Chapter 5 Cody
I’ve never been so nervous about a date before, not during my adult years anyway.
Look at me: I’m a successful, grown man trembling at the knees because of a date I have with a baker at a cake shop.
Often enough, I have to give presentations at work that are way scarier than this.
My job as Risk Manager at the bank requires it. So what’s going on with me?
Actually, don’t answer that, I think I already know.
It all has to do with the fact that, emotionally, I have much more riding on this date than I do on a presentation at work.
The truth is, I like Luc. Really, really like him.
The lust I felt when I met him—that I still feel—is changing into something different, something deeper.
Who saw that coming? I certainly didn’t, because who expects to fall for the young guy working at a nearby cake shop in a foreign country, especially after only meeting him a few weeks earlier?
That’s where I am now, and the truth is, I’ve never practiced so much French as I have since I met him.
It’s fast, yes, but it’s not like I have a say in it.
Luc’s on my mind almost constantly, and when I’m not with him, it feels like time is moving especially slowly.
“Je suis nerveux,” I tell Luc in my best French as we sit outside a cafe under the sweet rays of the morning sun.
He picked the place, which I’m very okay with.
I consider him the expert on cafes and breakfast in Brussels—or in any other European country, for that matter.
The cafe is called Café de la Gare, and he ordered us both breakfast in flawless French.
The soft tones filled me with a warm sensation, and as I looked at him, I felt like I could stare at him and get lost listening to him speak French forever.
I didn’t even see the waiter, and I only grasped half of what Luc ordered.
I guess I’ll see what breakfast is when it’s served. Whatever it is, I’ll eat it.
It’s Saturday, late morning, and I’m happy but nervous, as I just told Luc in French. Upon hearing it, his face lit up, telling me I must have done something right. That’s one point for me early on during our date.
“Pourquoi?” he asks.
I don’t want to accidentally give the wrong answer, so I reply in English. “Because I really like you. And I want you to like me back.”
“You’re so strange,” he says, snickering, but the twinkle in his eyes remains. “A strange Canadian. Why are you even here, strange Canadian?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why are you here in Bruxelles?”
Bruxelles . . . It sounds so beautiful when he says it. Much more so than when I say it: just Brussels.
“I’m only here temporarily. It’s because I work at a large international bank. It’s called Avance, and I was transferred here, but it was voluntarily. I wanted a change of scenery and . . .” I stare into his blue eyes. “It looks like I got one. One that I really like.”
To my satisfaction, his cheeks redden just slightly before he asks, “But then, why here? Why not Paris?”
The way he says Paris—like a French person says it—slides over me like silk.
“Paris is the city of romance,” I reply. “That’s too much pressure for me. It would be impossible to compete.”
He chuckles just before saying, “Well, then you’re out of luck, because the city I spend most of my life in is at least as romantic.”
I return his grin. “Unlucky me. Although I can’t be that unlucky if I’m sitting here with you, can I?”
It’s cheesy, I must admit, but that’s how I feel.
“Oui,” he replies. “Tu us chanceux indeed. You’re the first non-French person I’ve gone on a date with.”
“And why’s that?”
He shrugs. “French guys just have that certain je ne sais quoi. They have style, flair, confidence . . . they’re the whole package. Or they look like it, at least.”
“And I’m not?”
“I don’t know yet. Haven’t decided.”
“Well, what can I do to prove it?”
“Learn French and keep speaking French to me. I like that.”
“Bien-s?r, mon amour,” I reply, already deciding it’ll be worth it. “Do you speak any other languages besides French and English?” I ask, forcing myself to shake off some of the warm feelings. I can’t get my hopes up—not yet.
“No. But I already speak twice as many languages as you do. Isn’t that enough?”
“I don’t know. It probably is, yes.”
Just then, our food arrives. The waiter places two breakfasts in front of us: a croissant, a tartine—which I now learn is a sliced baguette with butter and jam—a café crème, and fresh orange juice. Excitement floods me; it’s so good to finally enjoy food again now that my stomach has calmed down.
I don’t know what it is exactly: sitting outside a cafe on a terrace underneath the soft morning sun, surrounded by beautiful buildings, and with a gorgeous, witty guy in front of me with a golden tongue.
It could be all of it or maybe just the latter, but either way, I’m a little in love with this city right now . . . and maybe not just with the city.
We eat our breakfast together—which tastes even better than it looks—while Luc tries to teach me more French words.
I do my best to learn quickly and to pronounce the words correctly, but I struggle sometimes, and he laughs at me when I pronounce gentille as genital, which .
. . well. You get the drift. On that front, it also doesn’t help that we’re in a crowded cafe with people around us who can hear me talk about genitals, and I can only laugh along with him.
When we finish breakfast, Luc looks satisfied.
Just the way I feel. The bill arrives, and I pay without question.
He didn’t ask me to, didn’t make up any excuses for why he couldn’t.
I just didn’t give him the chance. I have no idea how much a baker at a cake shop earns, but I’m confident that my job at the bank pays more, and I’m happy to pay for this date.
“Consider it payment for your French lessons,” I tell him, to which he responds with another of his award-winning smiles.
“My shift starts at noon,” he tells me. “Will you walk me to the cake shop?”
I nod, not having to think about it. As if I could ever say no to that.
***
He unlocks the door to the shop—which I’ve been told his dad closed just after peak hour—and we step inside. There, he grabs my wrist without hesitation and pulls me along. “We’re all alone here. Come with me,” he says.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” he replies, and I may have an idea, but part of me thinks it would be too good to be true. But when he leads me toward a hidden door, guiding me to the back of the cake shop, my stomach flutters with the possibilities.
We step into a room that’s mostly shelves, fridges, a counter, and cream-colored tote bags, which say farine and sucre—I’m guessing flour and sugar.
Then, without another word, Luc sits atop the counter, his legs open.
Goodness. I’m unsure what to expect, but I don’t have to wait long to find out.
He grabs the front of my shirt, pulling me between his legs, and presses his lips against mine.
My heart skips a beat, and my stomach swirls at raging speed.
I don’t know exactly what I did, but I must have done something right.
This is more than I dared hope for, sooner than anticipated.
And I only hope this is the first of many kisses we’ll share.
“Wow, you move fast,” I say, chuckling as I pull away briefly.
His eyes dart between my lips and my eyes as he clings to my shirt. “You’re the one who told me you really like me during our first date.”
“True.”
Looking at him, I don’t even know why I interrupted the moment. I’ve wanted this from the start, and now I have the chance to touch him, taste him, and have him do the same to me. So why did I start talking? It seems crazy.
Deciding I need more, I lean in and wrap my arms around him, pressing my lips against his. It doesn’t take long before I get lost in the kiss.
Normally, first kisses aren’t my favorite. What if, after all that build-up, one of us doesn’t like it? I’m not worried about that now, though, not on my behalf. I knew all along I’d love this either way, and I do. His body is warm to the touch, his lips are soft, and he fits perfectly in my arms.
There’s nothing gentle about his kiss. It’s hungry, if anything, so I let it consume me, responding to it with my own desire. I place my hands on his hips, grabbing him tightly as he slides his tongue into my mouth. Holy stars, I want him so badly.
As if he heard what I was thinking, he wraps his legs around me and claims my mouth in a dirty kiss.
I don’t know how he could be any hotter.
Or well, I suppose I do, because here’s something you don’t know about me: I’m into fit guys with small cocks.
A bratty bottom in his twenties with a small cock, who’ll boss me around in bed like he owns me, is the ultimate fantasy for me.
If Luc’s like that, then . . . well, fuck .
. . we’ll have such great times together. I know we’d both make sure of that.
His hand lands on the back of my head, and with every second that passes, with every swipe of his tongue, I feel my boner growing, until it feels like it’s made of steel, until it hurts.
I moan and press it against the inside of his leg because I want him to feel it. I want him to know.
“Do you feel that?” I ask, my voice rough. “What you do to me? You’ve driven me crazy from the day I met you.”
He chuckles and presses harder against me, answering my question without words.
He has my cock pressing hard against the inside of his leg, but I can’t feel his.
I hope that doesn’t mean he’s soft, but rather that he’s hiding a small package under his trousers, too small for me to feel.
I picture it, and the fantasy makes me almost come in my pants.
I have to stop before I burst because . .
. that’s not what I want out of this. Not just that, anyway.
“Luc,” I mutter against his lips. Disgruntledly, I pull away just a bit, going against my desire to ravage him. But if I don’t say it now, I don’t think I ever will. “I’m loving this, but—”
He shushes me and pulls me back in, clinging onto me like I’m something he needs to be able to breathe. “Then don’t stop.”
Before I know it, I’m back to kissing him and on the verge of forgetting what I was about to say.
Minutes pass with us exploring each other’s tongues and mouths, discovering each other’s fully clothed bodies with our hands.
But I can’t ignore what I want to tell him, it’s too important for that, so I try again.
“Luc,” I mutter. “It’s just that . . . “ Kiss. “You should know . . .” Kiss. “I’m not looking for a hookup. I want more.”
He finally pulls away and blinks, his expression unreadable. I register that his hand is still on the back of my head, and I’m very aware of it. “More what? More dates?”
“Yes, more dates.” I wrap my hands around his waist and lean in slightly. “Dates that will eventually lead to a relationship, maybe.”
He scoffs. “Now who moves fast?” His words cause me to panic, but to my relief, he’s smiling. “We’ll see. First, tell me this. Do you still party, old man?”
I hadn’t expected that question, especially right now, with my body between his legs. “Party?”
“Yes, you know, partying? Going out for drinks? Visiting clubs?”
I can’t help but scoff softly. Going out for drinks is one thing, but clubs are something entirely different.
I last went to one around six months ago, and I did not care for it.
I suppose there’s a time for everyone to outgrow clubs, and for me, that time was apparently at the age of thirty-six—or perhaps it was already before that.
But I’m willing to endure it for him.
“I don’t love it. But we can go if that’s what you want.”
He nods. “I’ll give you the address. Be there at eleven.”
“What, tonight?!”
“Yes, it’s Saturday, so eleven tonight. “
Eleven . . . Goodness me. I’m not made for this anymore. At least I don’t have to work tomorrow. I don’t think I’d survive that.
“Can I still see you before then?”
“Depends. Can you be around me without distracting me from work? Or stop looking at me like you want to eat me?”
I think we both know the answer to that. “No.”
“And you want to take your time with me?”
“Definitely.”
He smirks. “Then maybe just meet me at the club.”
I can’t suppress a groan. There’s no denying that even though I want to pursue him for as long as it takes for him to fall in love with me, a massive part of me wants to skip the club and take him home to my bed. I guess that’s going to have to wait.