by Jayne Rylon
A man like this—executive, commanding, somebody who has their shit together—they’d be sure to keep a tight rein on their boyfriends. By coming here in person in broad daylight, he’s also proving he doesn’t give a damn who knows it.
If I say that doesn’t turn me on, I’ll be lying.
Even better, it means I’ll be able to boost my bank account. At the end of the day, as long as I can survive doing what I love, that’s what matters most to me. That’s all I have left that brings me true joy, to be honest.
“Is there something I can help you with?” I ask, surprised when he flinches at the nearness of my inquiry. He doesn’t strike me as the jumpy type.
He spins and smiles tightly at me. Even that pinched expression can’t hide how handsome he is. Damn. “Yes. I’d like to arrange a portrait for my partner. I heard you’re the right person for the job. After checking out your gallery, I’d say the recommendation was understated.”
Though I don’t advertise myself as a LGBT artist, I’d somehow fallen into this line of work. I’d like to think that’s because, as a gay man myself, I’m capable of delivering an honest and unbiased representation of my subjects. I understand the intricacies of their bond, even if I no longer have—or want—that in my life. Or maybe I’m getting a reputation that drives other business away. I don’t do this sort of work exclusively, but it seems like every week I get more and more requests like this. Let’s be honest, they’re my favorite.
Regardless, I’m thanking the universe that the newcomer is on our team. I might have shed a tear for all my fellow gay guys if not. I’m assaulted by a flash of regret that I don’t kneel for men like him anymore. The first time I’ve had that thought in years. What the fuck?
Maybe I should turn him down. Tell him I’m too busy. Name a price he’ll never pay.
It could be dangerous to expose myself to that kind of charisma. Even if he’s taken. It’s better not to be tempted, even by something I can never have. Reminded of what I’ve lost.
“We can probably work something out…” Why don’t I jump at the chance? Say yes and lock down a date like I normally would? He makes me nervous.
“What would it take exactly to get you to take the job?” His steely gray eyes narrow and I can see him engaging negotiation mode. He must be one beast of a businessman. I wish I didn’t find his metamorphosis so intriguing. Or arousing.
Here’s the point where I should make up some shit to get him the hell out of my gallery. Pronto. I open my mouth, but instead of fabricating an ironclad excuse, I hear myself say, “You’ll need to be willing to spring for the best. I don’t come cheap.”
Why does that make me sound like a hooker bargaining for a couple extra bucks before blowing their mark? I lick my lips. Probably because sucking him off sounds delicious. Too bad he’s in a relationship. If not, I might offer him the fuck buddy discount.
Shit.
“My boyfriend is worth it.” He shrugs one shoulder. Though he’s tall and broad, he isn’t bulky. I wish I could paint him instead of his beau. I have a feeling that when I return to my easel, my subject might take on some of this stranger’s lanky qualities.
“In that case, I charge ten grand for nude portraits. Five-thousand due at the sitting and the balance upon delivery of the final approved artwork.”
He doesn’t even blink at my highest tier quote. “Is the frame included?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I hand-make them out of a wood that complements the palette we end up going with. Museum quality.”
“How far in advance are you scheduling out?” The guy looks at his fancy watch again. I’m sure it’s got a date function for this planet and likely a few others somewhere in those ornate dials. I hate what his frown does to his mouth, pinching his lips tight. “I’ve been busy. Probably haven’t left enough time to have it finished by our anniversary.”
“I have a rush fee option, but I warn you, it’s steep.”
He doesn’t hesitate or flinch. “I’ll pay you double.”
“For twenty grand I’ll make time whenever you need me.”
Why does his hot cocoa gaze seem to snap to mine at that? I’m not trying to be dirty or even flirty for that matter. If nothing else, I respect committed guys. You know, the ones that don’t bail on their partners. I’d never interfere with someone’s relationship.
Instead of pouncing on my poorly worded response or taking the opportunity to make an innuendo-filled crack, he turns humble. Somehow that’s even sexier on him, that hint of gentleness.
Help me.
“Thank you.” The corner of his mouth tips up slightly. Even that’s enough to make his already handsome face come alive. Oh yeah, I’ll be doing some unpaid sketches later. He doesn’t have to know he’s my new muse. “I’ve got just under a month until the big day. It’ll be five years.”
“Congratulations.” I mean that sincerely. “That’s a long time.”
The milestone where things start to become a forever sort of relationship, I’d guess. Although, hell, I thought that after only a couple months with Cortez. Thank God he ditched me before we got any closer. I wouldn’t have survived.
He chuckles. “Yeah, it’s funny. Sometimes I can’t believe it’s been so long and other times it seems like forever.”
The creases in his forehead and chiseled cheeks make me sure he’s faced ups and some pretty serious downs with his lover. Who doesn’t? Kudos to them for sticking it out and working through their issues instead of bailing when things got rocky. Maybe the road will be easy for them from here on out. I hope so, for this guy’s sake. He seems pretty decent for such a smoking hot rich guy. Not dickish in the least.
“I’m sure time flies when you’re with the right person.” His boyfriend is one hell of a lucky bastard. Probably young, fit, and gorgeous to land someone of this caliber. At least my job would be easy. “If your boyfriend is available to pose Saturday, I’m free.”
“Wait.” He swallows hard. “I think you misunderstood.”
“How so?”
“I want you to paint a portrait of me to give him as a gift.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Christ, is that pretentious? No one does it that way, do they?”
“Uh…” It would be a first. Usually the dominant partner commissions a portrait of their lover as a keepsake. Sort of a visual representation of their possession. A way to show them how prized they are.
Ho-ly fuck. I suddenly want this job more than my next breath. I haven’t been this excited about a project since I was hired to paint a foursome and they got frisky during their modeling session.
That had been hot. This corporate raider stripping down for me, baring himself wholly, and allowing himself to be vulnerable, giving all of himself to his lover against his natural instincts to dominate…whoa. Surface-of-the-sun level scorching.
I mean, I’m no poacher and he’s clearly in love. So that makes him safe. Safe to drool over from a distance. I plan to do just that and create a piece of art worthy of something that beautiful. Fuck, I should probably be paying him for this chance.
My suddenly dry throat and bugged-out eyes have probably given him the wrong impression. I’m scaring him away.
“Maybe this isn’t such a great idea. It’s just that I want him to know I’m his. Really his. In every way possible. When I look at your paintings, it seems obvious that these men are owned. Like me.” The instinctive way he stares at the tips of his shoes as he says it, clasping his hands behind his back, nearly knocks me off my feet a second time.
This man is a dedicated bottom? You have got to be fucking kidding me.
I read every cue wrong. For an experienced player like myself, that’s a first.
Humbling and intriguing. Downright bonerific.
I hustle behind my counter to hide my inevitable hard-on, choking as I bite my lip to keep from saying something even more inappropriate. As soon as he leaves I’ll be taking a jerk break. Not until I fix the damage I did with my arrogant assumptions. A man like him—
like I used to be—should never feel less-than. I’m afraid he’s reading my shock as distaste. Nothing could be further from the truth.
“Sorry to have taken your time.” He clears his throat then begins to turn away.
“No, wait.” I somehow manage to roll my lolling tongue back into my face long enough to reassure him. “I’m sure your boyfriend will love your gift. It’s just…you’re very direct. Assertive. I assumed…um. Stuff that’s none of my business. I’m sorry.”
The man blinks a few times then grins at me, making me want him twice as bad. “Oh. Yeah, that happens to me a lot. It’s sort of like being a superhero. One boring thing by day, another more exciting thing by night.”
“You don’t have to explain.” I wave my hands in front of me, embarrassed for the first time in forever around a guy. How fucking rude could I be?
“Okay then. You really don’t mind working on the weekend?” His smile grows. It exposes a wicked set of dimples that do nothing to dissuade my cock from leaking more. “My boyfriend tells me I’m a workaholic when I do that.”
Thank God he’s easygoing and quick to forgive. I can’t believe I put my foot in my mouth like that. It must have been his sexiness rattling my brains. Or maybe some sort of self-defense system that ignored the possibility of a rare guy like him who could turn me on with their tough exterior yet bow to an unassuming top like me. If I believed in romantic possibilities anymore, I’d say that’s exactly the kind of man I should be looking for.
“Nah. It’s pretty standard for me, actually. People with real jobs aren’t usually available to pose nude during the work week. Besides, I’m single. There’s no one to give a shit if I don’t come home.” I shrug one shoulder, as if it doesn’t matter.
“It seems as though you have a real job.” He’s quick to correct me with a fascinating blend of aggression, confidence, and humility. Seriously. Hottest dude ever. “I mean, I plan to pay you in actual dollars, not Monopoly money. If I’m an expert in anything, it’s businesses. You’ve got plenty of talent to satisfy the demands of this niche market you’ve identified and capitalized on. You’re a sole proprietor with an obvious lifelong passion for your work. These are the types of ventures I hunt to invest in. You’re not looking for a partner to grow your studio, are you?”
Well, I never thought of it quite like that.
“No. I’m not aiming for world domination or anything. This is about me doing what I love.” I chuckle kind of awkwardly as his praise sends a flutter of warmth through my chest. He has to get the hell out of here before I actually start to like him in addition to lusting after him.
“I figured, but you can’t blame me for trying, can you?” He shrugs.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I shake myself, trying to focus on our transaction instead of the weird energy in the room. “What time and where should I meet you?”
He reaches into his breast pocket and withdraws a business card before offering it to me, tucked between two long, fine fingers. Oh, what he could do with hands like those.
Trying to seem far less impressed than I am, I peek at the name embossed on the cardstock in tasteful gold letters.
Rogan Clearwater III
Doesn’t that just figure? His name is as uptight as he first seemed. I wonder how many people never see beneath his misleading exterior.
That’s it. I’m going to have to close the shop for a mid-afternoon siesta where I do no sleeping. Instead I’m going to cave to my curiosity, Google the shit out of this guy and his boyfriend in the name of research, then imagine what better uses I could put his fancy silk tie to now that I’ve developed my taste for power plays. At least I had Cortez to thank for that.
He made me realize how much more fun it is to fuck and fuck over than to be the recipient of all those poundings. If I still find myself jerking off to fantasies of him and what it would be like to recover the courage to submit again someday, well…no one has to know about that but me.
It’s pissing me off how twisted up I’m getting. Why does this man—Rogan—bring out so many tangled up emotions, especially in such a brief encounter? I thought I was past this shit and here I am having some kind of sexual crisis over a taken man who has no idea how badly his mere existence is confusing me. Making me yearn for things I can’t have.
“I usually come downtown to my office for a half day on Saturday mornings. Maybe I’ll meet you up at our beach house instead. It’s about a forty-minute drive. Is that too far for you?”
“Uh, I don’t have a car, but I can arrange an Uber.” I refuse to be embarrassed about that. Fuck him and his lavish lifestyle. Who needs two houses anyway?
Of course, my drama is entirely in my head. He’s not judging me. He’s just trying to get what he’s paying top dollar for. Maybe I should back out. It’s obvious Rogan mashes my buttons without even trying. Except then I wouldn’t get to see him again. Besides, no one else will do his portrait justice.
I am the right person for this job. Guaranteed.
“If it’s not too weird, I could pick you up since I’ll be passing right by on my way out of the city.” He waits for my agreement. Patiently. Obediently. Oblivious to the chaos he’s churned up in my psyche.
As if my dick is intent on making the worst decisions possible for my sanity, I hear myself agreeing. “Sure. That’ll work.”
“Email me at the address on my card. I’ll have my assistant send you the pertinent information and coordinate the details.” There was in-charge guy again. It was incredible how he flip-flopped like that. Now I’d have forty whole minutes, twice, to observe him in addition to the time he’s posing. Hopefully he won’t detect my fascination.
I nod, brushing my fingers over the fine stationary again.
Rogan checks his watch one last time, his smile fading. “Sorry to cut this short, I’ve got a meeting.”
I bet. Captain of industry and all that.
Maybe he stays late for important crap every day while his poor boyfriend waits for him in some palatial high-rise penthouse. No wonder he’s going all out for this occasion. Probably needs to get out of the doghouse for neglecting his duties at home. A guy can only go to bed lonely so many times before he snaps.
I should know.
I guess that’s why my fucked-up brain is trying to fabricate some imaginary flaws to make my mental image of Rogan less attractive. It might be the only way I survive this assignment.
“No problem. I look forward to hearing from your assistant.” Until then I have a fantasy guy to finish painting. The kind who’s everything I hope for and will never disappoint. The kind who lives up to my naughty, misguided thoughts. The kind I can mold into whatever suits my fancy that day. Most important—the kind who’s fake and doesn’t threaten the sterile backdrop I’ve fashioned for my existence to keep me sheltered and allow me to learn to function halfway normally again.
Someone entirely opposite of this unexpected, elegant, influential, gorgeous, tempting, and very taken man.
“See you Saturday. Thank you again.” He gives me a curt nod then spins sharply on his heel before striding from my shop without a backward glance. Meanwhile, I stare until he’s out of sight.
This time the ringing bells sound hollow to me.
Maybe it’s time to get rid of them.
3
Rogan
I drive toward Kaden Finch’s studio with enough wiggle room to be comfortably early for our prearranged time even if there’s unprecedented Saturday morning traffic. Part of me is as eager as a guy about to pick up a first date. The rest of me still isn’t sure I haven’t screwed things up royally. It irritates me. I can be so decisive in business dealings, yet I never seem to have the same sort of confidence around my choices in my personal life.
Things are always complicated. By my career, by my money, and doubly so by my desires, which make me something of a freak. I don’t fit the submissive mold. Most guys I’ve been interested in have been more intimidated than turned on by me.
&n
bsp; Hell, for a while I even convinced myself that Ronaldo and I were wasting each other’s time. Except after I’d confided my doubts, he showed me over and over how wrong I’d been and what a colossal mistake I’d almost made by deciding to break up with him. I guess I’d listened to too many of the online tabloid stories that billed us as incompatible from the start then progressed to using completely unsubstantiated cheating rumors as clickbait. It seems being gay and the head of a multi-billion dollar corporation makes the gossip even jucier.
I don’t read that trash anymore. Saves a hell of a lot of fighting.
Of course, none of that proves my choice of anniversary presents isn’t ridiculous. I’m fairly certain Ronaldo would love to own me however he can. After our rough patch, it’s one of the few ways I can think of to show him how committed I am to our partnership.
Lately he seems insecure about the time I spend at work, always questioning me about when I’ll be home and glowering when I don’t give him the answer he hopes for. I thought the painting might be a physical reminder of how I prioritize our relationship over the wealth or success produced by my career. Those things mean nothing to me without him. I work so that he wants for nothing, even given his lavish tastes, which seems like exactly the sort of thing a dutiful slave should aim for.
The balance in my bank account doesn’t give me any illusions about my role in our partnership, although sometimes I think he wishes I would stay at home and clean the house while he goes out and brings home the bacon. Okay, I actually think that every morning while I’m knotting my tie around my neck as he burrows under our pillows and grumbles about waking up alone until I give him a good-morning blowjob to hold him over until the evening.
Maybe instead of a canvas, I should sell the company and give him those papers instead. Is that really what he wants? What the hell would I do with myself then? Truth is, to my business partners I am Clearwater Industries. Without me at the helm, the valuation of our assets would plummet. That’s not arrogance speaking; it’s business acumen.
