Three Arya
three
Arya
This was not how Arya had expected his night to go.
The event had gone off without a hitch. Their client, Avery the weather was perfect; only two guests vomited from drinking too much, and that was already cleaned up; and the trucks with all their gear were now trundling down the dirt road that ran from Phoenix Mountain back toward Silverado Trail and the valley floor.
Carley, Arya’s right hand, had gone with the rest of the crew, leaving Arya alone to take in the vineyard one last time (and make sure the caterers had finished cleaning up) before he headed back to the hotel.
Instead, a stranger—a hot stranger named Ben (he assumed)—had begged him for a kiss.
If he had to guess, he’d say Ben was of Chinese extraction, especially given the Liu family who owned Phoenix Mountain were descended from Chinese immigrants.
He had a strong jaw, stronger cheekbones, a long elegant nose, deep brown hooded eyes, and inky-black hair.
Arya was desperate to know if it felt as silky as it looked—ever since he went bald, he’d appreciated a good head of hair—but his hands were too busy holding on to Ben’s butt to shift.
Ben’s hair was parted in the middle, framing his face and glasses.
Those fucking glasses.
Arya had heard people talk about slutty little glasses before, but he’d never really understood it. Not until now.
The glasses weren’t even that little: octagonal things, metal framed, the perfect size for Ben’s face. And they were real fucking sexy. Even Ben’s cardigan—a white fuzzy thing that should’ve been more cozy than sexy—managed to show off strong shoulders and a firm set of pecs.
Arya had just been wondering what those shoulders might feel like beneath his hands when Ben had asked him for a kiss. Who was Arya to say no?
Ben’s lips were warm, and soft, and more insistent than Arya was expecting. He let out a little grunt of surprise as Ben’s tongue slipped past his teeth and began stroking his tongue.
His dick, which had been feeling full and unsettled all night after the disaster at the hotel pool, started firming up, snaking toward his left hip.
Arya smiled into the kiss, hummed in delight, grabbed Ben’s waist, and pulled them closer together.
He wasn’t sure why, exactly, Ben had asked to kiss, but he wanted Ben to know just how much he liked it.
Ben let out a little hum of delight himself as Arya pressed his cock against Ben’s leg.
He took control of the kiss, sucking on Ben’s luscious bottom lip. Ben’s mouth was a thing of beauty, his lips full and smooth, a faint bit of stubble surrounding. He tasted of Cabernet and chocolate, poor choices and happy endings.
Ben pressed against him, forcing him back, and Arya felt the brush of grapevines against his jacket. Before he could slip, though, Ben’s hand came up to his lower back to steady him. Shit, should they be doing this here, now? What if they damaged the vines?
Then Ben let out a little satisfied sigh, and Arya forgot all about the damned vines, and his suit, and the crisp night, everything but the feeling of Ben’s lips.
Arya had kissed a lot of men in his life. He’d kissed a lot of people, period. He was definitely gay, but he was also curious, and he’d tried out lots of genders in his twenties.
But this kiss?
This kiss was different.
He couldn’t say why, exactly. Ben had a talented mouth, but so had lots of folks. Hell, Arya had a talented mouth himself. That wasn’t conceit, just fact: He’d hyperfixated on his kissing technique in his early twenties, and it had paid dividends.
And it wasn’t the setting, though that was particularly magical, like something out of a rom-com, kissing in the grape-scented air beneath the silvery moon.
And it wasn’t that Ben was a fucking masterpiece of a man. He was, of course, but Arya had kissed (and fucked) plenty of masterpieces in his life. His body count could’ve been in the Nelson-Atkins.
No, it wasn’t any of those things that set this kiss apart.
Arya’s friends had talked about a spark before, but he’d always assumed it was hyperbole. They both had boyfriends, after all. They did sappy, romantic shit. Arya figured it was all made up.
But how else could he explain the feeling of electricity crackling between his lips and Ben’s? Like they were made for each other? Like the world around them—the vineyard, the house, the earth, the stars above—had ceased to exist?
If this was a spark, sign him the fuck up.
He shifted so his leg was between Ben’s, and he could feel Ben’s own growing arousal in his black sweats.
Arya wished they were gray.
He and Ben were more or less the same height, so he had to dip his hips a bit to get a good grind on. Ben’s pleased grunt made him smile. He was just about to do it again when a voice broke in from way too close.
“Ben?”
Ben broke the kiss smoothly, biting Arya’s bottom lip for good measure. When Arya opened his eyes, Ben was looking past him at the newcomer.
It was a masc white person, shorter than Arya but broader, with a button nose and cleft chin and brown hair short and swooped up in the front.
Arya couldn’t quite tell their age: they had crow’s feet around their eyes, but their cheeks were full, either due to luck or youth or filler.
Their hair didn’t quite match the color of their eyebrows.
“I’m busy, Justin,” Ben said. He pulled Arya’s face back toward his, but before they could kiss again, Justin spoke.
“Seriously, babe? What the fuck?”
Arya’s heart stammered. It bounced against his rib cage like a pinball, dipping down toward his stomach before a flipper launched it somewhere toward his throat.
Not a-fucking-gain.
He had a strict no home-wrecking policy, for fuck’s sake!
Arya tried to extricate himself, but Ben’s grip on his back stayed strong.
“For the millionth time,” Ben said, voice turning icy, “I’m not your babe. We’re done. We’ve been done for months. Now, do you mind?”
Before Arya could do anything—say anything—Ben pulled Arya back into a kiss.
Arya’s heart settled immediately. Fuck. Home-wrecking or not, Ben kissed him like no one else.
Like nothing in the world mattered except their lips, together.
Arya’s heart had settled—though it was still beating fast—but his brain was another story. Five different fucked-up scenarios sprang to mind, and he pulled out of the kiss.
He looked around, but the guy from earlier was gone, thank fuck. Arya let out a low, shaky breath.
“Who was that?”
Please, please don’t let it be your husband.
“My ex-boyfriend.”
Not so bad then, but Arya had to be sure.
“How ex are we talking exactly?”
Ben breathed heavily against him.
“Broke up two months ago,” Ben muttered. He rested his forehead against Arya’s, silky black hair cool against Arya’s skin.
Arya breathed hard himself, gulping in lungfuls of air tinged with the sweet scent of grape blossoms.
“He thinks there’s a chance we can get back together.”
“There’s not?”
“Fuck no,” Ben said. “Maybe this’ll get it through his thick skull. Thanks, by the way.”
Arya’s stomach gave a little twist at being used, but then again, didn’t this sort of make him Ben’s Slut in Shining Armor?
He didn’t mind that so much. He always tried to use his powers for good, after all.
“Any time,” Arya said.
“Seriously,” Ben said. He still didn’t move, though, like maybe Arya was the only thing holding him up. Either that or he just didn’t want to break apart. “I don’t usually go around kissing strangers.”
Arya chuckled. He didn’t want to move, either. His dick was still half hard, snuggled up against Ben’s hip bone. “I do.”
“Oh yeah?” Still, Ben didn’t let go of Arya, though he did lean back to meet his eyes more fully.
God, he was handsome. The most handsome man Arya had seen in his nearly forty years. Arya wanted to trace that jawbone with his mouth. Run his fingertip down that elegant nose. Kiss a smile back onto those thick lips.
“Yeah.”
Something danced in the air between them, sweeter than the grape blossoms, sharper than the moonlight, scintillating and exhilarating.
That damned spark.
Arya wanted Ben.
And was pretty sure Ben wanted him back.
Thankfully, he had plenty of experience in moving things along.
Ben might not be used to kissing—or hooking up with—strangers, but Arya had enough experience for them both.
So he stepped forward just a bit, pressing their hips together. His dick was ebbing back to full hardness, and Ben’s was still just as warm and hot against Arya’s hip.
Arya leaned in, slowly, so fucking slowly, letting Ben wait for it. Anticipate it.
Beg for it.
Sure enough, Ben cocked his chin forward, bringing their lips together with a little satisfied sigh.
Arya kissed him deep and slow, sipping in every little taste, each hitched breath, each fluttered eyelash, each flex of Ben’s cock.
Fuck, this was hot.
This was more than hot.
This was heaven.
It took a bit of maneuvering, but Arya managed to walk them both farther into the vineyard, past trellised vines and little placards, until the grape leaves formed a barrier around them.
Arya reached for Ben’s waistband. The drawstrings were pulled tight, tied with a little bow.
He grabbed one of the tassels and pulled it taut, but didn’t untie it.
He broke the kiss just long enough to ask, “This okay?”
Ben nodded against him, his own hands dipping toward Arya’s belt.
It reminded Arya of being young: furtive hookups in dark corners, in rooms with the lights off, at night in some guy’s car in the far corner of a parking lot.
It reminded Arya why he liked sex.
Finally he got Ben’s drawstring undone. He reached in, past a pair of soft briefs, and pulled out Ben’s cock.
Arya could barely see it, could barely see anything with the vines blocking the glow from the house and only the moon to see by, but he could still feel it: hot and hard and solid. Medium-sized, with a bit of a curve to the left, and delightfully intact. Ben shuddered as Arya skinned him back.
“Nice cock,” he whispered.