6. Adam
6
ADAM
A nother party.
If I had a nickel for every party I’d been to in my twenty-eight years, I’d be a very rich man.
Although I’d been born very rich, and in those twenty-eight years, I’d only succeeded in making myself obscenely richer.
The truth was, the parties, the money, it all bored me to tears.
Being famous was a side effect of my lifelong addiction to dramaturgy. I wasn’t gauche enough to complain to anyone about the trials of being an international movie star. Not when I had scads of money, the pick of any script I deemed worthy, and more connections than the Prime Minister himself.
No, I was a lucky man.
Lucky and skilled.
I’d earned my place at the top of the heap, so why did it feel so wrong looking down at the masses?
Maybe because I’d never been an ordinary man.
As a member of one of the oldest peerages in England, one that had somehow managed to retain the colossal wealth of their ancestors despite the death tax and perils of modernization, son to Marquis Peter Andrew Yardley, who was known throughout the United Kingdom as one of the most civilized and criminally dull men of our time, I was born under the magnified lens of public scrutiny.
Hell, Arthur Whitley-Fairfax, Crown Prince of England, was my best mate at Eton, and I was a regular at Buckingham Palace.
So why did this embarrassingly privileged sense of ennui and vague disgust with society persist within me?
As if summoned by my thoughts, the rich, rumbling sound of masculine laughter drew my attention from a sleep-inducing discussion of Academy Award politics to the tall, dark, rough-around-the-edges man my wife and I had invited into our home.
Sebastian stood in the center of the room as though he had been born into this life instead of wedged into it by the sheer force of Savannah’s desires and my inability to say no to them. He was holding court with a Russian prima ballerina known for her resting bitch face who was currently laughing so hard, one delicate hand was pressed to her stomach, and a British director, Sir Ronald Rothschild, a known introvert who was snorting expensive whiskey through his nose as he clapped Sebastian on the shoulder.
It was obvious from the moment I’d seen the handsome Italian on the stage of Finborough Theatre that he was born to be an actor. Too many people believed they could make it on the best international stages and silver screens because they were beautiful, but the truth was, beauty was a hindrance as much as it was a boon. Beauty got you in the door, but talent and an almost manic work ethic bought you a lasting stay.
Sebastian Lombardi was talented, no doubt about it. The way he transformed himself into a war-torn soldier who refused to be buried and laid to rest as one of the many who died for a supposedly “glorious cause” was absolutely staggering. I found my heart palpitating oddly, erratic pounding against my breastbone, followed by weak tremors as though my pulse was being manipulated by Sebastian like an orchestra by its conductor. At one point, tucked in the front row in the dark of an indie theatre, I felt transported to the battlefield, as scared and alone as Sebastian’s character had been minutes before his death.
So talented.
But God, it was more than his beauty and his talent.
He positively oozed passion.
On stage and off when I’d confronted him. How glorious he had been in the face of my sudden appearance. Not cowed by my reputation or accolades, not awed by my own good looks, nothing so reactive, so simple and shy.
Whatever game I had hoped to play––something sly and mean because he was handsome enough to tempt me, but I was irritated he had caught the eye of my wife, that she had pushed me to once again take on a lover in our already tense marriage––evaporated in the steam that rose between us.
He had been confused, furious, indignant, and undoubtedly aroused by our repartee. It had taken nearly everything in me not to reach between our bodies––already too close for propriety––and cup the hardening length I’d glimpsed pressing against his inner left thigh through his trousers.
He was totally unlike the male lovers I had taken in my youth before meeting Savannah and then, again with her. We both seemed to prefer pretty men with slight frames, narrow faces, pouting mouths, wide eyes, and stylish hair. It was a risk to associate with such men, men who harnessed their sexuality and were not afraid of their own fluidity. I had built a career on being a man’s man of actors. I played Hamlet and Macbeth in the theatre, Jonathon Cross in the series of gritty spy thrillers that had first launched me to cinematic fame, and then Lord Byron, the ultimate womanizer, in a biopic that had secured my first Oscar.
No one would accept that Lord Adam Meyers was bisexual.
They wouldn’t understand that loving both men and women was not all I was, like a two-dimensional sketch stuffed into a labeled envelope, but merely a facet of who I was and what I enjoyed.
And how could I blame them when I had spent nearly my entire life struggling with my sexual identity and how it should or should not impact my personality?
Which made my attraction to the utterly masculine specimen of Sebastian Lombardi entirely nonsensical. He was too big, too wide in the shoulders, and quilted with dense muscle from wrists to ankles. His beauty wasn’t gentle or pretty. It was a slap in the face, a hand to the throat, a tight vise suddenly wrapped around my balls. I was as attracted to him as I was terrified by him, and the combination was heady.
Heady enough to make me forget my pledge to myself and my wife that we would not take any more lovers after Oscar Hampton, a local burgeoning set designer who left our bed rather acrimoniously last year. That we would focus on the failing love between the two of us, strengthen it and each other.
An open sexual predilection was all well and good when the main relationship was strong, an iron pole on which to hang all the rest, but somewhere in the last two years Savannah and I had grown tarnished and dull.
She bored me now, almost as much as the rest of the poor sods under my roof that night, and I knew she found me frustrating. Why didn’t I do as she wished the same way I had as a young twenty-five-year-old with a thirst for fame and success?
We were going through the motions of our life, two business associates living under the same roof.
But then… Sebastian.
I’d never been so in lust with my wife as I was watching her struggle to take the thick length of his cock in her snug little cunt. She was small and pale, prim and elegant. Against Sebastian’s glaring virility and rough, Italian-soaked curses, his big, tanned hands consuming her slight frame, his full mouth devouring her little cries, I’d been nearly torn apart with desire.
The contrast of them together was too much.
I hadn’t intended to involve myself in that first tryst.
I knew he had never had relations with a man before and I told myself it was foolish even as I unzipped my trousers, knelt on the seat beside him, and released my throbbing length into my hand to present to him like a gift.
My dick hardened dangerously in the middle of my drawing room as I remembered the way he’d gazed at me, like I was both the most dangerous creature he’d ever beheld and the most beguiling.
And then, when he’d tasted my cum, instinctively sucking it from my thumb, I knew.
No matter my pledge to Savannah, to myself, I had to have him.
“Adam, you look flushed,” Miranda Hildebrand cooed, running her lacquered red nails down my arm as she leaned close in a cloud of floral perfume. “Are you all right?”
“I think you could use some air, Adam.”
The voice came from over my shoulder, but I knew it was Sebastian immediately. There was only one other Italian man at the party, Gianni Valentino himself, and the older man’s voice didn’t have the same effect on my libido as Sebastian’s did.
I shifted to allow him into our loose semicircle. His scent assaulted me instantly, something with heat and spice that made my mouth water.
“Miranda, Bobbi, I’d like you to meet Sebastian Lombardi,” I introduced, pausing as Sebastian flashed them his wicked grin and bent over each lady’s hand to deliver a kiss to her knuckles. By the time he was done, both scarlets were beaming at him from under their curled lashes.
“How quaint,” Miranda purred in her signature breathy voice. She was a dead ringer for Marilyn Monroe and she took every opportunity to showcase it. “How do you know our Adam?”
Our Adam.
My teeth clenched at the moniker.
What was it about celebrity that made public figures possessable?
Though, my father had called me “my son” whenever the opportunity arose, and it had irritated me since I could cogitate. In my opinion, no human being could be wholly owned by any other. Not even Savannah was allowed to get away with calling me “her” Adam.
Sebastian seemed to sense my tension and placed a chummy arm around my back to squeeze my shoulder. “He was kind enough to give me a job.”
“Oh?” Miranda’s interest noticeably cooled. She wasn’t the type of woman to associate with those lower on the totem pole than herself.
“He’s being modest,” I said, finally remembering my social graces. “Seb is a screenwriter. A rather fabulous one if I do say so myself. I merely offered to help him find financial backing for the project.”
Bobbi fluffed her orange hair and leaned forward to place a greedy hand on Seb’s exposed forearm. Irrational irritation sparked through me. I wanted to reprimand him for being overly casual with his rolled cuffs when the rest of the men were wearing dinner jackets.
I wanted to tear Bobbi’s manicured hand right off her limp wrist.
“You know, I am a very wealthy woman,” Bobbi offered. “Why don’t you tell me about this little project of yours?”
“I would love nothing more, bella ,” Sebastian replied, placing his hand over hers in a familiar move that made fifty-five-year-old Bobbi Gerkan blush like a schoolgirl. “But Adam really does look in need of some air, and he promised me a Cuban cigar I’m itching to get my hands on.”
Bobbi laughed. “Men and their cigars.”
Sebastian shrugged charmingly. “I’ll hold you to your interest, though. By the time I’m through with you, you’ll barely be able to stand from boredom.”
Miranda and Bobbi both tittered because they were absolutely not picturing being bored boneless by the Italian but they had no doubt they’d be weak-kneed nonetheless.
Fury ate at my heels and a headache settled between my temples. I went to sip from my Scotch only to discover melting ice in its place.
Sebastian clapped me on the back and pushed me none too gently between the shoulder blades to propel me away from the women. I moved, but I did it with a scowl on my face, my ill-humor fitted so closely around me it threatened to choke.
People spoke to us as Sebastian followed close at my heels, forcing me forward unless I wanted to be stepped on. When I looked over my shoulder to snarl at him, his strong features were fixed into an affable grin as he nodded at the partygoers who acknowledged me.
It was only when we made it into the relative peace of the kitchen, the door swinging closed behind us on the din of the party, that Sebastian stepped up beside me. For some reason, it made me feel better to see him there, within easy reach, hovering close like a bodyguard.
Like he cared that I was ill-tempered, and he wanted to protect me from anyone who might want a piece of me until I could sort myself out.
I’d known the man less than a week, and he was already under my skin.
The sensation was unpleasant but also not entirely unwelcome.
A good character often did the same, crawling under my flesh until it became a part of me. Even after I’d finished a film or play, they stayed with me, eternally stitched into my soul.
The idea of such intimacy with a near stranger should have repelled me, but as Sebastian ushered me out the back door to the softly lit patio, I found myself pressing closer to him. Our shoulders knocked once, twice, then settled together as we stopped by a gurgling water feature at the edge of the shadows. It was too cold out for the partygoers to linger outdoors and despite the vastness of the gardens around us, it felt oddly intimate to be in the yard alone with everyone else in the house.
He surprised me by staying quiet while I discarded my empty glass on the patio table and pulled a crumpled pack of Dunhill cigarettes from my trousers. Most people reprimanded me for my smoking habit, but I only indulged when my restlessness threatened to strangle me.
When I wordlessly offered them to him, he plucked one from the package and tucked it into the corner of his mouth, pouty lips parted around the slim column.
My throat went dry.
Eyes to that sinful mouth, I struck the gold lighter Savannah had given me one Christmas and held it aloft for him. I nearly jumped out of my skin when he casually reached out to cup his hand around the wavering flame, propping his pinky on top of my knuckles to do so. Electric heat burned through the connection straight through to my gut.
Our eyes connected over the flickering red-blue fire, and I noticed how dashing he was in the low light. Only the steep angles of his face were cast in dull gold, the harsh cut of his cheekbones, the slanted line of his strong jaw and brow, and the ridge of that Roman nose. He tipped his chin then, and light spilled over his eyes, spotlighting those uniquely colored yellow irises.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen such a masculine example of beauty, but it stirred me through to my soul.
One of his brows rose slowly, questioning my thoughts maybe or my intensity. When I didn’t move, he sucked on the cigarette and gently, almost playfully, blew the smoke in my face.
Despite my irascible mood, a smile tugged at my mouth.
“Who knew Adam Meyers could be such a bear,” Sebastian mused idly, looking out at the garden instead of at me.
Perversely, I wanted his attention back on me as much as I relished being spared his scrutiny.
“Well, you try being the host of a party full of high-society Brits and tell me what kind of mood you find yourself in.” I sounded as ill-tempered as a child, but I couldn’t help myself.
Ever since Savannah had come home smelling of heat and spice, of Italian man and sex, I’d been on edge.
“If you don’t want me here, I’ll leave,” he offered, as if reading my mind. When I looked at him, faintly struck by his perceptiveness, he shrugged casually. “Sex and intimacy are two very different things. You didn’t just invite me into your marital bed. You invited me into your home. I was raised without two pounds to rub together in the rubbish of Naples. I won’t hold it against you if you’ve reconsidered the invitation.”
It took me a moment to comprehend exactly what he was suggesting. “You think I’m acting like a right arse because I’ve realized I invited a heathen into my civilized house?”
Sebastian looked slightly over his shoulder at me, smoke curling from his mouth over his left ear in a caress I wanted to mimic. “I wouldn’t blame you.”
A short bark of laughter erupted from my chest. It shouldn’t have felt good, but it did. The tension I’d been gathering inside my chest all night loosened, one knot of many untangled. Freed, I sucked in the clean night air and then took a long drag from my cigarette.
“The first memory I have is throwing an absolute fit as a lad because my nanny forced me to wear a cravat to one of my father’s business events. Have you ever worn one? Well, it’s like being strangled by a starched bit of fabric wrapped too tight around your throat. To this day, when I’m too long in polite company, I get that feeling like a vise across my neck.” I angled my head to shoot him an indolent look. “It isn’t the heathen I take umbrage with, you understand? It’s with the lot of them .”
I tossed a hand at the house behind me the way one tossed garbage into a can.
Sebastian’s eyes tracked the movement. They were darker than gold in the low light, something like amber, and just as sticky. When he looked back at me, I felt myself get trapped in them and gave up my struggle as easily as a fly.
“Why do you live like this then?” he questioned with quiet sincerity. “You’re a rich, powerful man. Do as you want.”
This time, my laughter hurt as it rattled through my chest like a caged thing struggling to get free. “Once an editor friend of mine suggested I write a memoir. Foolish man. I asked him why I would want to write about the memories that trap me to this day.” I paused, sucked in the acrid smoke of nicotine, and let it travel to my head in a lovely rush. “Do your memories trap you?”
“Memories,” he agreed. “Circumstances.”
“My cage may look different than yours. Gilded, perhaps. But that doesn’t mean I’m free.”
“And you want to be free,” he surmised, eyes bright with intelligence.
At some point, he’d flicked away his cigarette and moved closer to me, where I sat half inclined on the stone table. He loomed over me, hair dark as a night without stars, shoulders wide enough to hold up the world. I itched to trace the breadth of them with my palms. Test the strength of them with my teeth. Mark him up, mark him mine , with punishing lips.
“Freedom is an illusion,” I said because my cynicism was a matter of my very Britishness and upbringing.
“Freedom is a choice,” he countered, bearing down on me now, stepping up so his legs straddled either side of mine stretched out in front of me.
His scent was everywhere, in my nose, on my tongue. It was potent, almost animal, making me want to growl.
“You’re a child for thinking so,” I told him with all my aristocratic, haughty grandeur.
He had the gall to grin down at me. “And you’re an old man so stuck in his ways you don’t see how easy it is to correct them.”
“I am only twenty-eight. What would you have me do?” I asked mildly even though something inside me seethed and boiled.
He was close enough to kiss.
So why wasn’t I kissing him?
Why was I indulging in the mockery of a conversation and not bending him over the table?
I didn’t get to know my lovers this way, in the way of quiet, oddly intimate silence spent smoking out of doors, in the way of invasive questions and raw answers.
I didn’t do this, and I didn’t want to do this now.
My black mood hovered on the horizon, but closer, something else beckoned as warm and enchanting as the sun.
A sun named Sebastian.
He touched me then, a hand on my shoulder, and his grasp seared through my blazer, button-up, and bone.
“I’d have you do exactly as you wished,” Sebastian said softly, innocently, even though something was dark and eager in his eyes I felt mimicked in my gut.
“Society, career, and family be damned?” I countered harshly.
“ Castrarsi per far dispetto alla moglie ,” he murmured in spiced Italian. “Do not cut off your balls to spite your wife. I think in English, it’s do not cut off your nose to spite your face. Which is greater, what people think of you or what you think of you?”
“What do you think of me?” The question pooled on my tongue before I could swallow it down. How stupid it was to ask such a man what he thought of me.
We were as different as night and day.
The dark, raw masculinity and irreverence of Sebastian contrasted with my well-bred attractiveness and sharp, cultivated class.
Maybe that was why I liked him.
Because I didn’t trust him not to rip me open at the seams like a savage looking to plunder.
“What do you wish to do to me right now?” he countered, hand tightening almost painfully on my shoulder. “Fuck the crowd inside. It’s just you and me in the dark.”
A shudder rippled through me at the lavish lasciviousness of my thoughts. This I was comfortable with.
This I could use.
The desire ate at me with voracious teeth, taking huge chunks out of my resolve. My rapidly diminishing veneer of civility.
Because the truth was, I was just as heathen as the man before me.
No , I thought as my lips pulled back over my teeth, and something like a snarl rose from my throat, more .
Before I could think, I was standing, forcing Sebastian back, unbalanced. I caught him around the forearm and tugged him harshly into my front, plastering our bodies together from toe to clavicles. When he was steady, we were close enough to share the same breath. He tasted of tobacco and something sweetly addictive like fortified wine.
I raised the smoldering end of my cigarette into the small gap between us and sucked too hard on the filter. It dropped from my fingers, and I crushed it beneath the toe of my shoe, holding the smoke in my mouth.
Sebastian watched me all the while with those huge golden irises as keen as a wild cat.
When I tipped my head to the side and leaned close, he understood what I wanted and mirrored the movement.
His lips parted, and carefully, I curled the smoke over my tongue and into his mouth. The silver mist swirled in that pink cavity and then disappeared down his throat. A groan worked up mine, and I fed that to him, too, this time with my lips sealed over his.