29. Chapter 23
Lorenzo
Every sensible part of my brain tells me that this is a bad idea. A very bad idea, in fact. While also being the best idea anyone has ever had.
It would only be better if I really were the one fucking Dash, but I’ve set my rules and I need to live by them.
Lo Scandalo has rooms in the back for purposes like these. Using my VIP membership, we rent one (Pepe comps it when he realizes what, exactly, is going on, and then gives me a wide-eyed, questioning look).
The room is low-lit, wine-red, with a bed against one wall, a discreet dresser with labeled drawers containing condoms, lube, and various toys, and a long, low couch against the wall opposite the bed.
“This is nice,” Eddie says once Dash has closed us in the room. He immediately goes for his belt and begins taking off his pants.
“Oh, so we’re just getting right into it?” I ask. Normally, I’m very confident in sexual situations, but a part of that comes from the fact that I’m usually in control. With the consent of my partner, of course.
The power in this situation, though, lies with Dash.
It destabilizes me, though I don’t fully dislike it.
“Yes,” Dash says. He kicks off his shoes, pulls off his socks, and then makes quick work of removing his pants until…
Fuck.
That thong is even hotter on him in person. Sheer black lace, it leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. His semi-hard cock bulges in the front, and the tight strap of the thong disappears between the pale globes of his firm, smooth ass cheeks.
He is beautiful.
There is no other word for it but beautiful.
Before Father’s house burned, he had a stunning collection of Old World art, favoring stuff from the Renaissance masters.
I remember being a boy and staring in admiration and intrigue at the depictions of young men in those paintings and statues.
Svelte, lean builds, ivory skin, facial features that were both strong and elfin at the same time, exuding both a solemn maturity and a sense of hidden playfulness.
I remember wondering if beauty like that actually existed in men.
In Dashiell Novak, I see this beauty made flesh.
He owns his body. Rarely have I ever seen someone so at home in their own skin, so comfortable with, or even proud of, being observed.
Because that is the word. Observing.
I’m not just watching Dash right now. I’m observing him, studying him, drinking him in, like you would with a fine painting.
And the truth that I’ve been narrowly avoiding this past week becomes inescapable.
Dash is a piece of art—and I want that art. I want it to be mine. Him to be mine.
Some people I know buy art just to say they own it.
It’s a pride thing, I guess. They’re getting ahead of the jealousy and envy—they want others to envy them.
Or maybe they want the wealth that the art gives them.
Worst of all, they might want to have the art as a demonstration of their personal power or importance.
Others buy art simply because it’s beautiful, because they want to bask in that beauty, to cherish it, to learn from it.
When they say that a piece of art is “theirs,” it’s not about the money, or the power, but about the value of the art itself, and how it makes the owner feel.
And that? That is how I want Dash to be mine.
Yes, I want to fuck him.
But also…I want him.
I want him in an inexplicable, indescribable way.
It’s like I’m at an art auction, and the auctioneer has just presented a forgotten masterpiece, something far more beautiful and intricate and alluring than anything I’ve seen before, and I know more certainly than I know my own name that I need to have it.
And now—Eddie reclines on the bed, languidly stroking himself—and now, someone else is about to claim the masterpiece.
“Wait.”
The word comes out of me in a frantic, hurried breath.
Dash pauses at the edge of the bed, where he was just about to bend down to—I don’t want to know what. He says nothing, just looks over his shoulder at me, his eyebrows raised expectantly.
Waiting for me to own what I want.
I clear my throat. “Wait. Dash, don’t do this. I—I don’t want to do this.”
Eddie, damn him, is still stroking his cock.
(Mine is bigger.)
“Well, I’ll Venmo you for the room,” he says.
I have no reason to hate him. He seems like a good enough guy. But right now, I despise him more than I’ve despised anyone in my life.
“What are you saying, Lorenzo?” Dash says, straightening, all of his attention gone from Eddie.
Interestingly, his arousal seems to grow as he turns from Eddie to me.
“I’m saying…don’t do this,” I repeat. “Not with him.”
Dash crosses his arms over his bare chest. “Okay. Not with him. Tell me what you want, Lorenzo.”
There’s a challenge in his voice. He’s going to make me say it, I know he is, and he has every right to.
I step forward, and feel my erection straining in my pants, begging to be let free. My blood pounds in my ears, my vision narrowed to Dash, Dash, only Dash.
“I’m saying…” My voice almost falters. “I’m saying that I want you, Dash. And I’m going to take you, if you let me.”
From the bed, Eddie whistles, as if impressed. “Well, shit. Do I get to watch?”
But Dash ignores him, and so do I.
In a few steps, Dash crosses the room to me, and he is so close that I could wrap him in my arms, bend him over my knee, spank that beautiful ass so he can see just how displeased I am at the idea of someone else getting a taste of him before I do.
He looks up at me, his full, luscious lips parting with a soft breath, and murmurs, “So take me. Take me home.”
That’s all I need to hear. With that, I have him in my arms. I sling him over my shoulder, caveman brain fully taking over, and march out of the back room. He squeals in delight, laughs through something about how he’s basically naked, but that I should just go, go, go.
We pass Kenny in the hall outside the room, gawking at our wild display.
“Um—” he begins.
“Room is yours,” I tell him. “Eddie’s still there and very horny. Have fun.”
“You too!” Kenny calls over his shoulder, bolting toward the room.
Dash kicks his feet against my back. “Are you going to take me home or what?”
I don’t answer. We’re operating on my rules now—he agreed to that when he told me to take him. He’s going to have to learn to trust me. I adjust my grip and begin to march through the dance floor. Let them all see that he’s mine, that I’m the man lucky enough to take this human piece of art home.
And I get to make him mine.