Chapter 27
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
Mateo
Cum spills from Florian’s body, and the room smells bleachy and masculine. I sit back, kneeling on my ankles.
Florian’s beautiful body shakes, then stills. His pale skin, a product of too little sunny vacations, is pink and delicious and sweat makes his already incredible planes of muscle glisten.
I want to crawl up to him and kiss him. I want to claim him and adore him and fuck him.
I want to tell him that he is amazing and move his long, powerful legs over my shoulders and do the sort of things no one has done to him.
But I am here to give him a massage, and I’ve already taken liberties that should have been untaken.
We met in a professional capacity, and I have betrayed my duties a thousand-fold.
But I wanted to feel that hard cock under my fingers. I wanted to memorize each vein. I wanted to feel his hardness pulse within my hand. I wanted to see his chest pinken and pinken and see his rosy peaks tighten. I wanted to hear his breath quicken and see him writhe on the bed.
But more than all of that I wanted him to have pleasure.
I wanted him to relax and let loose.
Because there is no one more perfect than he is. No one more good and virtuous.
And I wasn’t going to leave this apartment with him feeling awkward that I saw his bulge. I don’t want to imagine him sad and ashamed.
And so, I touched him.
I broke every massage therapist vow.
I acted like a sleazy person who hides behind my profession to offer things that should not be offered.
The kind of people who make people raise their eyebrows when I tell them my profession, so I must say ‘not that kind of course’ and laugh, like it means nothing that there are massage therapists who are prostitutes.
It’s not like there are hockey players who are prostitutes.
Or neuroscientists who are prostitutes.
Or professors at Ludwig-Maximilian University who are prostitutes.
No. It was something with my profession, something I was sure I would never do, something I—
Oh, God.
His family paid for dinner.
“I’ve never done that before,” I blurt.
He blinks. His eyes are dazed.
“Sorry.” I hop up off the bed and dash to the bathroom. I wet some tissues for him then hurry back, grabbing some dry tissues too.
I am not here to talk about my feelings.
I pat him dry, since Florian likes to be clean. His cock is softer now, and I scramble up when he is dry. I don’t want him to wake up at night embarrassed and scrubbing his stomach as I so could imagine him doing.
I open his chest of drawers since I know his bedroom, and I find him underwear and fresh pajamas.
He is quiet and staring at me, and I move as quickly as I can.
I am sure he wants to be alone. I am sure he doesn’t want me to be in his apartment anymore.
I hand him his new briefs, and he blinks again, then thanks me in that solemn way of his, as if I’ve handed him a million dollars.
Though Florian makes multiple millions of dollars each year, so no doubt that wouldn’t count as life changing.
I help him into his flannel plaid pajama pants, the kind he will probably wear in his seventies, when he has some man beside him who deserves to be there, someone tall and impressive and rich, who can fly him to the most incredible places in the world, because Florian deserves to be around beauty.
I then start to slide his matching flannel plaid pajama top on, and he chuckles and slides it on himself.
Right.
Florian knows how to put on pajamas.
“Sorry.” I step back, nearly colliding against the wall. “Sorry.”
He stares at me, and my heartbeat quickens, like a watch being wound faster and faster against its will.
Finally, he nods. “Thank you, Mateo.”
I nod back. “You’re, uh, welcome.”
The air is tense and awkward.
“I should go.”
“Very well.”
I blink multiple times.
Why do I feel sad? I shouldn’t feel sad.
But my heart is doing crazy things. I want to burrow against Florian’s broad chest. I want to feel his long muscular arms around me. I want him to tell me everything is wonderful and to whisper all his perfect boyfriend words.
He used to do that. But that was before he knew I was a man who pretended to be his boyfriend and who was responsible for him outing himself, even though I know professional sports well enough to know that is not the primary goal of deeply closeted professional athletes who have been careful enough in life to remain virgins at age twenty-four despite their overwhelming handsomeness and sweetness.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. If you’re going to the arena tomorrow?”
Florian shakes his head. “I have a doctor’s appointment.”
“Oh.” I brighten. “That’s good! Because of your memory!”
He flinches, then nods. “I was lucky to get an appointment for tomorrow. If it goes well, I can begin the six-week countdown clock to play again.”
“Excellent!” I nod multiple times.
It occurs to me that it will be very, very awkward when he goes to the massage room for normal massages. He will always wonder how unprofessional I am.
Since he is out, will he start to date Boston’s magnificent gay men? The ones who don’t want to date me, but who would be beyond themselves with excitement to date him?
No. Not yet.
Right now, I am fake dating Florian.
But at some point, he won’t need me even for that.
At some point he will realize it is not embarrassing to say he doesn’t love me and that he doesn’t want to be with me.
At some point he will wonder why he thought it was embarrassing in the first place.
“I’ll—” I bite my lip. I won’t tell him I’ll miss him. That would be ridiculous. “I’ll see you later.”
“At dinner tomorrow night. At our first date place. You invited my family, remember?”
My cheeks heat. “I’m sorry.”
“You apologize too much.”
I press my lips together.
He laughs. “It is fine. I should not scold you for good manners.”
I give a relieved smile back.
I take another step backward, and he frowns.
I frown too.
I want to stay.
“Text me,” I say.
I give a wave that is definitely awkward, and he blinks and waves back in a way that is not awkward at all.
I scurry out of his room, closing the door behind me, because he already explained to me that bedroom doors should be closed and cavelike for our inner caveman to be happy and un-anxious.
Then I tiptoe through the apartment, even though it is unlikely Florian is already fast asleep, especially since there is no way that man would go to bed without brushing his teeth and flossing, and I put on my shoes and leave.
I take the elevator down, then leave Florian’s luxury apartment building. I hover outside, taking out my phone to route the best way to Somerville.
It’s after midnight.
I’ll need a night bus.
I sigh then walk ten minutes to the appropriate bus stop and wait.
I hope he won’t hate me too much.