Four Arya
four
Arya
Arya felt like a teenager, sneaking into his boyfriend’s room at night while his parents were home.
At least, he assumed this is what it felt like.
He’d never dated in high school. He hadn’t come out until he was in college, and he very quickly gained a reputation for sleeping with anyone who caught his fancy.
He went from guy to guy (occasionally even not-a-guy) practically on a weekly basis. So he’d never had a boyfriend, either.
But the house–slash–tasting room was quiet and unnerving, knowing Ben’s parents—who’d rented out their winery to Arya for this event—were sleeping somewhere, totally unaware that Arya and their son had jerked each other off in the vineyard.
“Mind the third step,” Ben whispered. “It creaks.”
Arya followed in Ben’s footsteps as precisely as he could, up a hardwood staircase, down a long hall with a fading mustard-yellow rug, and then into a cozy bedroom coated with vintage wallpaper, white with subtle blue designs, and an actual four-poster bed against one wall.
Arya imagined how useful it would be for round two.
There was a love seat by the window, too, with the curtains still open, facing the dark vineyard and the moon shining bright.
“Be right back,” Ben said softly, slipping back out of the bedroom.
Arya wiggled his toes against the plush area rug.
As in any proper diaspora household, they’d left their shoes downstairs, though Ben had offered Arya to keep his on if he was more comfortable.
People doing tastings kept their shoes on, after all, but that was in the part of the house open to the public. Not the living quarters.
Besides, Arya was Iranian, and his mother would literally disown him if he walked into someone’s house, much less their actual bedroom, with soil-covered shoes.
Ben returned with a damp washcloth and a sheepish smile. He held up the cloth. “You’ve got some cum on your pants.”
Arya wondered if it was Ben’s or his own. Not that it mattered, he still couldn’t let it set.
“Thanks.” Arya took the cloth, their fingertips brushing, and blotted at the stain.
Strange, how the brush of fingers could feel so charged, when they’d literally had hands on each other’s dicks a few minutes ago.
“You sure no one will find out about our, uh, unique fertilization methods?”
Ben laughed softly. “Positive. It wouldn’t be the first time I christened the vines.”
Arya paused his blotting and cocked an eyebrow.
“What?” Ben asked. He sounded defensive, but those cheekbones of his were slashed with pink. “I was a rebellious teenager. So sue me.”
Arya straightened up. “You’re saying you jerked off on your parents’ wine grapes when you got pissed at them?”
Ben shrugged, looking sheepish, but then he started to laugh again, and Arya laughed, too. He tried his best to keep it down, but he couldn’t hold it in. He collapsed onto the love seat and pulled a throw pillow over his face to muffle the sounds.
A shift in the cushion told him Ben had sat, too.
Once Arya had his laughter under control, he lowered the pillow—only to see Ben right there, still red-cheeked, his own eyes crinkled in laughter behind his slutty little glasses, and Arya was taken by another giggling fit, falling over against Ben’s shoulder.
It was solid, warm. At some point Ben had taken off his fuzzy cardigan, revealing a plain white tank top that was perfectly cut to show off his chest and shoulders, the rich olive skin there.
Arya cursed his suit, cursed all the layers of wool and silk and cotton and who knew what the fuck else between his skin and Ben’s, because he really wished he could feel it.
Arya didn’t usually go all gooey-eyed for guys in tank tops, but damn, Ben looked… incredible.
At last Arya sighed and sat up again. Ben was still smiling at him, a smile he couldn’t help mirroring.
This wasn’t how his hookups usually went.
Yeah, he and his partner would get some laughs in—sex was funny, after all, and bodies were weird—but it was usually a few chuckles while they switched positions, not full-on giggle fits so intense Arya could barely breathe.
He needed to get this back on firmer footing. Take a breather and then get busy again.
He took a deep breath. “Soooooooo…” He drew the vowel out as he decided how to phrase this.
Finally, he decided blunt was fine.
“Your ex-boyfriend, huh?”
Ben’s smile sloughed off. He sighed and scratched at his lower stomach, making his tank top ride up, exposing firm muscle and a few wisps of black hair.
Arya drew his eyes back to Ben’s face, but the look Ben gave him, heated and knowing, told him he was caught.
“What?” Arya asked innocently.
Ben rolled his eyes. “He still works here. At the vineyard. He’s the tasting room manager.”
“Oh. Shit.” Arya had probably emailed the guy. Or more likely, Carley had. How pissed off was he likely to be?
This was why he didn’t get entangled at work!
Except, he hadn’t known he was getting entangled. He’d been done working. Ben wasn’t a client. How was Arya supposed to know how deep he was burying himself?
“Hey. Don’t worry.” Ben rested his hand on Arya’s. “It’s fine.”
“What happened, anyway?” Arya asked. Except that wasn’t his business. What he meant was, How’d it get so bad you had to kiss a stranger to get him to back off?
Ben rolled his eyes. “My parents still adore him, so he’s convinced himself I’ll take him back.”
“But you won’t.”
“Fuck no.” Ben said it with such stern finality, Arya finally unclenched his butthole. “He might be into open relationships, but I’m not. And you can’t put that cat back in the bag.”
Arya let out a low breath. “Fuck.”
He’d never really gotten the whole “open relationship” thing. Not that he judged anyone for doing (or not doing) it, but it wasn’t for him. Granted, relationships weren’t for him. Still, if he were in one, he’d want it to be exclusive.
“Yeah.” Ben sighed, shifting sideways and draping one arm across the back of the love seat. Arya traced the vein in his forearm with his eyes.
And then, because he was still kind of hoping for round two, with his fingers.
At first, Arya had thought Ben’s arms were hairless, but now he could see they had fine black hairs, which stood up at Arya’s touch.
“It’s fine, though. I just have to survive a few more days. Then I’m out of here.”
“Oh?” Arya cocked his head. Well, maybe it sort of fell over. He was more tired than he realized, and that orgasm earlier had left him with the sort of soft, gentle buzz that was usually a signal to cuddle up and go to sleep.
“Yeah. Got a new job lined up. I’m a cellist.”
“Shit, really?” Arya had never slept with a classical musician before. He’d fucked plenty of amateur guitarists, but this was different. “No wonder you have such nice hands.”
Ben smiled at that, his deep brown eyes twinkling behind his glasses.
Those slutty little glasses.
God, Arya wanted to kiss him again, but he also didn’t want to move, because Ben was running his fingers up and down Arya’s forearm, sending tingles up his spine, spinning out across every fiber of his central nervous system.
Something was tickling the back of his brain, though.
“Wait. You said your parents adore what’s-his-face. Even though he wanted an open relationship?” He frowned. “Are your parents swingers?”
Ben snorted, loud, then covered his mouth with the crook of his elbow. “Oh, god, no!” He chuckled and lowered his arm. “I… didn’t tell them that part.”
Arya frowned. “How come?”
It’s not like he told his mom much of anything about his sex life, but still, she had nearly caused multiple international incidents over some of his sister’s boneheaded exes. She had a firm belief in a good, strong scorched-earth policy.
“I don’t know. I didn’t want them to fire him just because we broke up.
” Ben curled his lips inward for a second, then relaxed them.
They were so thick and full, the memory of them still imprinted on Arya’s own lips.
What if he just leaned in and kissed Ben right now?
That four-poster bed still looked really nice.
But he couldn’t bring himself to interrupt. He actually did want to know more.
“My parents were fine when I came out. Honestly, they were more upset about me being a musician instead of a winemaker than they ever were about me being queer. So they’ve always been cool, but they’ve never been chill.
Me being gay didn’t stop them dreaming of me settling down and making them grandbabies; it just modified their plans some.
I think they thought I’d be all settled by the time I was forty, but obviously I’m still single, so… ” Ben shrugged.
Ben was forty?
In the warm lamplight, Arya could maybe see it. The deep smile lines around Ben’s eyes. The mature angles of his face. The quiet confidence.
But damn. He still had veins down his strong biceps. He was trim and fit. Arya would’ve pegged him at thirty-five, tops.
Not that Arya was aging like shit himself. Aside from his hairline, which he’d given up on in his twenties, he was looking pretty good. Still, he was dreading turning forty. Forty was like a death sentence for a gay man’s sex life.
And yet Ben smiled, those lines around his eyes crinkling deeper, until he relaxed into a yawn.
“I hear you,” Arya continued through a yawn of his own. He rolled out his neck, turned more fully so he could lean against the back of the love seat. “I’ve got two best friends, and they both coupled up in the last few years. So now I’m like the fifth wheel. No. Worse. The spare tire.”
Arya didn’t know why he was telling Ben all this.
Arya had never told anyone this.
But Ben was a total stranger. He’d never met Farzan and Ramin. And he’d never see Arya again after tonight. So who better to tell?
“It’s not like I resent them,” Arya said. “I’m happy for them. Really. It’s just, we used to be a trio.”
The Three Must-o-teers, he used to joke, though it only really worked as a joke if you knew a little Persian. And liked yogurt. Otherwise it was just weird.