The doors to the 6:09 departure closed, and suddenly the train was chugging forward.
For the next hour and 42 minutes, Jake would be alone with his thoughts. With his memories of his first and only trip to Voignier House, all the while bringing into question whether this trip was the most foolish thing he’d ever done, or the most romantic. He might be laughed at, or he might be swept into his arms.
As the city of London gave way to open countryside, Jake stared out the window and gave thought to the man he was intent on seeing…and surprising. He had an appropriate name, one that fit his personality, his traits. One that turned Jake Westbury into willing prey.
Hunter.
In full, Walker Hunter Abbott, and he was only the most sexy, alluring creature Jake had ever met, much less slept with. Not that they had done much sleeping during their brief, tumultuous fling that summer. He had been insatiable, ready and able to fuck at a moment’s notice, wherever, and—and this was the kicker—anyone. Jake recalled his six foot two frame, those thick muscles which broadened his back, and he also remembered the magnificently hairy chest hidden beneath his shirt. Dark brown, thick like a pelt, coating him from neck to waistline in a delicious swirl of tufts. And then there was the final piece: his cock. Jake grew light-headed just thinking about its size; the way it had felt when it entered him…he’d never known pain could be so desirable.
But as overtly sexual as Hunter had been, he was an enigma when clothed.
Never content with the man he was with, ready for the next conquest.
Jake had become an unwitting pawn in Hunter’s complex relationship with a bookmaker named Nevil. He’d allowed himself to be manipulated by both men, screwed over by them literally and figuratively, and slinked out of Newbury angry but wealthy. Jake had managed to turn the tables on them as they let their need for outsmarting each other betray them. That enabled Jake to escape only with the money, leaving behind his self-respect and perhaps his morality. Each man had gotten what they deserved, and that included Jake.
So why was he willingly putting himself back into the middle of this?
Because of how he and Hunter had left things, inside a limo en route to Heathrow.
Saying good-bye, but had that been the truth? Had their words still been raw with emotion? With betrayal? The attraction had certainly been there, with Hunter practically undressing in the back of the black limousine. How easy it would have been to ravage Hunter right then and there. To miss his flight, go back to the estate with Hunter and see what would have happened? But he had stayed strong, resisted temptation for perhaps the only time in his life, and now look at him, on his way to see if how they had left things so long ago was like putting something on ice; frozen till it was ready to be thawed. How quickly would things melt between them? How fast would that ice come to a boil?
Jake shifted in his seat, fighting the erection growing in his pants. He didn’t need the man sitting next to him to notice, or worse, think Jake’s reaction was to him. He was 50-ish, with a shiny bald head and dressed in a stuffy, a pink shirt and tie. Go home to the misses, he thought, his mind’s games allowing him a distraction where his cock withdrew softly.
The train made several stops along the way, the car emptying with each passing platform. Soon Newbury was announced as the next stop, and Jake steeled himself for what the next hour would bring. He could do the easy thing, the wimpy thing: cross to the eastbound platform and returned to London. But he hadn’t come all this way for that. Hunter Abbott might lay at the end of this crazy journey. Hunter, who might open the door and just slam the door in his face; Hunter who might demand the return of the ill-gotten money Jake had taken home with him; Hunter, who might just take him into his arms and kiss him, whisk him up that long staircase and into his bed. The night was as unpredictable as it was exciting.
The night could also be a complete bust. Hunter may not even be home.
Not like he was the type to stay in one place for long. He was a wild man, an adventurer.
“Newbury Station, one minute,” came an announcement over the speaker system. “Don’t forget to take your belongings with you.”
He had none of those, and realized how ill-planned this trip was.
All he had was his wallet, and his cell phone. He’d already checked. He’d deleted Hunter’s number months ago, in a purge of his past after Aaron had ended things with him. Jake was like that, rash with his emotions. Now he was being rash with his decisions, and as the train pulled into the station, he got up, excusing himself past his seat companion who was busy reading the day’s Guardian, and stepped out once the doors opened.
A light mist was falling, accompanied by a mild wind. It was almost ideal, something rather Gothic. An unannounced stranger coming to the remote estate, seeking out a man of mystery from behind its walls. Jake smiled at the scenario, thinking he would add the scene to his book when he got back to New York and resumed writing. First he had to see how the scene played out in reality before he could commit it to fiction. He might have to rewrite the result.
“Cab, sir?” said a waiting driver leaning against his compact Fiat.
Was it that easy? Take me to Voignier House outside of town? Was he ready?
“No thanks,” Jake said. “Just going into town.”
“Raining, sir.”
“Not so bad, it’s perfect for walking.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, his voice disdainful. Whether it was because of the lost fare, or a response to Jake’s American accent, it didn’t matter. Jake just continued forward, following a hint of light in the distance. He’d been here only once, but remembered walking with little effort from the train station to the small downtown area of Newbury and its cobbled streets. Along a highway he walked, not alone as he did so. No one had umbrellas out. For any proper Englishman, this fine mist was nothing to get his knickers in a bunch.
The walk into town took less than 15 minutes, but of course he was nowhere near the estate; that lay out in the country, a car ride away or at least a decent-length walk along the paths beside the canal. He skipped both of those options and instead ventured into the Hogshead pub, a squat white and red structure that, when inside, was high-ceilinged with exposed beams. It was a busy place tonight, but Jake managed to make space for himself at the bar and order himself a pint of Wychwood Ale. He slapped down a five-pound note, got back his change and left it on the bar in case he decided upon a refill. He took a drink, then surveyed the lay of the land.
The pub seemed to be filled with regulars; few tourists came this way, though he supposed during racing season the Hogshead would be wall-to-wall. Several flat screen televisions had been hung on the walls. A football match was playing out, the crowd cheering when an attempt at a goal was made. Jake just stood his ground, trying to determine his next step. It was eight thirty at night, and unless he wanted to be homeless and wandering the cobbled roads of Newbury till dawn, he had to make a decision.
“Excuse me,” Jake said, catching the attention of one of the bartenders.
“Help you, mate?”
“I was wondering, do you know Hunter Abbott?”
The man, about sixty, with weathered skin and white hair, harrumphed. “Who doesn’t?”
“Does he ever come in here?”
“On occasion,” the bartender answered, his voice wary.
“Recently?”
Now his eyes narrowed. “Couldn’t say.”
“Couldn’t, or won’t?”
“You a friend of Hunter’s?”
“You could say that.”
“I could say a lot of things,” the bartender answered.
Jake realized he wasn’t going to get anywhere with this line of questioning. A foreigner asking about one of the village’s most notorious locals was nothing but suspicious. The bartender moved on, Jake drank down and his beer and decided he’d made himself unwelcome at Newbury’s stalwart pub. He left the change as a tip, hoping it bought him a little goodwill, and then he headed back o
ut into the dark night. There were no stars, the cloud cover and the steady mist keeping any light from marking his way.
“Need a ride, sir?”
This was the second cabbie to offer him a ride, and this time he accepted. “Do you know Voignier House?”
“Who don’t? Friend of yours, the Abbott’s?”
“You could say that,” Jake said.
“I can take you as far as the gate. After that, the rest is up to you.”
Jake knew what that meant. The cabbie wouldn’t stick around to see whether Jake was granted access or not, and that would leave him in the midst of nowhere. He’d have no choice but to walk back if Hunter wasn’t home, or worse, if he was home and refused him. But he hopped into the back seat and was soon headed out of the downtown area and into the wooded flatlands of Newbury and environs. It was familiar looking to Jake, a resurfaced memory. The driver wound around several turns, traveling several miles until coming before a set of locked iron gates.
“Here you go, mate,” the driver said, quoting a fare.
Jake paid it, then got out. The cab disappeared around a bend in the road before Jake could catch his breath. He stepped forward, looking up the driveway in hopes of seeing a glow of light emanating from the house. But the brush was overgrown, the trees in need of trimming. The estate had the look of neglect, and Jake wondered if maybe Hunter had abandoned a life in the country for a wild time in London. Maybe he should have tried a few of the haunts he remembered Hunter going to back in the city. Or checking in with his friends in Putney, where Jake’s flat had been.
But he was here. Might as well fulfill this part of the trip. It had been a long time coming. Not just the amount of travel involved, but Jake’s resolve that maybe he had missed the boat on what he and Hunter might have shared. So he stepped forward to the side of the gate and pressed the button on the intercom. He waited, waited again, then pressed it again. No response. Just the empty quiet of the night. Maybe an owl asked who.
“Who the hell is out there?”
Okay, owls didn’t swear. But Hunter did.
Jake was so shocked by the sound of his disembodied voice, he jumped back.
“If you’re some neighborhood brat, the security cameras will identify you…”
“No, no…Hunter, is that you?”
“I could ask, again, who are you?”
“It’s…” Christ, did he just say his name? Like a hot specimen like him would remember.
“It’s who…”
“Jake. Jake Wesbury.”
There was silence from the other end. Jake wondered if Hunter was trying to conjure up the name in his memory banks, or if he was just refusing him entry. But then he heard a buzzing sound, followed by the gates opening. He waited for instructions but none came. He supposed the fact the gates had opened was invitation enough, so he started down the bramble-coated path aside the driveway, feeling his way in the darkness. But then came a flood of light as the front door of the grand house opened, creating a yellow path that guided him forward. An impressively sized man stood in the doorframe.
Jake approached, and he sucked in a deep breath at the sight before him.
There was Hunter Abbott, standing in a pair of jeans but nothing else. His broad chest was aglow in the light that surrounded him, highlighting the coarse brown hair that blanketed his torso. A thick bulge in his pants was beyond obvious. Jake felt himself grow weak in the knees, but still his legs managed to push him toward the front steps. He nearly dropped to his knees right there and then.
“Well, Jake Westbury, what a surprise,” Hunter said, a smile alighting his scruffy face.
“Look…I, I took a chance…I found myself in…”
“In what? Newbury? No one finds themselves here. You came here with a purpose.”
He nodded, breathless. “I did.”
“Your timing is awfully good. A week from now I wouldn’t be here. Leaving town for a wedding.”
“Funny, so am I,” Jake said. “It’s what brought me overseas. But then, I thought…”
“You thought? You thought what? Look up an old friend? We’re hardly that.”
“We had fun together. But you, you and Nevil…”
“Nevil got himself in a bit of trouble. Serving some jail time.”
“So, you’re alone.”
That’s when Hunter smiled, and it was a wicked one, the one Jake remembered and had been irresistibly drawn to. “Not now I’m not.”
Jake’s mouth went dry, words evaporating on his lips. Hunter extended a hand, Jake took a step forward, and their fingers entwined, their touch setting off electric sparks in the night. My God, Jake, thought, his fantasy was standing before him. What he’d thought about the entire flight, on the train ride, and in the pub while he drank his beer and awaited his mind’s decision. He was here now, in his arms. He was being whisked into the house, and into the hungry embrace of one of the sexiest men he’d ever known, much less been with.
“So, I guess we could go to the wedding together,” Hunter said.
“I hate going stag.”
“I’m never single for long.”
Jake nodded. “I know.”
Silence fell between them, tension rising. Or was that heat level?
“Shall I take you right here in this foyer?” Hunter asked.
Jake could only nod, and then he allowed his body to set itself free. “For starters.”
Hunter’s first kiss was magic, and as the night stretched onward, it wasn’t his only trick. Jake found himself in the throes of a fresh new adventure, with a man who’d taught him that life could be lived on the edge. That you could take a chance on anything, live by that code, learn from that code.
He felt his clothes falling away, felt himself, almost in a dream-like state, being whisked upstairs to Hunter’s bedroom, where the big man produced his bulging cock, and where he pushed Jake to the large bed, climbing on top of him. Jake reached up, ran a hand across the man’s chest, reveling as much as remembering the feel of the rough mat of hair. He knew they would play later, and they might even talk, but right now they were possessed, their pasts taking ownership of them. The future could wait.
When Hunter entered him, Jake cried out, and he tightened his hold on the man above him. He took him, every inch, begging to be pleased. The bed rocked, and Hunter thrust hungrily at him, his voice a series of animal grunts. The plane ride, the anonymous sex, the indecision he felt in London, the impulse to come to Newbury tonight, it was like the past day had happened long ago, his problems dissipated by the touch of this man. Nothing mattered but now.
“Hunter, you’re so good…so good…”
He thrust at him, opened him up. He said nothing, his actions saying everything.
It was only much later, after they had climaxed, that Hunter found words that Jake’s cautious mind had trouble believing. Except he did say them, and they would reverberate inside his brain all night, even as they fucked again, and a third time before finally falling to sleep. What Hunter said, as they kissed, and as Jake lay in his protective, massive arms, couldn’t have surprised him more. Hunter Abbot wasn’t one for the confessional. Emotions not easily displaying.
“I’ve been with a lot of men, Jake,” he said. “But none ever came back, not like you did.”
CHAPTER TEN
Matthew
The TGV train was scheduled to depart Gare De Lyon at 9:50, and according to the monitors the departure would be on time. Matthew Donovan checked his iPhone, and saw that only a minute had passed since last he’d checked. 9:39. The hands of the clock were ticking ever-forward. Matt nervously glanced around the crowded Paris train station, looking for any sign of a bustling Anton. Any other day he might have taken in the beautiful architecture around him.
“Where the hell are you?” he said aloud.
A couple walking past him gave him a curious look, and he wasn’t sure if it was because he swore or because he did so in English. Nothing pissed off the assertive French than failin
g to speak their language. Even though his French had improved the past year and a half, his mind still thought in English, and what it was thinking right now was jumble of things. Would they make this train? Would Anton even show?
It was their wedding weekend, and maybe he’d gotten cold feet?
Wasn’t this what the past two months been leading up? Their special day? One originally envisioned to take place on the balcony of the garret where Anton had proposed, now changed to a glamorous villa atop St. Jean du Cap Ferrat. It was almost unreal—surreal, Matt supposed—that he would be exchanging vows of forever with the man of his dreams in such a venue? Colton Abbott had been nothing but good to Matt, moving behind their initial hook-up on the plane to Paris, and later, after he and Anton’s relationship had suffered a riff and he’d sought refuge at this same villa. Colton was nothing if not giving, including insisting on sending a stretch limousine to pick them up at the train station in Nice. As he’d said on the phone just last night, “nothing but the best for both of you this weekend. It should be quite a joyous celebration.”
Matt heard those words in his head now, but doubted their truth.
Where was Anton?”
He checked his phone again. 9:42.
An announcement was made for their track number, and he saw a rush of people make way for the platform. After all, it was a Friday morning and the weather was warm, with skies filled by puffy white clouds. Ideal weather for a weekend escape to the sparkling Cote d’Azur, or Provence, which was one of the stops along the way. The train would pass through the countryside en route to the gleaming blue waters of the Mediterranean, and Matt for one couldn’t wait to take a dip in that salty water and feel the warm heat of the sun upon his skin. Not that the wedding ceremony itself was secondary, but their destination was beneficial not just for the two grooms. All of their guests would be able to partake of the lovely forecast and surroundings.
“Matt…I’m sorry….”
American Hunks Page 13
