In His Arms

by Caraway Carter

  In His Arms

  A Collection of Short Stories

  Caraway Carter

  Copyright © 2020 by Caraway Carter

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Natasha Snow Designs

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Introduction

  The Scarlet Lock

  The Palette

  Home is Where the Hard is

  Hawaiian Trunks

  Dare to Live

  About the Author

  Also by Caraway Carter

  Introduction

  The first three stories in this collection are still available in anthologies published through Beaten Track Publishing. The third story was published through MLR Press and the final story was a free story through the GoodReads MM romance group.

  The Scarlet Lock

  Notes

  Originally published in the anthology, Love Unlocked.

  Follow Brandon through six years of letters - to the citizens of Paris, on everything from how to make love, to eating passionate fruit - and to the lover, who is now his brother-in-law.

  The Scarlet Lock was a finalist in OCCRWA’s Book Buyers Best contest.

  I found myself writing the small letters and leaving them in actual places too. There is also a free Christmas story available online.

  Tags: MM romance, contemporary, bisexual character, HEA.

  Warnings: reference to domestic violence, premature birth/death of infant, and parental terminal illness.

  1

  One Week Before

  Anything can happen in Paris!

  That’s what Brandon Marshall told himself, as he sat drinking cappuccino in a café, on a rainy afternoon in April. His eyes caught those of an attractive man in a business suit, and he had a feeling it would be an enjoyable excursion.

  He’d arrived before the rest of his family. All had been planning the trip the past six months, for the wedding of his twin sister, Bree. In a week, they’d all unite in the Parisian countryside at the Dupuis home. But, until that time, he’d enjoy his personal vacation.

  The man in the business suit approached his table, stopped, and looked down at Brandon. The man’s left hand slipped deep into his pocket. Brandon stared, for a moment riveted to the emerald-green eyes. His gaze traveled down the crisp, white dress shirt, over the Hermes belt, to the growing tent in the man’s black slacks. Brandon’s pinkie fingertip reached to caress the fabric, and energy sparked between the two.

  With his other hand, the man pulled a wallet from his breast pocket, deposited a bill on the table and walked away. In one fluid movement, Brandon stood and followed the man across the street to an apartment building.

  He wasn’t sure what had come over him, except for the fact that the man was so forward, and once they were inside the flat, he spoke to Brandon in English tinged with a seductive French accent. All Brandon could do was cover those succulent lips with his own. His hands moved down over a strong, muscular chest, his control lost to the intensity of it all. The lovemaking was rushed, clumsy at first, but became more natural, smooth as Brandon was flipped on the bed and the French man made his decisions. Grunting, moaning, hands and tongues, it was full of carnal lust, it was secret and crazy, and at the end, they made their introductions.

  Brandon couldn’t believe his ears when the man had introduced himself as Hubert Dupuis. He pinched at his arms, as if trying to wake from a dream, he cried, he beat the man on the chest, but the man simply took Brandon’s hands within his own.

  “No, it is not a lie, I am him. And you are so much like your sister, I wanted to enjoy both.” The smile was wicked, full of lust and desire. “Come back to bed, Bran… It is one week, and then we never look at each other the same.”

  “It’s Brandon, and how can you do this? How can I?” Those hands that had just caressed him were the same that would soon be caressing his sister—his twin sister. “I can’t. I have a mind to tell her, to make her call the entire thing off.”

  Hubert slid his thick thumb between Brandon’s lips. “She knows I am bisexual, we discussed one last fling for me.”

  Brandon escaped the thumb prison. “Did you tell her it would be with her brother?”

  He shook his head. “She said you were coming a week early, so I called your father, told him I wanted to take you for drinks, to get to know you better. But, then I saw you sitting there. You turned your head; your hair reminded me of her. When you brought the coffee to your lips, I imagined her lips. I felt as one with her, inside you.”

  Brandon sat on the edge of the bed, contemplating his misfortune, his lust and enjoyment of the large, strong man behind him. “I can’t do this.” Brandon hung his head, tears brimming in his eyes. He felt the warmth, before he felt the hands caress his shoulders.

  “I love your sister, but your body has me mesmerized. It is nothing like hers.”

  Brandon’s smile was hidden. How could it feel so right, those rough, working-man’s hands massaging his shoulders, those warm lips pressed against his neck? He knew he’d regret this moment, yet let himself be pulled back into the bed.

  The lovemaking switched between harsh, angry and intense, to slow, measured and delicate. It was one, two, three hours spent in and around the bed. When finally they broke apart, they ventured to the café across the street for bread, butter, and more coffees.

  What began as a quick fling on a rainy Sunday afternoon turned into a sunny Monday of rowing on the Seine, and an afternoon lunch, with wine and cheese and those lips gliding over Brandon’s body.

  “She does not do this, or this…” Hubert’s lips traveled around Brandon’s nipple, down his chest, to his hips. Hubert’s steady hand pulled the loose jeans down, while his mouth traced a path over Brandon’s smooth skin.

  Brandon tried not to smile and giggle, but he lost his battle with his lust for the man exploring his body. He reached down to Hubert’s head, just below his waist; he grasped at his hair and held him in place, enjoying the resistance. Deep in his heart, he thought he was a horrible brother. He felt as though he had destroyed his sister’s happiness, but then he heard the words echo in his ear: she knows I’m bisexual, she gave me this last fling before our wedding.

  Brandon pushed the thoughts from his mind and focused on the man making his toes curl. Soon his breath burst out in hurried releases.

  Monday ended with them going to Hubert’s apartment loaded with groceries, because Brandon had revealed to Hubert his love of cooking.

  “Then you’ll make me a fabulous supper this evening and simple breakfast in the morning.”

  And so Tuesday arrived with an airy omelet of feta cheese, sun-dried tomatoes, and sizzling bacon. Brandon woke early to get a flower for Hubert, which he placed across the top of the tray that he served to his vacation lover.

  They spent hours talking before falling asleep in each other’s arms. The discussions ran the gamut, from the state of finance in Paris to the best places for raspberry tarts… The television shows in America versus those in Europe… What the language of love meant, and which words were more fun to speak against one another’s chests. Sometimes Brandon begged to be told it was all a setup, a lie, but then Hubert’s lips would cover his mouth, and his words would be lost to the luxuriousness of the kiss.

  Sometime in the early evening, they decided to pick a neighborhood to walk through, to explore, and they found a book store. Brandon picked several of his favorite books and a first edition of Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Hubert gather
ed a few books he wanted to share and read.

  Only once did they talk of the wedding. It was Wednesday, and they were wandering the streets. The week would end before they knew it, and this time Brandon took control. He shoved Hubert against a crumbling brick wall, pressed hard, his lips pleading for him to stop, to only think of the rest of their week together. Mashed against that wall, they fell for each other all over again.

  Hubert looked at his watch and set off, pulling Brandon behind him. They slid to a stop in front of a place called Le Crazy Horse, and he pulled his wallet out and paid for two. “This is a must see for anyone.”

  They sat at a table, and Brandon looked around him at the unusually large crowd of guests—all sorts of couples, business deals being signed, a lesbian couple sat behind them—then the show began. Brandon giggled into his screwdriver; he couldn’t look at the dancing on stage, fantastical shows with topless women. Women? He leaned over to shout into Hubert’s ear. “You know I’m gay, right?” He turned back to his drink.

  “Oui, but you can appreciate the form, can you not?”

  Brandon smiled awkwardly. “Yes, I can.”

  And he did, because it made Hubert happy. In fact, after three drinks, he was beginning to get the feel for the show, and getting hornier by the minute. He slid his chair closer to Hubert, who slipped his arm around Brandon’s shoulders.

  His senses were heightened, and he was really digging the feel of the jeans Hubert wore. His fingers circled the fabric and explored over to the crotch, to Hubert’s growing hard-on. Even in this inebriated state, Brandon knew he was only part of the reason his week-long lover grew. It was the gorgeous bodies on the stage before them. Their seductive movements caused many a gasp around them, and he wondered if it would be too forward of him to give Hubert a hand job right there. His fingers snuck over to the zipper; no hands stopped him; it was dark. He pulled the zipper down. Hubert turned his head, first to look into Brandon’s eyes, then to watch the handiwork below. He grinned, and his attention returned to the stage.

  They could both tell he was close, but Hubert’s hand put a stop to the proceedings. He leaned over and whispered, “Oh, I do think we should make our way outside and head home to take care of this, and of you, young man.”

  “Young man? I’m in my late twenteshies.”

  “And you don’t hold your alcohol well.”

  “I held it fine, itsh in my belly.” Brandon finally gave up holding Hubert and placed both hands on his stomach. “But, I want you…again, and again.”

  They couldn’t get up fast enough, Hubert shoved himself back inside his jeans, zipped up, and they were out the door, hailing a cab. And that was how they ended up sprawled on the bed for a lazy Thursday.

  They both slept long into the day, naked apart from a thin white sheet. Brandon had gotten used to wandering around the apartment in nothing but socks and creating simple platters of cheese, fruits, nuts, bread, and butter, along with a bottle of wine, which they shared. Who needed glasses when they felt like this?

  The day was spent reciting poetry. They’d reach down beside the bed, grab a book, and read from a random page. Brandon’s were generally love poems from Pablo Neruda. He’d recite the Spanish and then follow it up with the English, which generally was rewarded with kisses.

  Hubert would grab at his pile and pull up a book on the French finance service, but when he read the words, Brandon was mesmerized. He wondered how the man could make arithmetic sound sexy, seductive and more often than not, he would attack before Hubert finished his paragraph.

  They lay there laughing.

  “You have not worked all week, Hubert. Are you independently wealthy?”

  “I am on vacation, but yes. My family has done very well.”

  Brandon nodded and then shook his head. “Well, that explains why Bree pursued you. I mean, aside from this glorious body, these lips, these hands…and what you can do with all of it.”

  His finger remained between the pages of the book, marking the one poem he needed Hubert to hear. Brandon knew that in a matter of days, this love affair would be over, and they’d never be able to touch again, aside from a familial hug or kiss on the cheek. He decided he’d write it on a card, and leave it when he packed up and left. He hadn’t been back to the hotel since that first day, when he’d arrived and had chosen to sit at the table outside, just under the awning. They’d been back there so many times in the preceding days.

  Hubert moved over to rest his head in Brandon’s lap, pulled the sheet down, and slipped his mouth over Brandon’s growing length. The book fell from his hands, the poem forgotten in the ecstasy. He pulled Hubert up to him, to leave kisses, and one request. “Will you let me take you?”

  “I’ve wanted that for days now. I want to remember everything about you, and this.”

  That was how Thursday progressed into the early hours of Friday, the rest of the day spent experimenting every way they could think, taking adventurous trips around each other’s bodies, sucking, fucking, teasing, and pleasing.

  Brandon was the most aggressive he’d ever been with a partner; he thought later it was because he hated that he’d never be in this position again—not with Hubert, not in this manner. It was a last fling for a man going off to get married, and yet, in every fiber of his being it caused him such distress. He found himself crying even as he came again and again. They showered together, scrubbed each other down. Still the tears fell.

  He couldn’t remember who thought of it first, but both men agreed to the lock. Hubert dug through his junk drawer and found a scarlet lock; they took turns scratching their names onto the back.

  “Where’d you get this?”

  “It was my lock I used at the gym.”

  “We can buy you a new lock. It’ll be my parting gift to you.” Brandon sniffed and quickly laughed. Wasn’t it just a few days ago that he cried realizing who Hubert was, and here he was crying because they were walking away from each other.

  “This way, you’ll always know my love for you is strong and locked in place, forever. I saw a couple doing it when I arrived. It’s really a beautiful thing.”

  They walked arm in arm to the bridge. Hubert took the key from his pocket and turned it in the lock. They both clicked it shut and kissed after they locked it. It was the first time Brandon had seen Hubert cry, and he placed his backpack on the ground between them so he could hold him. They were really broken.

  “We should do this, or I’ll never leave you. You’ll have to keep me locked up in your basement, but I think Bree would find out eventually. I can’t do that to her.” Brandon pulled away and clasped hands with Hubert. “We have to throw the key to seal the deal.”

  They tossed it underhand, both of them, and then leaned over to see that it was already gone.

  Brandon picked up his backpack, reached into the side pocket and pulled out the letter. “This is for you. Please read it and destroy it. Do not ever let Bree see it. Thank you for an amazing week. I know it can’t be love, we’ve only just met. But I will remember every minute spent with you.”

  “Oui, I know what you mean. And I will and I won’t and yes…”

  Brandon had turned to walk away. Laughing, he turned back. “I guess I’ll see you in a couple days. I will be pleased to meet you for the first time.” He waved, turned away once more, and walked to the hotel on the other side of the Seine.

  There were several messages waiting for him, from his sisters, both Joanne and Bree, and from his father and mother, each with their own notes. There was even a note from his advisor suggesting schools to visit in Paris.

  He took the large envelope of messages up to his room—a room with a balcony overlooking the Seine. The entire family would be arriving on Saturday—he could go back to Hubert’s, but he needed time, and he needed to change. He took a long hot bath, soaked in the tub, reading the messages.

  Joanne wanted to know how his week was going. Bree asked if he’d found a boyfriend yet, reminding him of the deal he’d made
with her that he’d be a slut on his week alone. Mother asked about the hotels. Father told him that Bree’s fiancé wanted to arrange a lunch. Ben left the names and phone numbers of several chefs in the city, as well as appointments arranged, of which he’d missed two already. A third was later that evening. Ben also suggested tours of several campuses and classes to get the degree.

  And still all Brandon could think of was lying in Hubert’s arms. He realized now that locking their love on the bridge was a way to keep them apart. They had taken the magic of the act and trapped it inside the red lock, as though they had never met.

  He reached into his backpack and pulled out his used books and the French finance book. He’d never understand any of it, apart from the note, written in a hurried script:

  Thank you, lover, for a fling to end all flings. With the lock, we will lock our love up, to be remembered when we are alone, when we are a million miles away, or when we are sitting across from each other at a holiday dinner.

  * * *

  Be mine forever in my heart,

  Love HD

  * * *

  Brandon didn’t think of it as cheating. He knew he should have; he’d wanted to at the beginning. But it felt so right, as if Hubert was dropped in his lap. He’d promised his sister he’d be a slut, and he was. He knew that Hubert would never reveal their secret, and he’d never reveal it, either.

  He placed the book under his pillow, thought better of it, and shoved it to the bottom of his backpack. No one went in there.

  2