“Hey, Matt, do you have another shirt up here I might borrow/”
Matt looked up and saw a shirtless Rich leaning over the ledge, his strong, bulked up arms giving him the appearance of a hawk scouting his prey. Matt blinked at the image of the hunky Texan, his smooth pecs flexing. It was a sexy image for sure, one he wished he wasn’t witness to.
“Oh, uh, check the closet behind my desk?”
He disappeared from his perch, only to call out. “The cabinet is locked.”
“Be right up,” Matt said, and he turned and headed toward the stairs.
Why, as he rounded the stairs, was his heart beating? Did the sight of a man without a shirt on really get him that excited? Or was he picturing him completely naked, like he’d seen in Gavin’s office the night of his engagement party? This was silly, he told himself, a school boy crush that meant nothing beyond the physical. Not that he’d even act upon his feelings, his heart was taken. No, it was stolen, and Anton was the thief.
He arrived at his office, where he found Stone standing there in his wet jeans, and only his jeans. He thought he could detect the sizable bulge; or maybe it was a trick of the dim light in the gallery. Shadows crept across Stone’s broad chest, a glint of light highlighting the sheen created from the rain. He was naturally smooth, no sign of stubble or of being waxed anywhere, not even around his large nipples. Not even the hint of a trail beneath his belly button.
Matt blinked, then turned away, heading over to the cabinet behind his desk. From his pocket he withdrew a ring of keys and slid a small one into the lock. He opened the door, where a small light came on, illuminating the inner contents. Files were on the bottom shelf, as well as some hanging supplies and additional light bulbs that went along the tracks on the ceiling. What he didn’t see was any clothes. He usually kept an old shirt or two here for when he knew the work would get sweaty. But then he remembered he’d brought everything up the other day and put them in the laundry.
“I’ll have to go upstairs to the apartment,” Matt said.
But before he could make a move, Stone made his. His body slid in tight against Matt.
“It’s okay, I don’t need one. Not right now,” he said.
“Stone…”
Stone pressed his body against Matt, and Matt backed up, only to find the wall blocking his retreat.
“You’ve been thinking about me, I know you have.”
“Stone, look, this isn’t…”
“You saw us. Gavin told me.”
“What you and Gavin do is none of my business….”
“He’s a horrible lover,” Stone said, his breath hot on Matt’s neck. Their eyes connected. “So full of himself. Thinks he’s so good in bed. What kind of man can resist what I have to offer? And don’t try and feign ignorance. Like I said, you saw us, which means you saw me.” He paused and smiled. “You know that old adage about how they grow things big in Texas? Well, in my case, it’s very true.”
With that, Stone pressed himself against Matt, the bulge in his pants undeniable.
“Stone, I’m sure there are plenty of men out there…who would enjoy you.”
“But not you?”
“I’m engaged. I love Anton.”
“So? This is Paris? Land of sexual freedom. I’m not looking for love. Just suck me.”
Matt’s mind traveled back to that fateful date in New York two summers ago, the straight guy who had signed up to the gay dating service only because his girlfriend wouldn’t go down on his rather sizable cock. He wasn’t gay, he said, but he knew plenty of guys would want to suck him. It’s what had led Matt to deciding that the city was full of assholes and he wanted out. He had booked his flight to Paris, and the rest was history. Cheap sex had given way to meaningful love, he and Anton, together, forever. Except now here was this Texas-sized hunk with the strong chest hovering beside him.
He tried to push away, but Stone flattened his palm against the wall, trapping him. With his other hand, he unzipped his jeans, and he pulled out his raging hard cock, worked it till it lived up to his name. It took all of Matt’s will not to look down, but when that cock poked at him, he stole a glance. It was long, that was sure, and it was as thick as a beer can. A light circle of pubes surrounded it.
“Come on, Matt. I know you want it. Gavin told me, he said you stopped and watched.”
“Stopped and watched what?”
It wasn’t Matt who spoke those words, nor Stone.
Matt’s eyes widened as he realized Anton had just walked in on this unfolding scene.
“Anton…”
But that’s all Matt got to say. Anton didn’t stick around for an answer to his question.
He bolted from the office, and the slam of the front door of the gallery reverberated all the way up in the office. Matt’s nostrils flared with sudden anger. Any physical response he had had to Stone soon fell away, repulsion consuming him. Why did men think owning a big cock gave them the authority to mess with others, with a loving relationship? Stone might believe his large endowment was a blessing, but right now Matt saw it as a fucking curse.
“You prick,” Matt said.
“Exactly,” Stone said, smugness still written across his face. “What was he so mad about? He could have had his turn too. I’m big enough for both of you. Come on, a threesome would have been a fun treat for my cock.”
Matt angrily pushed past the near-naked man, knocking him over onto the floor. He ignored Stone’s complaints as he dashed down the stairs and out of the gallery. The fierce, falling rain pelted him, nearly blinding him. Or maybe those were tears, salty and stinging. He ran down the street, aimlessly, helplessly, calling out Anton’s name to ill effect.
There was no sign of his lover. He existed only in Matt’s wounded heart.
***
He called him more times than he could count, so many times he felt less like his betrothed and more like an obsessed stalker. Not once did he pick up. After the sixth attempt, it went straight to voicemail. Which meant only one thing: Anton had turned off his phone.
The rain continued, and Matt was beyond soaked.
He’d walked from the gallery to the banks of the Seine, seeking out Anton’s kiosk. It had been closed up, as were the neighboring ones which housed other painters, booksellers, jewelry designers. The storm that had swept over Paris this afternoon had doused the tourist trade, bringing a pall of gray over the city. Even the spires of Notre Dame were covered by a cloud of fog. As he stood on the bridge, watching Bateaux Mouches tourist boats float on by, he felt like he was trapped between two worlds: the one he’d first known and the one he’d created. Happiness couldn’t exist, not in such dreary weather. And if his mood was this bad, he could only imagine the tortured soul that was Anton.
He’d been betrayed by his wife.
He’d been betrayed by his own hidden desires.
The only person is his life who represented pure innocence was his son, Henri.
Which of course was where he’d gone. Why hadn’t Matt thought of that hours ago?
Night had fallen, the grayness of the day giving way to darkness.
Matt hailed a taxi, and in practiced French directed the driver across town to Menilmontant, where Anton had once lived with his ex-wife and their son along the picturesque rue Houdart. Traffic was snarled on the narrow streets, but eventually they drove their way past Pere Lachaise, where Matt asked to be let off at the curb. He skirted out, darting the continual raindrops until he made his way to the building. Anton had lived on the third floor, with a small ledge-like balcony allowing them to sit outside. He gazed upwards and saw the tiny orange glow of a cigarette.
“Anton….” Matt said, calling up.
The response was a flick of the cigarette to the ground, not hitting Matt but making its point nonetheless.
“Let me in. Come on, this is…”
This is what? In the hours he’s spent looking for him, not once had he thought to offer up a reason for what Anton had walked in on. He hadn
’t invited any of Stone’s come-ons, and for sure he hadn’t gone through with what the big Texas hunk wanted from him. Matt knew that. So why didn’t Anton know that, too? Why didn’t he feel it? Weren’t they a team? Weren’t they, tonight, supposed to be choosing a date for the wedding? Not trying to explain away a naked man in his office?
“Matt, I cannot talk to you. Not tonight.”
“Well, too bad, you’re going to.”
“I think you are not ready, for this. For us.”
“Dammit, Anton, buzz the door and let me up. I’m not going to scream up at you all night long. The residents across the street deserve to have their rest undisturbed. Even Jim Morrison is complaining of the noise.”
There was a pause, and then the door buzzed. Finally, Matt was out of the rain.
He ran up the four flights of stairs, where he found the front door to the flat open. It wasn’t Anton who was waiting for him but young Henri, who was nine now. He was in his pajamas, but didn’t look like he was anywhere close to sleeping. He hugged Matt, and then led him inside.
“Papa is being the moody artist,” he said.
Henri was a smart kid. He’d given Matt a hard time when they’d first met. Now he trusted Matt like a second father.
Matt walked into the apartment, found in the kitchen an empty bottle of wine and an ashtray filled with butts.
“His?”
“Oui,” Henri said.
“Can you give us some time?”
“Please,” he said. “He has been as happy as I remember him. Until tonight.”
Matt thanked him and sent him off to his room, and then he made his way to the window.
“Go away,” he heard from the narrow ledge.
“You don’t mean that. Otherwise you wouldn’t have had Henri buzz me up.”
Anton had nothing to say that, so he just continued to drag on his latest cigarette.
“I thought you quit.”
“I smoke when people piss me off.”
“I didn’t do anything, Anton. You know I wouldn’t.”
“He’s an American, so are you. You all have the same carnal desires.”
“You’re American, too. Remember? We talked about this just today.”
“Mon Dieu,” he responded, in denial about everything.
Matt, his clothes still dripping from the rain, hefted himself off the windowsill and out onto the balcony. It was tight quarters, forcing them to be close. Still, Anton tried to back away a little.
“Don’t do this, Anton.”
“I don’t know you. You are not the man I thought.”
“You’re being ridiculous. I love you. What do I care for…hell, anyone, much less Stone?”
“He was naked. He was…”
“He was showing off. Big deal he’s got a big dick. I’m not attracted to him. He wasn’t looking for anything but a quick blow job.”
He said nothing, took another drag on his cigarette before tossing it into the air.
“Nothing happened?” he finally said.
“Of course not. I thought you trusted me.”
“I am scared, Matthew. Life has not always worked out for me.”
“Or for me. Until I met you.”
“That is sweet.”
“That’s the truth. Anton. You changed my life. You define my life. You, and Henri.”
“So you still wish to marry me?”
“Still? It never changed. Not from the moment you blind-folded me and led to the garret.”
“I didn’t know what to think. I saw you, and I saw him. All of him. Men have desires, and they often act upon them. I should have known you were not one of them. I have been in France too long and met too many men who want nothing but sex. You are unique, Matthew Donovan, in that you came to Paris to really fall in love.”
“And fall in love, I did.”
“So, you forgive me for over-reacting?”
“Nothing to forgive,” Matt said. “There’s only one thing we should be concentrating on.”
“What is that?”
“Our wedding day. We were supposed to choose a date tonight.”
A smile found his face, visible now that their eyes had adjusted to the dark night.
“Tell me when,” Anton said.
“Anytime. Anyplace. Tomorrow. City Hall, or whatever they call it here.”
“No, you will have the wedding of your dreams. Two weeks from this Saturday,” he said.
“Two weeks?”
“Why should we wait? We love each other, we already live together. Let us have a great party and celebrate our love.”
“I want my friends there,” Matt said. “Jake, Freddie.”
“We will make that happen. We will make anything and everything happen”
Anton leaned forward and planted his lips upon Matt’s, which left Matt melting beyond his rain-soaked self. It was like he’d become a puddle, and only when the two of them stared into it could they envision the future that lay before them. A night that began troubled, thus ended with the two them tucking Henri into bed, and then retiring to the other bedroom, where they made soft, tender love, the sound of the raindrops upon the roof keeping rhythm with their entwined bodies.
Love was alive in Paris, Matt thought as he lay in his lover’s arms while the man slept off his wine. He couldn’t believe it. Two weeks from now, a wedding would happen—his wedding—where he would be reunited with his best friends and they would celebrate the culmination of their crazy, impulsive quests of summer love. For Matt, that journey had turned into a lifetime of love, but he had the sneaking suspicion that there were still surprises awaiting not just him, but Jake, and Freddie too.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Freddie
Again, Freddie Markson was seduced by a remarkable view. But unlike the lines of headlights on freeways, the thick brush of the canyons of L.A., they had traded up. Spread out before him on the second floor terrace were mountains of sunflowers, rows upon rows of them, stretching in a yellow glow as though the sun itself rested upon the lush, golden land. He sighed with contentment, with freedom. He knew it was only a temporary reprieve and that he and Santo would soon have to return to Hollywood to begin principal filming of The Stranger Inside Me. But for now, they could do as they liked during the day, and even better, during the night.
It was their first time back in Italy since leaving for New York over a year ago. When told of his idea, Santo had allowed the first genuine smile Freddie had seen in too long. A month away from Los Angeles, a chance to recharge their batteries and rediscover the love between them. Just them hiding out among the sunflowers and hills of Tuscany; well, the two of them plus the entire Mancusi family coming and going. The Mancusis, who owned both a nightclub and a restaurant in Italy, were over-protective of their youngest clan member, and once Santo announced that he was returning home, it was like Italy got that much brighter, the food that much fresher.
Mother Mancusi had pulled out all the stops upon his arrival in Rome.
That had been two days ago. They had been fed and feted, Santo’s mother barely leaving his side the entire time. She continually hugged him and kissed him, constantly saying “bene, bene,” and then cupping her hand against Freddie’s cheek. “You take good care of my son,” she had said. The wine had flowed, too, the celebration going long into the night, until jet lag had caught up with them and they’d nearly passed out in their hotel room. The next day was a near repeat of the previous, until finally they were able to excise themselves from Mama’s warm clutches.
They had arrived at the villa last night, had a light meal in the town of Arezzo and walked around its cobbled streets with a gelato, holding back in holding hands, licking their ice cream and exchanging secret messages between them. They returned to the quiet villa, had gone for a swim and then made love under the stars. It was after midnight when they crawled into bed on the second floor of the spacious villa and sleep had come to them quickly.
Now, Freddie marveled at his first mornin
g view of the valley.
How had he gotten so lucky? Finding a sexy man, one who was available both physically and psychologically, was usually good enough for Freddie, but add in the fact Santo was Italian, came from a good family, and owned this stucco-roofed villa in the hills of Tuscany only added to the fairytale existence he felt he’d been living in since Patsy Abbott had introduced them. Most of Freddie’s family was gone, and his best friend—his mother—had died only two years ago. Her passing had been the impetus to travel to Italy to find himself; more of a mission to find what was missing in his life than in tracking down that elusive thing called love.
The love part had just happened.
From Italy to Broadway to Hollywood, his life with Santo had been a whirlwind.
But now they had returned to their roots. He and Santo, alone, together. When he had gotten up this morning, he’d allowed Santo to continue to sleep peacefully. No doubt his heart was content being in his own home, his own bed. Like the contours of the mattress knew him and had claimed him. Freddie thought of going downstairs to the kitchen to prepare coffee; nothing like the rich odor of Italian coffee wafting up the stairs to wake a virile man.
But his mind was so filled with fantasy, he didn’t hear Santo until he had wrapped his arms around him. Freddie felt a kiss on the back of his neck, felt the man’s warmth envelop him.
“Good morning, my love,” Santo said.
With his thick accent, Freddie’s knees buckled. His grip on the railing saved him. “Hi.”
“You are up early.”
“How can you not be,” Freddie said. “Look at where we are.”
“Yes, it is beautiful, my home.”
Freddie ran a hand along Santo’s thick forearm, feeling the thick dark hair that coated it. He leaned his head back into the crook of the man’s shoulder, and again he sighed. His eyes remained focused on the valley, where a light wind was blowing the sunflower stalks to the east. The same wind ruffled his mussed hair, and he felt if he spread his arms open wide he would take to the sky, that’s how filled with love he was.
American Hunks Page 10
