Chapter 5 #2
Portia enters like he always does. Quiet, self-assured, already reading the room.
Hazel eyes meet mine, soft mouth smiling knowingly.
He’s feminine grace worn with confidence, not apology.
The elegant sweep of his cheekbones catches the low light, highlighting the perfect arch of his brows.
He’s beautiful in a way that never demands anything from me.
If I could open my heart to anyone, it would be him, but that’s not what this is. That’s never been what this is.
“Hey, baby,” he says, warm and familiar. “You were incredible. Your rendition of the Chopin piece nearly broke me. The way your hands moved. . .” He trails off, his appreciation genuine.
I nod, unable to summon more than that. The words stick in my throat, tangled with the memory of another pair of eyes watching me play.
He steps closer but doesn’t touch me yet.
Portia never rushes, allowing me to initiate.
We’ve been in our arrangement for two years now.
I don’t do casual hookups for the risk of being found out.
All it takes is one photo on social media and the sharks would swarm.
One careless word, one indiscreet partner, and the carefully constructed facade of my life would crumble.
Everything in my life is curated, contractual, controlled. Even this.
We signed nondisclosure agreements years ago. Clean lines. Clear expectations. Privacy above all else. The paperwork itself a reminder that what we share isn’t real intimacy but a transaction with clear boundaries.
Portia isn’t my boyfriend. He isn’t someone I bring into the daylight.
He’s a release valve. Someone who understands that what we share exists only behind closed doors, in hotel rooms and tour buses, in the spaces between my public appearances.
If anyone sees him around me, it’s as part of the entourage, another familiar face moving through the machinery of a tour. Never anything that invites questions.
“You’re tense,” he says gently. “Something’s eating at you.” His perceptiveness is both comforting and unnerving.
I look at him then. Really look. His light brown skin, silky soft under my fingers.
His tight body, lean and graceful underneath delicate designer pants and a frilly white blouse.
The curve of his neck, elegant and inviting.
He is the complete opposite of Malik. Nothing about him reminds me of what I’ve lost, of what I’ve never allowed myself to have. Perhaps that’s why I keep coming back.
“I just need to quiet my head,” I admit, my voice rougher than I intend. The weight of the night presses down on me. I can almost feel the ghost of his presence beside me on that stage, the way his gaze burned into me even when I wasn’t looking.
Portia smiles softly, his eyes warm with understanding.
“I can help with that.” His hands slide up my arms, fingers tracing the tense lines of my muscles, like he’s memorizing the shape of my stress.
His touch doesn’t ask for anything, no questions, no demands, no explanations.
It’s just there, grounding me in the present, in the heat of his skin against mine.
I exhale, letting the tension seep out of my shoulders, just a little.
“I’ll be whoever you need me to be tonight,” he murmurs, his voice a low purr that vibrates through me. “Just tell me.”
He sinks to his knees in offering. In care. The sight of him there, so willing, so eager to give me what I need, sends a jolt of heat straight to my groin. My dick twitches, already hardening at the thought of what’s coming.
“Are you prepped for me?” I ask, my voice dropping into that dark, commanding tone I reserve for moments like this. The thought of the plug nestled between his cheeks, stretching him open, waiting for me, has my blood rushing south.
Portia looks up at me from the floor, his eyes hooded through those long, dark lashes.
His lips part slightly, and I catch the glint of his tongue as he wets them.
“Always, baby,” he says, his voice thick with desire.
He sheds his clothes right there in the middle of the bus, his fingers work the buttons of his blouse with practiced ease.
The fabric slips from his shoulders, revealing the smooth expanse of his chest, the delicate curve of his collarbones.
He steps out of his pants, kicking them aside, and I take in the sight of him, lean, graceful, perfect.
I hum my approval, the sound low and rough in my throat.
I reach out my hand, and he takes it without hesitation, his fingers entwining with mine.
I pull him flush against me, his body molding to mine like he was made for this.
For me. I slam our mouths together, the kiss desperate, hungry.
The taste of him, mint and cherries, floods my senses, and I chase it, needing more, needing him.
I need Portia to drown out the noise in my head, to erase the memory of Malik’s dark brown eyes on mine, the phantom feeling of his body.
Portia gasps into the kiss, his hands flying to my chest like he wants to push me away, but he doesn’t.
He melts into me instead, his body softening, yielding.
I can feel the surprise in his kiss, the way his lips part wider, like he’s trying to understand this sudden intensity.
I’ve never kissed him like this before, like I’m starving for him, like I need him more than air.
I don’t want him to get the wrong idea. This isn’t about feelings. This is about forgetting.
Breaking the kiss, I pull back just enough to see the flush on his cheeks, the way his swollen lips glisten. He touches them with his fingertips, like he’s trying to hold onto the sensation. “Julian,” he breathes, and I can see the questions in his eyes. The hope. The want.
Talking is the last thing I want to do right now.
“My room is in the back,” I say, my voice leaving no room for argument. “I want you naked, face down and ass up. Wait for me.”
Portia’s hands hover at my chest for a second, like he’s debating whether to touch me, to push for more. He stops himself. He knows the rules. He knows me. “Okay, baby,” he says, nodding once before turning and walking down the narrow hallway toward the back of the bus.
I watch him go, my eyes locked on the sway of his hips, the way his ass moves with each step.
The sight of him like this, submissive, obedient, mine, sends another rush of heat through me.
I take one last look out the windows, catching sight of people already exiting the venue.
The bus will be rolling out soon, and I don’t have much time.
Right now, though, none of that matters.
All that matters is Portia and he’s waiting for me.
I undress as I follow him, my fingers work the rest of the buttons of my shirt free with impatient efficiency.
The fabric falls away, revealing the hard lines of my chest, the ridges of my abs.
I kick off my shoes, peel off my socks, and shove my pants down my hips, stepping out of them as I reach the doorway to the bedroom.
The bus is a luxury, leather furniture, flat-screen TV, modern kitchen, walk-in shower, and a master bedroom that’s all mine.
Malik insisted on it, of course. How magnanimous of him.
The thought makes my jaw clench but I push it away.
I don’t want to think about him right now. Portia is waiting. Portia. . .Portia.
I step into the bedroom completely naked, my dick leaking precum and aching.
There he is, just as I asked, face down on the bed, ass up in the air, cheeks spread wide.
The sight of him like this, so eager, so ready, makes my breath hitch.
His hole gapes slightly—the plug did its job, stretched him open for me.
The slick lube glistens around the rim. His body trembles with anticipation.
I tsk, the sound sharp in the quiet room. His breath shutters, his fingers digging into the sheets. “Look at you,” I murmur, my voice thick with approval. “So eager for my dick. You’re so greedy, Portia. Needy for me.”
“You know I am, Julian,” he pants, his voice muffled by the pillow. “Please.”
I climb onto the bed behind him, my knees sinking into the mattress.
I grab the lube next to the condom he’s already set out, popping the cap and squeezing a generous amount into my palm.
The cool liquid drips down the crack of his ass, mesmerizing, pooling between his cheeks, slowly running down his thighs.
I slick up my fingers and press two inside him without warning, curling them just right, and Portia moans, his back arching.
I know he’s ready for me. I know he can take me, but my dick isn’t small, and no matter what we are to each other, I would never hurt him. Not like that.
“Julian,” Portia begs, his voice breaking on my name.
The sound drowns out everything else, the noise in my head, the echoes of the night, the weight of the secrets I carry.
All I want is this moment. This connection.
I slip the condom on and then, without hesitation, I line myself up and sink into him.
His heat envelops me, tight and perfect, and I groan, my hips snapping forward to meet his ass.
“So tight,” I grit out, my fingers dig into his hips hard enough to leave marks.
I pull out slowly, savoring the drag of his body against mine, then slam back in.
Portia moans into the mattress, his fingers twist in the sheets as I set a brutal pace.
The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mingling with our ragged breaths, the creak of the bed beneath us.
I lose myself in him, in the way his body clenches around me, in the way his moans grow louder, more desperate. Sweat slicks my skin, my palms slide over his back, his hips, leaving marks behind like I’m claiming him. Maybe I am. Maybe, for tonight, he is mine.
“Julian!” Portia mews, his voice breaking as I pound into his prostate over and over again. His body trembles beneath me. I don’t stop. I can’t.
“Make yourself cum,” I growl, my own release coils tight at the base of my spine, the tingling sensation creeps up my back. I’m close. So fucking close.
Portia grunts in response, his arm moving rapidly beneath him as he strokes himself.
His body tenses, his back arching, and then he’s cumming, his ass clenching so tight around my dick that I see stars.
I follow him over the edge, my release crashing through me like a wave.
I pull out at the last second, yanking the condom off, spilling onto his back, my cum marking him in a way that feels primal. Possessive.
I collapse on top of him, my chest heaving, my skin sticky.
I press a kiss to the back of his neck, my lips linger against his skin.
For a moment, I let myself breathe. For a moment, I let myself feel.
Just this. Just him. Not the weight of my secrets, not the fear of being found out, not the ache of wanting something I can never have.
For a moment, I am happy. Almost free.
Later, when the bus is quiet and moving down the highway, Portia long gone after a perfunctory goodbye and the promise of soon, I lay alone in the bed, staring at the ceiling as the road hums beneath me.
The dim glow of passing streetlights flickers across the walls, casting shadows that seem to move with the rhythm of my thoughts.
The sweet, temporary relief of physical connection has already faded, leaving only the familiar hollowness in its wake.
The loneliness of my life creeps back in, settling into my bones like an old friend.
A constant companion. This is who I am, these stolen moments followed by empty spaces.
This is how I survive.
Four months. I repeat it like a mantra, fingers tapping restlessly against my chest. I can do four months on this tour.
I’ve endured worse. I will keep my distance when we share stages.
I will maintain control when cameras capture us in the same frame.
I will keep Malik Carter where he belongs, onstage, in the past, and out of my heart.
I’ve had years of practice building these walls, reinforcing them each time they threaten to crumble.
Then it will be over and I will walk away. Back to the careful life I’ve constructed, the precise boundaries I’ve established. Back to the safety of silence and separation.
I have to believe that.
Because wanting Malik again, surrendering to the pull that’s already tugging at me, would destroy everything I’ve built to keep myself whole.
The career that depends on my carefully crafted image.
The stability I’ve fought for. The protection that comes from keeping certain truths locked away.
I close my eyes against the darkness, willing sleep to come before memories can take hold.