Chapter 3 #2
I’d once thought Felix the exception to all of the rules I’d made for myself, but this boy—young man—brings forth those same notions.
Take. Have. Enjoy. And to hell with what people might say.
Asher may be even more beautiful than Felix, eyes that invite me to strip away each layer and discover him piece by piece.
I reach out and take hold of him by the nape, gripping him firmly as I pull his head toward mine and bring our lips together.
He lets out a sweet little whine and opens his mouth to welcome me inside it.
He tastes of matcha and cinnamon, and then there’s a rush of his delicately masculine scent as he tips his head back and pushes himself into my body.
Kissing me back hard, he walks us backwards until we’re stopped by his kitchen counter, then he pulls back and turns us so he can hop up onto the surface.
With a little grin, he reaches for me again.
His arms and legs wrap around me as his fingers crawl up and into my hair, where he tugs my head forward again.
This next kiss is slower, more careful, tender almost. When we pause for breath, I gaze into the depths of his eyes, glittering blue and gorgeous.
“Christ, you’re beautiful,” I whisper.
He smiles, almost shyly, and kisses me again, just a soft press of his lips. “You are.”
I scoff a little. “I’m far too old to be beautiful.”
He frowns as he pulls back. “I didn’t know beauty had an age limit. Is that a British thing?”
“No, it’s a universal thing.” I move to kiss him again, but he pulls just out of reach.
“No, not until you admit that older people can be beautiful. So, like, when I’m your age, you’re saying I won’t be beautiful anymore? Or if I was your age now, I wouldn’t be?”
“I’m not quite sure what I’m saying. I’m rather distracted right now.” My dick is hard and throbbing, and his mouth is delicious.
“So, then take it back.”
I smile indulgently. “Okay, I take it back. Older people can be beautiful, too.” He smiles triumphantly. “I’m just not one of them.”
“So then you’re saying my opinions don’t matter?” There’s a playful look on his face now. He’s enjoying this.
“Gosh, you’re quite impossible, aren’t you?” It’s charming. He’s charming. He smiles wide and leans in to reward me with another kiss, his tongue licking into my mouth lazily.
“So about that blow job…” he murmurs against my lips.
My dick twitches desperately, but somehow I manage to say, “It’s really not necessary. It was a pleasure helping you upstairs with your strangely specific items. No… payment required.”
“Oh, you think the blow job was for you? Uh, no, that was for me. Since I paid on our first date.”
First date. The words sound ridiculous. In fact, it’s the sound of them that takes me out of the fantasy I’ve been living for the last couple of hours and into the blinding, screaming reality of the thing.
He and I can’t date. He and I can’t be anything more than this, and even this has gone too far.
Hadn’t I sworn to myself I wouldn’t do this again?
I’d had a lucky bloody escape with Felix in that somehow I’d not been completely ruined by it.
He was the wake-up call I needed, the near miss I needed, to convince me that I needed to stop acting like this and be bloody responsible.
What am I even doing here. In his apartment.
Kissing him. A young guy I met at a bookshop, who’s the same age as my son. It’s embarrassing. I’m embarrassing.
I take a step back, away from him, and Asher’s expression transforms into one of disappointment.
“I should go,” I say as I pull out my mobile. “I just need to call a cab.”
He slides off of the counter. “Um, I can drive you wherever you need to go, no worries. Just give me a sec.” His tone is a little more serious now.
“It’s fine, truly. I can get a cab.” The idea of him dropping me off at the gate of the ambassador’s residence makes me feel ill. As clear a sign as any that this is wrong. That I shouldn’t be doing this with him.
“I can take you back to the bookshop if you want,” he says as though he can read my mind. But I’m already on the Uber app, selecting my car from the list of options. “I promise you, a cab is fine.”
“Right, well, okay then.” After a moment of awkward silence, Asher says, “Do you mind if I go change real quick?”
“Of course not.” I wonder if it’s an excuse to not stand around uncomfortably while we wait for the cab, but he doesn’t seem the sort to be uncomfortable about anything, so perhaps those are just my own feelings.
While he changes, I take a look around the apartment, noticing for the first time something that looks like a studio light on a stand in one corner, and a shorter one in another.
I expect it’s something to do with painting, though the light in here is extremely generous—a night light perhaps?
Something to do with drying the pieces. He’s clearly accomplished; that much is evident immediately.
I wonder if he goes to art school or just sells to private buyers.
Does he make enough money selling art? He must in order to afford a place like this, a car, and the wealth of supplies he has.
I look at the painting on the balcony again. The painting of me.
I couldn’t stop thinking about you.
I glance at the closed bedroom door and imagine another version of myself.
How that version might just go in there now and wrap his arms around the boy in there and lose himself in him for an afternoon, perhaps a weekend.
How that version could so easily lose himself in those baby-blue eyes and sweet, lush mouth. How he’d take everything being offered.
What was he offering, exactly? A quick fuck?
I could use one, honestly. An extended arrangement?
I’d made that work in London for almost four years, and I have far fewer prying eyes here.
Felix had known who I was, though, and had kept my identity secret for years.
Asher doesn’t seem like the type to gossip, even if he did find out who I was, but what do I know?
I just met him this afternoon. It’s like I never learn.
Just as I’m wondering whether to leave before my Uber even arrives, he comes strolling out of the bedroom wearing patterned trousers that are too long and a black vest with paint splatters and a torn hem.
It looks well-worn and hangs loose off his lean but surprisingly muscular frame.
Strong shoulders and arms showcase the body of someone who works out and eats well.
It’s not what I was expecting to be hidden under the layers of oversized clothes.
A fierce lick of desire races through me.
“Sorry, I had to get out of those clothes.”
“You’re planning on doing some painting?” I indicate the paint-splattered top. He gives me an insulted look.
“Eh, this is vintage Westwood, how dare you?”
It takes me a half second to realise he’s joking, before his mouth turns up into a smile.
“Yeah, I guess I’ll try and finish the big guy off. You know, since I couldn’t do it for the real thing.” He gives me that now trademark seductive smile of his and sucks his lip into his mouth. Before I can react my phone vibrates, alerting me that my Uber is outside. I glance down at the screen.
“Your ride here?” He sounds disappointed.
“It is.” I nod.
“Well, maybe I’ll see you around...” There’s still a measure of flirtation in his tone, but less than there has been. I don’t blame him for it. I’m giving a jumble of mixed signals here.
“Yes, maybe you will,” I say lamely. “Thank you for the tea.”
“No problem.”
As I head for the door, I get an echo of the feeling I had when he walked out of the store, like something is pulling me back, urging me not to walk out of here without some promise that we’ll see each other again.
“Do you sell them?” I ask. He turns, one thick eyebrow raised speculatively. “Your paintings, do you sell them when you finish them?”
“Sometimes.”
I indicate toward it. “When you’re finished, perhaps you can send me a picture of it.”
“A picture,” he repeats in a deadpan voice.
“I mean, so I could buy it from you?”
“So you want a picture of it first, then you’ll decide if you wanna buy it?”
His eyes are narrowed like I’ve insulted him, but something tells me he’s playacting at being insulted. “Okay, no picture required. I’ll buy it unseen.”
He nods, looking impressed. “And what if you hate it? Like really hate it.”
“I’ll hang it in a room I don’t go into very much.”
He smiles, and then I do too. With purpose, he strides across the apartment to where a telephone hangs on a wall by the kitchen and unhooks a small notebook from its hook next to it.
Then he lifts a pen from a bowl on the counter and shoves both out to me.
Not a pen, I notice, an artist’s pencil.
I take them both and scribble my number—my personal number—on the piece of paper, and hand both back to him.
“No promises,” he says. “Sometimes I destroy them in a fit of rage. Sometimes I drop them off at thrift stores, sometimes I jerk off over them and then set them on fire.”
My cock twitches with interest at the picture that last one paints in my twisted head. “I mean, it’s your art.”
“That’s a very loose term for it,” he replies. “Demon twinks jerking off onto canvas isn’t something they’re displaying at MoMA just yet.”
“More’s the pity.”
“One day though…”
I really need to go before my Uber drives off, but I’m finding it hard to make any move to leave his company.
“I’ll wait to hear from you then,” I say. “About the painting.”
“Sure thing.”
He says it in such a way that I doubt I’ll ever hear from him again as long as I live, though I hope I’m wrong. I give him my most hopeful, encouraging smile and back away, letting myself out of his apartment and into the early evening sunshine.