Bought by the Lone Cowboy
Page 75
For a moment after, they both remained still, silent except for their rasping breath. Steve lay on the bed beside him.
“Why did you do it?” he asked, breaking the silence. “Why did you kiss me?”
“Because I wanted to,” Jonah answered simply. “I’ve been wanting to do it.”
Steve’s eyes grew wide. “You mean you…like guys, too?”
Jonah shrugged. “I know I like them more than girls.” He looked at Steve. “Do you like me?”
Steve met his gaze. “Why else do you think I chose you to be my roommate?”
Jonah, nodded, understanding everything. Living together, teasing him, helping him—it was all because Steve liked him. And somehow, that knowledge made him happy.
“So, what happens now?” Steve asked.
“That depends,” Jonah answered.
“On what?”
“If you start playing well again or not,” Jonah said to him. “If you score more than me in the next game, I wouldn’t mind giving this a try—though we have to keep it a secret, of course.”
“Of course,” Steve agreed.
“So you accept my condition? You won’t let the team down anymore?”
Steve nodded. “But if I score ten points more than you, you get to be on top next time.”
“On top?”
“You know, you get to be the one to take it strong to the hole.”
Jonah almost blushed at the idea of that.
“Well?”
“Is that a challenge?”
Steve grinned. “What if it is?”
Jonah’s lips, too, curved up into a grin. “Bring it.”
* * *
Chapter Ten
Steve did bring it. The Jackals went on to win the next few games, riding their victories all the way to the championships. The next year, Steve and Jonah led the team to another and now, they were in their third championship in a row, the last for Jonah.
“This is it, guys,” Jonah said. “It’s do or die time, winning time. Just two minutes left. Don’t you dare let go.”
“The captain’s right,” Steve said. “We’re only up by one, it’s no time to celebrate. Focus and play like these are the last two minutes of your life.”
The buzzer sounded.
“Let’s go get ourselves a championship,” Jonah said.
“Go Jackals!” the team cheered before going back to the floor.
Steve put his arm around Jonah. “Let’s do this, partner.” In a whisper, he added. “If we win, I’ll give you a special surprise tonight.”
Steve’s promise further excited Jonah. He wanted to end his college career with another championship and Steve was like icing on the cake. As the game resumed, he played defense like there was no tomorrow, forcing a crucial turnover. A quick pass to Steve resulted a missed shot, but the ref called a foul. Steve dribbled as he thought about the implications of his two foul shots. With Jonah’s help, he’d been consistently practicing since their first one-on-one game. Now, under pressure, his dedication showed as he sank his two shots and increased their lead to three points.
But the game wasn’t over yet. The Cougars scored a three pointer in the next possession, tying the score and increasing the pressure. It was either going to be a Hail Mary shot or overtime. Jonah shook off the heat and fired off a shot past the three-point line before the buzzer.
The bench erupted in cheers with Coach Henson the loudest of all. The Jackals converged on the court, a mass of excitement and noise, celebrating their third straight championship. For Jonah, it was the sweetest one yet. He almost cried as he gave his teammates a hug.
In the midst of all the noise and the commotion, he whispered in Steve’s ear with a grin.
“I can’t wait to get that surprise.”
*
Later that night after the partying had died down, Jonah and Steve lay in bed, naked under the sheets and thoroughly exhausted. For a while, they were silent, deep in thought. Then Steve looked at Jonah.
“I guess your college basketball career is over, huh?” Steve asked.
Jonah nodded. He was graduating at the end of the semester.
“It went by faster than I thought.”
“You’ll be playing in the NBA soon.”
“I don’t know about that,” Jonah said quietly. “I got a tryout with the Rockies, but that doesn’t mean I’ll make the team.”
“You’ll make it,” Steve said proudly.
“Hope so, I guess.” It was a moment of sadness and joy. If he made the team he’d be moving to Colorado, thousands of miles away from Steve.
“All your hard work is finally going to pay off.”
“And when that happens, the first thing I’ll do is pay you back for the money you gave my mom.” Jonah reached for his hand. “And I’ll be waiting for you in Colorado.”
“There are a lot of hot guys out there.”
Jonah smiled and squeezed Steve’s hand. “I’m pretty sure none of them are as hot or as crazy as you.”
He didn’t know what the future held, but he was only sure of one thing. He wanted Steve in it. Somehow, he felt that Steve was his lucky charm and as long as he had him by his side, he’d be able to play great basketball and do a lot of other amazing things.
They were a perfect pair, after all. They were each other’s first string.
THE END
24. Master Piece
By: Cassandra Cole
Master Piece
© Cassandra Cole, 2016 – All rights reserved
Published by Steamy Reads4U
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events are purely coincidental. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return it to the seller and purchase a copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Warning
This book contains graphic content intended for readers 18+ years old.
If you are under 18 years old, or are not comfortable with adult content, please close this book now.
* * *
Chapter One
The bottle of paint thinner quivered, the palette knife and brushes falling to the floor with a clatter as Tommy was flung across the table then pushed down on top of it.
He gripped the edges, holding on for dear life as Lester pounded into him furiously then closed his eyes as each thrust pushed him closer and closer to the edge of both his sanity and self-control.
“Shit.”
The curse came out as a harsh gasp, barely audible amid the sea of Lester’s grunts, the table rattling and skin slapping against skin.
A few seconds later, it was succeeded by a series of moans which finished in a sharp cry as Tommy came.
His body shook, his thick juices coating Lester’s fingers and create a puddle near his feet.
Lester managed a few more thrusts before giving a particularly deep one, his blunt fingernails digging into Tommy’s hips as he spilled himself into the condom sheathing his cock. He tugged off the condom and tossed it into the trashcan.
Then he grabbed the box of tissues and cleaned himself up before putting his flaccid cock back inside his boxers.
He tucked in his shirt as well then zipped himself up and fastened his belt before heading in front of the mirror to comb his hair.
Tommy pushed himself off the table, trying to steady his still weak legs. “Leaving already?”
“Wham bam thank you ma’am,” Tommy said quietly. Lester pretended not to hear. Tommy frowned as he bent over to pick up his clothes, cursing when he found a fresh streak of dark paint on the front of his shirt, which must have been from one of the paintbrushes that had fallen off the table. He ignored it, though, putting the shirt on.
“You promised you’d let me do a portrait of you, remember?”
“Some other time,” Lester answered, already putting on his coat. “In the meantime, finish that painting you’re working on.”
“I’ve just started.”
“Then get to work. The sooner you finish it, the better.”
Tommy’s frown deepened. He knew that Lester felt that way about sex. But did he feel that way about art, too?
“Masterpieces can’t be rushed, Lester,” he said. “They take time just like seeds take time to turn into flowers and fruits take time to ripen.”
“Those are processes of nature. No one can control them.” Lester picked up a brush and handed it to him. “Your work is made by your brush, not by God. You can control it.”
“Bullshit.” He slapped the brush away, sending it crashing against the wall. “I am not a machine. Art isn’t like assembling parts together in a factory. It… it’s art. It takes time.”
“Then make sure it takes less time.” Lester stood in front of him. “Listen, Tommy. God doesn’t need to make money. That’s why he can take forever to answer a prayer. You, on the other hand…Your paints. Your clothes. This studio. Your food. Your water. Your electricity. That fucking condom. All of those cost money. And if you don’t make money, I don’t make money.”
“Is that all I am to you? A way to make money?”
“Of course,” Lester said. He said it in jest, but Tommy knew it was truth. If Lester didn’t make money off his work, he would drop him like a hot rock.
Lester said, “Listen, seriously, Elliot said that if you don’t start producing more paintings, you’ll have to look for a new gallery to display your work.”
“Then find another gallery. That’s your job.”
“Do you understand how fucking hard that is, Tommy? Your paintings may sell for thousands of dollars, but you’re not Pablo Picasso or Salvador Dali. It’s going to take me months to find a new gallery owner that will take a chance on you.”
“My painting will take months to finish.”
“And then that new gallery owner is probably going to want you to produce more paintings, too. He might even want you to have an exhibit.”
“I don’t do exhibits.”
“That’s the problem with you, Tommy. You think just because you can do amazing things with a paintbrush, you can act like a god or something. Well, it doesn’t work that way.”
Lester headed towards the door.
“Now, get to work. Remember, if you don’t paint, you can’t be an artist. And if you’re not an artist, you don’t need an agent.”
* * *
Chapter Two
Tommy wanted to throw his easel at Lester. He didn’t, though. He waited until Lester had left then he picked up the paintbrushes from the floor only to throw them again then sat on a chair, burying his face in his hands.
Did he really act like a god?
Was that what Lester thought he was? Well, he wished he were. That way, he would just think something and it would appear on the canvas. But no. It didn’t work that way, just as a writer didn’t just stare at a screen or a blank sheet of paper and watch words appear.
He had to think long and hard about what he wanted to paint, often waiting for a stroke of inspiration. Then he had to let the brush do its work.
Did Lester think the brush was under his control? Fuck that. The brush had a life of its own, just as characters in a story could have a life of their own.
Art was not his slave. Art was his master. And art, as Tommy said, was art. It simply couldn’t be rushed.
He understood Lester’s point, of course. Lester needed money. Probably, his ex-wife was asking for some again.
He, too, needed money. Who didn’t? But he didn’t become an artist so he could make money.
If he wanted to make money, he would have become a banker or a software engineer or a doctor. No. He became an artist so that he could make art.
Not that he chose to become an artist.
When he was seven, his mother, who was half-Portuguese (she was a single mother, too, which was why he got his last name, Castro, from her), brought him to Lisbon and he just fell in love with the street art, as well as the museums his mother brought him to.
When he returned to the US months later, he started drawing on every piece of paper he could get his hands on until his mother took pity on him and saved up for a drawing book.
She bought him an oil painting set two Christmases later. By then, she had married a kind, rich man.
He had painted that very day and had been painting since. Apparently, he had talent because he won competitions, most of which either his mother or a teacher entered him to without his knowing. He didn’t like to compete, after all.
In college, he finally studied art formally and during his graduation, he had a small exhibit.
That was the only exhibit he ever had. It was successful. And it was decided. He was going to be an artist.
That was what he had been for the past ten years. Now, though, Lester was telling him he couldn’t be an artist anymore?
Well, fine. There was no way he was going to let his craft become a business.
Singers and writers might have been able to endure that but not him. If he couldn’t make art, if he could only make commercial bullshit, then he would rather not be an artist.
Then what was he going to be?
Tommy didn’t know. But he knew he definitely wouldn’t find the answer here in his studio. He had to get away.
* * *
Chapter Three
Putting on proper clothes and packing a bag as quickly as he could, he left his apartment.
He didn’t even bother leaving a note. So what if Lester worried? Fuck him. He never really cared about him anyway.
Only when he was in his car did Tommy start thinking about where he should go.
Should he go to a hotel in the next city? Should he hop on a plane? But then, he didn’t have enough money for those.
Should he go to his Mom’s house?
His half-sister’s house? No. He didn’t want to cause them any trouble. Besides, he needed to be alone.
A place where he could be alone and where he wouldn’t need to spend too much money.
Ah, the outdoors. Maybe if he camped for a while, he would be able to get his answers from nature, or at least, some peace of mind.
Tommy smiled. “Outdoors, here I come.”
He didn’t know why but he suddenly had a feeling everything was going to be alright.
Nothing was going right.
Tommy kicked one of the front tires of his car in frustration then placed his hands on his hips as he repeatedly banged his head against the nearest tree trunk.
At first, things had been going well. He had found a cheap, clean place to stay for the night. He had a scrumptious dinner. He found out which mountains he was heading for.
Then things started going south. Some teenage girls tried to hit on him at a gasoline station.
His coffee spilled in the car.
He took the wrong exit on the freeway. Twice.
He realized he needed more underwear and it took him forever to find the right ones.
He spent too much on camping gear – whoever said camping was cheap was misinformed.
And now, his car just broke down.
And just when he was on his way up the mountain, too.
Great. Just great.
What was he supposed to do now?
Leave his car?
Call for help?
Oh, right.
His battery had died a long time ago and he hadn’t bothered to charge it, thinking it was best if no one could reach him.
Oh, well. He doubted he could get any signal here anyway.
Should he just shout for help, then? He doubted, though, that anyone would hear.
He was in the middle of nowhere, after all, and it could very well take hours before another car came along, maybe tomorrow even since it was already late.
It would take a miracle to…
Just then, a red pickup appeared around the bend and moments later, it stopped in front of him. That in itself was a surprise but it was what happened afterwards that made Tommy gape.
* * *
Chapter Four
Tommy had to force his mouth to close because his jaw had literally dropped.
The man getting out of the pickup looked to be in his late twenties. He was tall, with dark brown curls and almond-shaped blue eyes, a gently sloping nose, chiseled cheekbones and a pair of thin lips atop a square chin that was covered in about a few days’ worth of hair.
And a riveting face.
He had a body to match to. An athletic build. Toned arms with beautiful bulges of muscle peeking from beneath the short sleeves of his white shirt. A flat stomach. Narrow hips from which his jeans hung low, revealing the waistband of black boxers which tickled the imagination.
In Tommy’s case, his imagination was more than tickled, though, the wheels of his head turning and producing the image of a gloriously naked…
The man’s smile and voice jarred Tommy back to reality. “Did your car break down?”
“Yeah,” Tommy managed to answer, scratching the back of his head. “The stupid piece of junk just gave up on me.”
The man took a peek beneath the hood. As he did, Tommy resisted the urge to peek under the waistband of his pants, which now hung even lower since he was bent over, though that was easier to resist than the urge to cup those firm buttocks that were presented to him.