The Cellist's Fake Romance

One Arya

one

Arya

Arya was dripping.

It wasn’t quite warm enough to enjoy sitting by the pool—Napa wasn’t nearly as warm as, say, Los Angeles in March—but still, with the sun shining in a clear azure sky, and the hotel pool being heated, he’d decided to partake anyway.

Still, it turned out a heated pool in seventy-degree weather wasn’t quite as nice as he’d hoped. The water had barely been tepid, and he’d only lasted ten minutes before he got cold and had to dry off.

Arya lay on his lounge chair, soaking in the sun in his canary-yellow briefs, his long legs cocked to let the water dry better.

He looked pretty good for thirty-nine years old.

With the angle of the lounger and the early afternoon sun, his abs almost showed.

They’d started losing definition over the last few years, no matter how much he worked out.

He was tall and slim—not gangly anymore, thankfully he’d filled out a bit in his twenties—trim and fit from the gym and kickball, not to mention years spent swimming, running, kickboxing, doing Pilates, and whatever other fitness routines had piqued his interest over the years.

His ruddy copper skin was drinking up the California sun like a frat bro with a hangover.

Arya’s skin was naturally on the darker side for Iranians—darker than either of his best friends, Farzan and Ramin—so the winter left him looking a little pasty.

Arya did not look sexy when he was pasty.

Now that the warm sun had coaxed his dick out of its sabbatical in his abdominal cavity, he spread his legs a bit more, glanced around for witnesses, and adjusted himself to present more favorably.

He wasn’t here to get laid, but it never hurt to show off the goods.

Also, he was alone this afternoon—the rest of the crew had gone wine tasting, with the promise that they would all be spitting to make sure they’d be sober for the show this evening.

(Arya didn’t make a joke about it, but it was a close thing.)

Granted, there weren’t many folks at the pool.

A pair of senior femmes, chatting loudly about their latest divorces (third and fifth, respectively) over huge glasses of Chardonnay; a couple of exhausted-looking parents letting their kids go wild; a barrel-chested man with graying chest hair and an actual paper copy of the Wall Street Journal draped over his face for shade.

But there was also a fit-looking man who kept giving Arya glances.

He’d stiffened at first (and not in a good way): Being queer, especially as visibly queer as Arya liked to present himself, meant always keeping a bit of an eye out.

But also, Arya had done his share of cruising when he was in his twenties.

Though he didn’t cruise nearly as often these days—apps were easier and, honestly, a bit safer—he wasn’t so out of practice he didn’t recognize the signs.

The guy (Arya was ninety percent certain it was a guy, at least) was white, with crinkles around his eyes and forehead, and the barest hint of grays at his temples and in his neat beard. Arya might’ve had gray hairs, but he wouldn’t know—he’d been shaving his head since he was in his twenties.

The guy glanced Arya’s way again, crystal-blue eyes flashing in the sun. He had an attractive dad bod: nice big arms and chest, bit of a belly, well-developed ass in his blue striped board shorts.

Those eyes flicked toward Arya yet again, this time trailing down to Arya’s bulge, lingering just a second too long. The guy looked back up, meeting Arya’s gaze. Arya quirked an eyebrow to let the guy know (a) he was caught and (b) Arya didn’t mind.

He saw the guy swallow, the movement visible even across the pool.

Arya stretched, making sure to thrust his hips up just a bit from the lounger to make his bulge more prominent, then stood, drying off as slowly as he could while glancing at the guy every so often.

He slipped into his flip-flops, grabbed his things, and headed toward the little hut that contained the pool’s two gender-neutral bathrooms. To get to either door, you had to go around a little corner.

A bit of privacy, but not enough to obscure which way he’d gone.

Arya stepped into the one on the right and left the door cracked, smiling to himself.

As a rule, he didn’t go looking for hookups when he was on the job, but he wasn’t actually on the job until five o’clock. And Arya and his team were at a different hotel than their client, so there was zero chance he was about to fuck anyone associated with tonight’s event.

Plus he was overdue. It had been weeks since his last hookup. Fucking weeks. He used to get dick every other day.

Things were finally turning around, though.

Arya leaned against the sink, rested his hands on the lip, so his bulge was pointed like a laser at the door. Sure enough, after ten seconds, the door swung slowly open.

It was Dad Bod Guy.

He took a tentative step inside the bathroom, another, a third, and then he let the door swing shut behind him. He turned briefly to set the lock before meeting Arya’s gaze again. His blue eyes were liquid with hunger.

“Hey,” Arya said softly, stepping closer.

“Uh…” The guy swallowed again. Arya noted with only a tiny bit of disdain that he wasn’t wearing any shoes, which was just asking for athlete’s foot, but whatever, it wasn’t like they were going to suck each other’s toes.

Arya had silicone-based lube and a couple condoms tucked into his little satchel for anything they might want to do.

“Hey,” the guy finally answered.

He smelled like Merlot and coconut sunscreen and mistakes. Arya stepped closer, reached for his forearms. His skin was warm, the hair on his arms soft and still a bit damp.

“I’ve never done something like this before.”

“Oh really?” Arya asked. He didn’t believe that for a second.

Not with the body language outside, not with how well the guy had read the signals.

Still, maybe he was DL, or closeted. A place like Napa attracted lots of high earners, and in his experience, being a high earner meant you could afford a really big fucking closet.

“Really,” the guy said, giving a nervous laugh, but that didn’t stop him from dropping his right hand to cup Arya’s package.

“Oh, hi there,” Arya muttered with a smile.

The hand holding his balls started to knead, the palm catching Arya’s dick where it angled to the side.

Arya purred at the contact. The guy had turned his gaze downward toward Arya’s swimsuit.

Arya shifted his own hands to grip Mr. Board Shorts’s butt.

It was a solid handful, with definite muscle under there, but a pleasant give to it as well. “Nice ass.”

The guy let out another nervous laugh. It was almost cute. Arya’s dick was nearing full hardness, the head poking at his waistband.

“Take him out,” Arya said.

Most of the time, he liked to let things happen organically.

Arya wasn’t particularly bossy in bed, not unless the guy he was with asked for it, and even then, it wasn’t Arya’s favorite thing.

He liked a partner that met him halfway, that felt more like an equal, rather than Arya always having to lead.

Yeah, he was mostly a top, but he wasn’t much of a dom.

But Mr. Board Shorts seemed to need the coaxing. Maybe he really hadn’t done something like this before. His hands were clumsy as they slipped beneath Arya’s waistband, wrapped warm fingers around his cock, and pulled it up and out.

Arya hummed his pleasure. His dick flexed. He could feel pressure behind his balls, that feeling he was about to start leaking. Mr. Board Shorts shifted his grip to give Arya a few underhand strokes.

“What’re you into?” Arya murmured into his ear, low and sexy. “I’ve got condoms.”

“I’m…” The guy’s voice stuttered, but his hand kept up its steady stroking. “Jesus…”

“I don’t know that position,” Arya joked, leaning back to meet the guy’s gaze. He finally looked up, desire mingled with terror in his sky-blue eyes, and swallowed, hard, once more.

God, that neck… if they’d had more time, maybe a proper bed, and a bit more conversation about status and safety and likes and dislikes, Arya would’ve enjoyed putting some hickeys on that neck. Maybe even a few bite marks.

As it was…

“Why don’t we start with you sucking me?” Arya said.

Again, if there’d been a bed, he could’ve suggested a sixty-nine, but the floor of the pool bathroom? Fuck no.

“I…”

Another swallow. The guy blinked.

And then his legs bent, and he started to get to his knees.

BANG! BANG BANG BANG!

The guy leapt up. Arya stepped back just in time to avoid a broken nose from the guy’s skull.

“Dad!” a voice called. It was reedy but sounded like the owner was trying to deepen it more than nature intended. “Dad, you in there?”

“Be right out!” Mr. Board Shorts called back, then cringed.

Arya’s eyes went wide. His dick went soft.

This guy had a kid? A teenager, by the sound of it?

“Mom texted, she’s on her way back from the tasting. She says we have to get ready.”

“I said I’ll be right out!” Board Shorts called, his voice clipped and short. “Jesus.”

This time when he said it, it carried none of the soft heat it had before.

“Sorry,” the guy muttered. “I’d better…”

“Yeah. You’d better,” Arya said, voice hard.

He was a slut, no doubt about that, no shame, either, but fuck, he wasn’t a home-wrecker. He should’ve checked first. He was just so surprised, getting cruised poolside, he hadn’t taken the time to ask the questions he normally would.

Arya tucked his dick back into his briefs and stepped into the corner so he wouldn’t be visible when the guy left.

“See you around?” Board Shorts muttered.

Arya just shook his head. Fuck no.

As soon as he was gone, Arya locked the door again and went to the sink. He washed his hands, splashed some water on his face, fixed his satchel over his shoulder.

Fuck.

It didn’t used to be this way.

He used to have his pick of dick in whatever city he found himself in. He used to have washboard abs and smooth skin and a refractory period of less than five minutes.

Now here he was, soft around the edges, with creaky knees, and he was lucky to get off twice in one hour.

And worse, he was attracting guys on the down-low.

“I tried to warn you,” the voice of his best friend Ramin whispered in his ear, hovering over his shoulder like a little angel.

“Me too,” Farzan, his other best friend, said from the other shoulder, with a little halo and wings of his own.

What did it say about Arya that he imagined both his best friends as little angels over his shoulders?

That he was the devil?

“Fuck my life,” he groaned, swiping a hand over his smooth head and massaging his scalp a bit.

His phone buzzed in his satchel. A text from Carley.

Carley

Be back soon, boss!

Leave for the venue at 5?

Arya

Yes, 5:00 departure

See you soon

Arya sighed, tucked his phone away, and let himself out of the bathroom.

He needed to shower this whole thing off.