Lucas Takes It All In
I’d finally scrubbed the kitchen, top to bottom, within an inch of its life.
Skyler had kept me company on FaceTime, telling me how his and Robin’s road trip adventure to Seattle had gone, and how—since his old crush hadn’t been there this time—Delia and Matt were planning on driving down to California for Friendsgiving.
There was something strangely Zen about listening to teenage problems while ridding the baseboards of unspeakable grime.
After hanging up, I took a deep, calming breath.
On paper, handling Armand’s social media accounts and curating content was a piece of cake.
Part of being chronically online meant I could filter and hashtag in my sleep.
The problem was I’d severely underestimated just how unaccommodating Armand would be about the whole thing.
Even capturing a handful of day-in-the-life shots of him on the floor working had been like pulling teeth, as he would be tense and awkward and unnatural the whole time.
Candids would be preferable, but in an apartment this size there was nowhere to hide. Not that Armand didn’t try.
I’d done what I could indoors—it was time to take a field trip and grab some natural light.
As Armand drove us to our first location, I reviewed the saved photos I’d been using as inspiration, namely Patricia Yang’s entire catalog.
I kept coming back to her portfolio as a reminder of what someone could accomplish when it came to portraiture.
Armand deserved nothing less than my best effort.
“Y’know, I’m pretty sure this constitutes kidnapping,” Armand grumbled as I directed him to pull over at The Regent’s Park instead of at the restaurant that I’d told him we were going to.
“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re a fully grown adult.
I man-napped you,” I teased. “You may attempt to try and sue me later.” I had to all but drag him from the car.
At my insistence, Armand had put on passably respectable clothes, which sure, would’ve worked great for a nice lunch at Carluccio’s, but it would work even better for me to snap headshots.
“No one wants to see my bloody face!” Armand protested as I ushered him into something resembling a natural pose against the backdrop of the Avenue Gardens.
“First of all, that’s a hot lie.” I smoothed Armand’s wayward hair away from his forehead. “And second of all—” I broke professionalism long enough to sneak a soft kiss onto Armand’s questing lips. “So there.”
Then I stepped back, holding up my camera and flashing Armand a grin. “Now, if you could look off to your left and hold that position.”
Armand did not hold that position—he fidgeted and shifted and did literally everything to look as awkward as humanly possible.
At some point, the photos I’d managed to get were as good as they could be given the circumstances. “Okay, that was the last one. I mean it this time.” I stifled a laugh as Armand visibly deflated with relief.
“That was horrid.” He slumped into my arms and buried his face in my neck. “You’re a menace.”
“Says the man who nearly climbed an entire tree to avoid a camera in his face.” I poked his side, evoking a strangled squeak. “But I got some good ones. I regret to inform you, despite your best efforts, you’re shockingly photogenic.”
Armand could not have looked more disappointed with himself.
All things considered, it was a workable amount of content, at least in a visual medium. Which was a definitive step up from Armand not being successfully captured on film. But Armand the person was still a mystery to his fans, which meant that nabbing photos of the man was the easy part.
He’d been patient with me as I’d insisted on a touristy drive around the city, snapping photos of famous landmarks—because why not—and was both embarrassed and fond as I attempted what he’d deemed an atrocious British accent.
It wasn’t until we (to Armand’s palpable relief) returned to his apartment that it occurred to me that maybe I could use London’s damp and downright gloomy weather—despite being summer, for god’s sake—to my advantage.
“You know,” I pointed out once we’d stepped inside, “you can’t avoid being interviewed forever. I am not so easily defeated.”
He melted into the couch, offering me a pout. His eyes dropped from my face to where my fingers fiddled with my scarf. “Wouldn’t be so sure of that. Not much to me—still waters can run shallow.”
“Nah.” I’d kicked off my shoes by the door but didn’t move closer yet. My heart pounded—this would be something new, something different, something I would’ve never dared try with Darren. I swallowed past a dry throat and reached for my ever-flickering courage. “How about we make a deal.”
He raised a gorgeous dark eyebrow.
Here goes nothing. “I’m going to ask you some questions, and for every answer you give that I deem acceptable, I’ll take a layer off.”
Armand choked on nothing. “W-what?”
“You heard me.” Now I did step closer, coming to rest in front of Armand, my lower back brushing the card table. I pinched the edge of my scarf. “So. Lowball question. Have you always lived in London?”
Armand was already blushing. “Yes. Er. No, I was born up North, but we moved to Islington when I was about nine.”
It was the first direct answer he’d given so far. I smiled to hide my nerves, and tugged off the scarf, watching Armand watch it drop to the floor. “So, was it hard being the new kid?”
Armand visibly swallowed. “No more than anything else.”
I playfully narrowed my eyes. “That’s not an answer. I mean was it hard making friends? Were you popular?” For good measure I unzipped my jacket but made no move to push it off my shoulders yet.
Armand picked at a couch cushion. “I’m sure this will come as a surprise, but I was. Actually. I’m one of those horribly tragic people who peaked in primary school.”
I snorted. “Right. You definitely seem like a has-been third grader.” I shifted enough for the jacket to slip off one shoulder, then the other. We were down to my button-up, undershirt, and Chinos—I needed to choose my questions wisely. “Can you tell me about your parents?”
Armand shrugged, which was a nonchalant gesture marred by his eternal blush. “I, er, never knew my mum, actually. And my dad’s a clown.”
I blinked. “Does that mean something different in British?”
“No, er, he’s an actual clown. Sol Demetrio, he’s touring with Cirque de Lune. I think they’re in Spain this time of year.” Armand cleared his throat. “We don’t speak much.”
Damn, I had to go and make him talk about his estranged father. “Is he a mime?”
It worked. Armand chuckled, low and warm, though it raised in pitch as I took another step closer, holding eye contact as I unclasped my shirt.
Our knees were touching. High on the way he was looking up at me—eyes dilated, full lips parted and begging to be kissed, something almost worshipful in his gaze—I decided that if I was already standing on a cliff, I might as well jump.
“No touch,” I breathed, letting my button-up fall before straddling him.
“Oh god—”
I kept my weight on my knees, even though my skin was tingling and I wanted to sink fully onto his lap. It was equally tempting to touch him—his face was mere inches away, all hot and bothered and handsome, and damn I was in big trouble.
Armand whined, his hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach for me. He slipped them under his thighs. “Lucas . . .”
“Sh. We’re still in the interview.” I kept my focus on his face and the job at hand instead of the all-too-familiar imposter syndrome creeping in. It was a little mean, but I dipped my lips closer, a breath away. “Who was your first kiss?”
“Mm.” Armand was practically vibrating where he sat. “My friend Florabelle. Behind the community center after dance club. I was eleven.” He wet his lips. “Maybe twelve.”
I leaned back, enough to pull off my undershirt, leaving my full chest exposed.
“Lucas.” Armand was struggling not to free his hands. “Bloody hell—”
“Professionalism, Mr. Demetrio,” I managed a playful chide as my face flushed at his rapt attention.
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen me undressed, but it was the first time I’d gone so slow with it.
There was no heat-of-the-moment frenzy to provide safety.
The light was on and there was nowhere to hide.
“So, when you were eleven maybe twelve, were you already coming up with weird comic ideas?” I braced both hands on the top of the couch, bracketing Armand’s head.
“Was Surrogate Goose already percolating in that cute little noggin?”
He let out a strangled noise that was half broken growl, half moan. “Lucas, if you don’t let me touch you, I’m going to do something very embarrassing.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He’d given enough real answers for me to sprinkle through a handful of posts; add to that some of the sightseeing photos I took, and I’d be set for the next few days’ worth of work.
I reached for his wrists, pulling his hands free from beneath his thighs and guiding them to rest on my still-unfortunately-clothed knees. “Will you do the honors this time?”
He wasted no time undoing my zipper, fingers fluttering dangerously close to the love handles I couldn’t seem to get rid of no matter how hard I tried.
He was, however, still fully clothed, which was unacceptable.
I got to my feet long enough to tug my pants and underwear to the floor, meeting his heated gaze. “Now you.”
He rid himself of his layers at record speed. Every inch of my skin tingled, desperate for him to touch me, but I hadn’t yet returned to his lap. I wanted to see how long I could keep up the no-touching bit. “Can I try something?” I worked overtime to keep my voice steady.
Before I’d finished my question, he was nodding. “Anything. Anything you want.” He was flushed pink everywhere, chest rising and falling heavily, and I couldn’t help but drop my gaze to where he was thick and straining with want.
I licked my lips. “Lay back on the couch. Hands up on the armrest.” I waited until he’d almost instantly complied, staring up at me in delicious anticipation, to repeat, “No touch.” Carefully, I straddled him. Armand let out a soft moan, the armrests creaking where he gripped them.
“This okay?” I was fairly confident it was, but I wanted to make sure before proceeding. Armand already looked debauched and I’d barely touched him—his dark locks splayed out over the armrest he leaned against, ethereal in a way that made me lose my breath.
He swallowed, his eyes wide and dark and burning. “’S more than okay,” he breathed.
“Good.” I let my lips brush his collarbone, feeling each and every shiver that ran through him, his muscles jumping as I flicked my tongue over a hardened nipple.
He writhed against the cushions, keening and arching upward as I traversed lower and lower, my lips dancing at his hip bone.
“I know it’ll be difficult,” I managed, my mouth already watering, wanting to taste him, “but I want you to keep your hands up there or I’ll stop.
” I was aching for his touch, but the sight of him like this—open and trusting and so visibly turned on—was too good to pass up.
He whined, biting his lip. “Y-yes, Lucas, please—”
I took him into my mouth a little at a time—not because I needed to work up to it, I’d had plenty of experience being on the giving end before, but because I wanted to relish every second of Armand coming undone.
His broken little noises, the way his head snapped back against the armrest when I’d taken him to the hilt, his heels scrambling for purchase against the couch cushion as I let my fingers come into play.
His knuckles had gone white beside his head, and except for the occasional twitch, he didn’t reach down to grab my hair. The thought of him doing so filled me with such molten desire I couldn’t help but take myself in my other hand, stroking myself and Armand in tandem.
He was hot and slick in my throat, and as my thumb teased the entrance between his cheeks I knew he wouldn’t last much longer. Desperate for release, I freed him with a filthy-sounding pop and raised myself up to grind both our lengths together, gasping at Armand rocking against me with abandon.
He crashed over the edge as I captured his mouth with mine, and I followed right behind.
We lay collapsed for a long time, relearning how to breathe.
“Well,” I finally said, voice low and rough, “good interview. I think we can leave out this part, though.”
Armand let out a breathy chuckle, turning his head to capture my lips, humming into my mouth and sending my heart fluttering up through my throat.
There were still so many layers to him, so much of his life I hadn’t yet uncovered, but this felt like progress.
Like maybe Armand would let me in, sharing everything with me the way I wanted, the way I had with him.
The voice in my head I kept hoping would fade wondered if behind a whirlwind romance was a shoe waiting to drop.