46. More Than Handcuffs
MORE THAN HANDCUFFS
Asher
I am facedown on Mark’s couch, recovering from round number . . . actually, I’ve lost track at this point. We just can’t keep our hands off each other. On and off, all night long. In his bed, in his shower. This last time, I bent him over his own couch and held him tightly until I made him shout.
Now it’s about eleven a.m. New York time on Saturday. That means it’s five p.m. in Paris. I’ve barely had four hours sleep in the last day and a half, but I couldn’t be happier. I guess I’ll sleep when I’m dead. And now he’s making coffee, so that will probably help.
I doze.
The couch depresses with Mark’s weight. At least, I hope it’s him and not that freaky cat. That cat is proof that Mark Banks is full of surprises?I never expected him to have a pet. And one who’s a pirate.
A warm hand lands on my back and then travels up to sift through my hair. “Have I finished you off? Or do you have enough strength left to drink this coffee?”
“I can’t wait to drink that coffee.” With a yawn, I push myself up to a seated position.
Mark puts his feet onto the coffee table. He hands me a steaming mug, keeping one for himself.
I prop my feet up right beside his. And then I rub his instep with my foot while we silently sip our coffee.
This is so . . . nice. A Saturday at home with Mark. I want all the Saturdays, damn it. I don’t know what it is about Mark, but he makes me want things I don’t usually crave.
My hand finds its way onto his thigh. I’m not putting the moves on him. I just want to touch him.
His hand slides over mine. “I stirred up some pancake batter. And I also put some bacon in the oven. How do you feel about bananas in pancakes?”
Maybe the jet lag is getting to me, because the idea that Mark is making us breakfast almost makes me want to cry. “I feel great about it,” I rasp. “Feed me all the things.”
I take a big breath and, yup, the air is bacon-scented. I’m basically in heaven right now.
Then the door buzzer rings. Apparently there are visitors in heaven.
“Fuck,” Mark says. He gets up.
“What’s the matter?”
“I forgot about Brett.”
“Brett from work?”
“Yeah. We were going to play tennis.” He walks over to the vestibule and lifts a phone that’s attached to the wall.
“Yes, thanks. Send him up.” Then he glances down at his gym shorts and threadbare T-shirt before turning to give me a head-to-toe sweep, and then a smile. “Just making sure we’re both decent.”
“Are we?” I glance down at my joggers and my FLI T-shirt. “I haven’t looked this shabby in ages. We both look recently fucked.”
Mark just shrugs. Then he pulls the door open to reveal another dude. This one is wearing . . . a polo shirt. Carefully trimmed hair and pressed khaki shorts complete the look.
I suppress a smile. Mark’s work husband is cut from the same cloth.
“Dude, I’m so sorry,” Mark says. “I spaced on tennis. Come in, will you?”
“Whoa,” Brett says with a chuckle, entering as he takes in Mark’s ragged appearance. “Did you get drunk last night? I’ve never seen you looking so wrecked.”
“Um . . .”
I laugh from the sofa. Can’t help it. Wrecked is one way to put it.
“. . . Not exactly,” Mark says as Brett’s gaze swings toward me. “I have company this weekend.”
“Hi,” I say, giving Brett a little wave. “I’m Asher.”
Brett tips his head to the side, and I can practically see the equations working behind his eyes. “You look familiar. Do you play soccer?”
“I used to. We call it football, though. Now I’m a photographer.”
“Huh,” Brett says slowly. “Nice to meet you.”
I stand up and offer my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Brett. I’ve heard a lot about your prowess at the chess board.”
“That’s interesting,” he says, shaking my hand. “Because I haven’t heard the first word about you.”
Uh-oh.
“It’s complicated,” Mark says at the exact moment that I say, “It’s new.”
Then we both turn and gaze at each other with wonder and amusement. Because it is, in fact, both complicated and new.
Brett chuckles uncomfortably. “Mark? Is this part of the reason you got divorced?” He’s still doing the math apparently.
“Nope,” he says, popping the P at the end of the word. “But it’s the reason I’m finally enjoying being divorced. I’m bisexual.”
“Oh. Cool.”
“Want some pancakes and bacon?” Mark asks.
“Sure.” Brett shrugs easily, and I see that he finally understands the equation. “Is there more of that coffee?”
“You bet. Let’s eat.”
We crowd into Mark’s smallish kitchen. He shoos us both to the table with our mugs of coffee. “Do you do . . . whatever Mark does?” I ask him.
He laughs loudly. “Yeah, but I’ll spare you the details.”
“Good. Because dumb jocks are Mark’s type. I don’t really understand finance. Although I do enjoy spreadsheets.”
Mark snorts from the stove.
“Eh. Finance can be a drag. But it pays the bills. Do you at least play chess?” Brett wants to know.
“Sorry, no.”
“Ah, well.” He sips his coffee. “Nobody’s perfect.”
“I like tennis, though.”
“Good to know,” he says.
I’m a lucky man.
I’ve lived a charmed life. No great childhood drama, no traumatic coming out story. I’m only thirty, and I’ve already had two fantastic careers. The first one on the pitch, the second behind the lens.
It’s very good to be me.
But right now, on a Saturday in September in Manhattan, as I walk through Greenwich Village with Mark, this is the day I want to bottle up.
From the sex marathon, to the pancakes, to meeting his nerdy banker friend.
Every second is perfect.
“And we’re almost there. The five percent errand,” I say, waving to the end of the block.
“Ah, so the sex dungeon you’re taking me to is up ahead?” Mark asks, swinging his gaze around the street.
Reasonable question, since we’ve passed leather shops and sex toy stores, all adorned with rainbow flags.
“That’s for later, pet,” I tease him.
Mark laughs. Something he’s been doing a lot of this weekend.
He has a great laugh, dry and full of genuine humor.
The man has a fantastic smile too. And I can’t help feeling like a king since I’m the guy who brings it out in him.
I’m also the only guy who’s brought out this side of him.
I don’t have a virgin kink, but I definitely have a Mark Banks one.
Being his first for all the good stuff in bed only makes me want to experience more good stuff with him.
Every single night.
I drape an arm around his shoulders. “We can have a whole night of sex dungeon spreadsheets at your place any time you want.”
“Good thing I stocked up on handcuffs, then,” he says, offhand.
I stop in my tracks, and he pulls up short. “Do not tease me about handcuffs,” I say, in a deep, low voice.
Mark grins wickedly. “You kinky fucker. Are you into handcuffs, Asher?”
I’m into you. “I had a dirty daydream about you in handcuffs once.”
“Guess you can come play with mine tonight then,” he says, and yup, this is officially the best day ever.
I grab his face, give him a quick peck.
When I break the kiss, we walk the last several feet to one of my favorite clothing shops. Sexy music filters out, and a tall woman with short white hair and stern glasses glances up at us from the stark white counter.
“We’re going . . . shopping?” Mark asks, brow creased. “That’s your surprise?”
Oh, shit.
“Yes,” I say, and my heart skitters. Now that I’m here, it hits me?he’s going to think I’m trying to change him and I'm not really. This is just fun. “I thought maybe I’d get you some new shirts, but let’s forget it.”
“You really do hate my clothes.” He sounds amused.
But I feel like a jackass. “Actually, I don’t.”
“I’m so confused. You want to take me shopping. Get me some new clothes, but now you don’t?”
I had this idea to buy him some stylish new shirts that I’d want to rip off him, and it felt brilliant at the time. Now, it seems like an insult. “You don’t have to change a single thing for me,” I tell him. “I don’t need to take you shopping.”
“Dude, you’re seriously fucking confusing,” he says with a laugh. “Do you honestly think I care if you want me to wear something different? Because I don’t.”
I jerk my head back. “You don’t?”
He plucks at his gray T-shirt. “Clothes are whatever. They’re not my thing. But if they’re your thing, and it makes you happy, then it’s cool. Did you think I was going to be offended that you dislike my clothes so much you want to take me shopping for something new?”
Shit, I did. “At first I just wanted to take you because I thought it would be fun.”
“Because shopping is fun to you,” he supplies, like he’s trying to understand me.
“Yeah, it is,” I say, but that’s not what this is about. But fuck it. I rip off the Band-Aid and tell him where this idea came from. “The day I met your parents? I had this image flash before me of taking you shopping in New York.”
A grin spreads on his face. “You had a fantasy in Florida about what we’re doing today?”
“Now who’s mocking who?”
“I’m just processing this. So, let me see if I got this right.
While we were in Miami, you were picturing doing something with me in New York?
” he asks, and he’s so restrained as he adds up the evidence, but I can hear the sliver of the smile in his voice, and I can see the delight in his blue eyes.
“I was,” I admit.
“And that made you happy? This image? This fantasy?”
I nibble on the corner of my lips, then admit the truth. “It did at the time.”
“And now?”
“Everything kind of does,” I blurt out.
“Jesus,” he mutters, but he’s laughing.
And I feel like all the tables have been turned on me by this man.
Especially when Mark invades my space completely and roams a hand up my back.
He whispers against my lips. “I don’t care about polo shirts or designer shirts.
I don’t care if you want to change my style or not change my style.
Literally none of that bothers me. The only thing I take away from this is that you wanted to do this with me .
. . and you wanted it back then. So right now, you should take me shopping, then take your reward. ”
Somehow, my day just got even better.
This isn’t a rom-com shopping montage. We’re not living in Pretty Woman . Mark tries on three shirts, and I wait outside the dressing room with the full-length door, giving him my opinion on each item.
“How’s this one, honey?” he asks in a playful voice, as he swings open the door.
And fuck me.
I whistle my appreciation.
I was right.
My guy is a smoke show in a tight, sky-blue short-sleeve button-down that hugs his biceps and pecs, and makes me think dirty thoughts.
Not that that’s hard with him.
Not that anything is hard with him.
Except for the ocean that separates us, come tomorrow.
This shopping excursion is another stolen moment. Like when Miami ended and we went our separate ways.
That’s what’ll happen tomorrow night when I catch the six-thirty flight to Charles de Gaulle, and return to a punishing schedule of games, events, shoots, and back-breaking but wonderful work. And when he returns to Wall Street, and parenting, and living his life far, far away from me.
Which means I should just make the most of this weekend in New York.
I glance around the shop. The woman is busy with another customer. The music is just the right volume. I step into the dressing room, close the door quietly, and dip my face to his ear. “Don’t make a sound.”
“Actually, I was going to say that to you.”
Then he gets down on his knees and gives me the rest of my shopping fantasy.
After dinner that night, we walk past a bank. A clock flashes the time in red digits in the ATM lobby.
I look away from the reminder of passing days. So many more months till next summer. Are we doing this for that long? And what is this even? I have no idea if he’s going to miss me in the same big way I’ll miss him.
Except, he told me as much last night. He took that risk, and he’s been taking risks left and right with me from the start. “Funny, when I first met you, I thought you weren’t a guy who took risks, but I was wrong about you.”
“You think I take risks?” Mark’s eyes twinkle.
I give him a pointed stare. “You’re here with me. I’d say yes.”
He smiles, like that pleases him. “Maybe I’m learning things about myself with you. But I think you’re wrong about yourself.”
My brow creases. “In what way?”
“You seem to think you’re bad at . . .” He stops, waves a hand from him to me. Maybe he doesn't want to define us either.
“Right.”
“But really, you’re not, Asher. I mean, I’m no expert at .
. .” He trails off again. Neither one of us is using labels.
“But you rented that hot car, you took me clubbing in Florida, and you stole me away to the beach, and you made a fun thing out of everything. I think you’re pretty good at this . . .”
Fuck labels.
I just want Mark, whatever we are.
But I have no idea how to have him. And we’re both shit at discussing it. So we don’t.
Instead, I handcuff him to the bed later that night and torture him with my tongue until he’s begging for release. And I still want more. More than handcuffs. More than sex.
Just more Mark.