what Logan’s line of work might be. Stocks? Law? Something with an exorbitant paycheck, clearly, if his modern mansion, devoted housekeeper, binder of pressing documents and fresh-pressed suits are any indication.
“Yeah, sure. No problem.” I say, trying not to let on how sheepish I feel. Making myself at home in the fanciest building I’ve ever set foot in is laughable… but I guess there’s no harm in trying. And no other option, thanks to the storm pounding down on us from above.
“Well, Katarzyna is around if you need anything. And uh, I can check in on you later…” Logan says, his last word fading out because he’s already jumping into business mode and slipping on a blazer, adjusting cufflinks, combing his fingers through his hair. I wonder if he realizes he’s not wearing a shirt underneath.
“This look suits you. The ‘power suit meets birthday suit’ thing you’ve got going on,” I joke.
“Oh, crap, I forgot my shirt!” he groans, tearing off the jacket and sliding a crisp white button-up over his sculpted, muscular body. My cock can’t help but swell a little as I watch his abs ripple along with his movement.
He looks so damn good when he’s all dressed up. I’m sure he knows it, too, because Logan flashes a cocky grin into a floor-to-ceiling mirror before turning back to me—ready to say goodbye.
He takes a slow step towards me. I bite my lip. My palms are sweaty. Why is my stomach doing somersaults over the thought of saying goodbye to someone I don’t even know?
Another deliberate, slow step. I make a movement towards him too, bringing the two of us just inches apart. I want to reach out, pull those clothes right back off of him and resume the not safe for work behavior we engaged in last night.
But I don’t. Instead, I teeter back and forth, shifting my weight from one to the other, waiting for Logan to ease this awkward silence.
“I need to go.” He says finally. I gaze into his squinted eyes, desperate to determine whether he’s regretful or relieved to be getting away from me.
I nod, not wanting to say anything and risk doing something embarrassing such as crack my voice or stumble over my words. I hit a mental roadblock. Is there a correct way to say goodbye for now and/or ever to the wealthy and mysterious man with whom you just had the best sex of your life?
Because I am apparently in need of intense psychiatric observation, my brain short circuits and I send Logan on his way with a handshake. I stick out my trembling hand and he raises his eyebrows, amused by the awkward gesture.
His smile curls and it is oh so sexy. He takes one more step forward as those luscious, mischievous lips part and prepare to say something a little rude and a lot flirtatious about my weird reflex. But he never gets the chance to—before I can further process the beauty of his grin or the expression in his e
yes, Logan is tumbling down to the floor and pulling on my arm. I’m swept down with him.
The two of us land in a tangled heap on an enormous white sheepskin rug spread across the bedroom’s black marble flooring. We’re one enormous writhing ball of man and limb. An infinitesimal part of me doesn’t want to get up. Part of me wants to stay this way: hopelessly wrapped up in Logan Lexington.
But that’s a stupid thought. I spring to my feet as Logan does the same. His face is beet red and I’m sure mine has adopted an even more vibrant hue based on my current level of internal cringing.
We’re back on steady footing and back to the position where we started—inches away from one another, simultaneously too close together and too far apart for my liking. I wonder if he wanted to stay like we were. Did Logan like being trapped and twisted around me, too?
“I guess it was your turn to be clumsy?” I whisper sheepishly, hoping to lighten the moment.
“Well…” Logan scratches his neck and doesn’t look me in the eye. We’ve long passed the opportunity to pretend this isn’t awkward for the both of us. “I’ll be heading out to do some rather pressing work stuff now.”
He stands up and heads for the door. Before he leaves, he turns to face me again.
“I left you some clothes: t-shirt. Jeans.” Logan’s words sound more like a series of grunts than a sentence with sentiment. He cranes his neck, using his head to point in the general direction of where I’m standing. “I hope they’re your size.”
With that, he steps out of the bedroom. He’s gone… and now I’m alone in Logan Lexington’s mega-mansion. That sentence sounds a lot more fun and glamorous than the reality of my current situation.
I pace the luxurious bedroom for God only knows how many minutes—which feel more like hours.
There has to be something entertaining on TV, right? Watching television sounds simple enough but is easier said than done—I can’t, for the life of me, figure out how the hell to turn the TV on. I run my fingers behind the machine searching for buttons and scan the room for a remote.
Suddenly, I feel a button in the corner and… click. I guess I’ve done something right, because the huge flat screen television fitted into the wall springs to life. The news is playing, showing footage of the raging storm and cutting to commentators assessing the ongoing damage.
The images of the storm are shocking. I see flooded streets and damaged homes across the Bay Area. I can’t believe this. I knew the storm was dangerous enough to trap me on this island, but I hadn’t expected this level of sheer destruction. It’s heartbreaking.
Me being here is starting to almost seem like a stroke of luck. And I don’t just mean because of the incredible sex. However uncomfortable and tense things were afterwards between me and Logan, at least I’m safe from the storm here. I know a house as fortress-like as this mansion will weather this storm just fine.
But will I survive, trapped in this rich stranger’s playground?
Unable to handle watching the twisted images on the news any longer, I fumble with the button again until the television turns off. I realize that I’m still in my underwear and sporting a severe case of bed head.
Didn’t Logan say there were clothes for me?
I scan this unfamiliar room for the garments in question. I take ages before my eyes land on a folded pile of fabric on a sleek marble shelf. Those must be the clothes he was talking about. I pick them up and unfold them. I hold the jeans up to the light to inspect my new temporary wardrobe.
My throat tightens when I see the label on the pants: Gucci. The shirt has a luxe-looking Alexander McQueen tag sewn inside. In case I forgot about the Architectural Digest-worthy interior designs and the whole private fucking island thing, these designer clothes remind me I just hooked up with an exorbitantly wealthy dude.
I am so out of my element here. Maybe he didn’t realize I’d feel so weird in this setting—in these clothes—when he just up and left. Maybe he realized. Maybe he didn’t care. I can’t help but lean towards that last option.
Why should a man as sexy and offensively rich as Logan Lexington care about the delicate emotions of his latest hookup? Just because I’m stuck with him for longer than either of us expected doesn’t mean he owes me anything more than he owes any of the other guys he has casual sex with.
And that’s all I am to him, right? Another one of the many men on Logan’s fuck of the month calendar. I’m a notch on the bedpost. Tonight’s conquest. Just an eager, faceless hole he could fill.
My stomach twists. You’re the one who wanted this. It’s true. What’s done is done… and getting the ever-loving shit pounded out of me by Logan Lexington is definitely done. A few times over.
Well… fuck it, then. If I’m stuck being Logan’s live-in fuck buddy until this storm blows over, I might as well take advantage of the fact that I’m stranded on a billionaire’s private island of all places.
I begin my mission to maximize my enjoyment of solitaire confinement by taking a ridiculously long bath in the spacious jacuzzi hot tub carved into a slab of marble in the bathroom attached to this room. After that, I slip on the set of designer garments Logan has provided me.
I know these clothes are expensive… but I already miss my tie-dye sweatpants.
Taking a deep breath to ready myself for my expedition out, I crack open the door to my room and step out into the hallway. A refreshing cool and slightly scented breeze greets me—no doubt generated by a state-of-the-art air conditioning system.
I turn to the right and walk until I find a staircase. I spiral downwards until arriving at an enormous room with vaulted ceilings and hanging chandeliers. In the middle of the cavernous space is a small table with silver rococo legs and a sleek black marble top. What looks like a glass armchair sits behind it. On top of the table is an elaborate meal: slices of club sandwiches, bowls of olives and samosas and, jugs of fresh-squeezed juice cover every single square inch of marble.
To the side there is a little folded tent of paper, like a place card at a wedding reception dinner. Someone has printed my name in modern gold font.
Bon appétit, Ben. I hope this is enough food. -LL is scrawled in black pen in messy handwriting underneath my name.
This gesture is both sweet and weirdly impersonal. I may not be sure how I feel about Logan providing this solitary meal, but I am sure that I’m hungry enough to eat all of it.
After inhaling every single edible object on the table, I resume my aimless wandering. In no time I find what I assume must be a private cinema, judging by the rows of plush chairs and crimson velvet curtains hanging on all four sides of the room, emblazoned with golden rope—except there’s no screen.
Wanting to try out the comfortable-looking chairs, I sit down. I sink into the cloud of red velvet and lean back.
I’m about to kick my legs up when—“Hello, guest.” Says a female voice which seems to come from the walls themselves.
“Um… hello?” I mumble, darting my head in every direction.
“Welcome back. We’re so happy to see you again.” The woman’s voice sounds almost real, but there is some robotic element about the sound of it which I can’t quite pin down. “What would you like to watch today?”
“Do you have anything with Meryl Streep?” I gander, unsure how to proceed. I’m the first to admit that my personal experience with omniscient cinema usher robots is minimal. Hopefully I’m doing this right.
“Perfect!” The voice exclaims in a soothing tone. With that the room’s lights fade to black and a wall of curtains parts, revealing an enormous screen displaying Meryl Streep and Pierce Brosnan’s enlarged faces.
Before I know it I’ve watched three movies and powered through a family size box of Milk Duds.
Maybe I should do something active and get back to exploring this place. The cinema room has inspired me to check out all the perks a billionaire’s lifestyle affords. I spring to my feet and head out, wandering for what could be anywhere from twenty minutes to two
hours in the endless maze which is Logan Lexington’s mansion.
Before I know it I’m lost. Hallways give way to more hallways, and there are staircases spiraling up and down in every direction. It strikes me that Logan Lexington’s dedication to modern minimalism must be severe, considering the noticeable lack of art or, well, decoration of any kind.
My aimless walking about now has a purpose: finding something which isn’t polished or sleek and modern. A dusty painting, an errant and unmatched piece of furniture come to mind as possibilities to satisfy my curiosity.
I have no idea how long I’ve been lost, and I have yet to achieve my goal of finding any decorations or pieces of art in this house which I find interesting, but it’s a blissful hopelessness.
After God only knows how long, I stumble into Katarzyna. “Mr. Ben! I was just looking for you!” She exclaims, throwing her hands up excitedly. “It’s dinnertime. Come now, follow me.”
I oblige and let her lead the way. While we walk, I’m silent. I let Katarzyna do the talking: it’s a job for which she’s highly equipped. For ten minutes she regales me with tales of cooking pierogi and berry pies in her motherland of Poland.
“Mr. Logan sends apologies, he’s been very busy with ConnectMe meetings all day,” Katarzyna explains to me as we near our destination. “I’m not even sure if he will have time for dinner, so many LexTech employees have been calling him!”
Suddenly, everything clicks in my brain. Logan Lexington. The billionaire founder and CEO of ConnectMe. I don’t keep up with the tech industry beyond replacing my phone and laptop every few years, but even I’ve heard of this guy. I feel like an idiot for not recognizing his name and putting it all together sooner.
I’m still thinking about this revelation as we arrive at an ostentatious room decked with chandeliers, a huge dining table, and platter upon platter of fresh food. So many words come to my mind when I see this beautiful setting, but all I can say is “Holy shit.” I’ve never seen a dining room this fancy in my life—it’s spectacular.
