buddies back in Boston to talk things out, but a vague sense of shame stopped him. He couldn’t share this with anyone. What could he tell them? That he had, in a matter of days, become sexually fixated on a man who was engaged to be married and had thus far treated him like toilet trash?
‘But he has a charming Italian accent and he makes my dick hard and he tastes like heaven and he smells like spiced vanilla and he said as soon as he saw my eyes he didn’t hear a word I said!’
And then his friends would laugh and call him a pussy.
His phone rang, and Brendan nearly jumped out of his skin. “Jesus, calm down,” he said to himself. “Pussy.” He answered. “Yeah?”
“Are you hungry?”
Brendan swallowed, the sound of Marc’s voice making his cock twitch. “Sure, I’m hungry.” He was, but not for food.
“Give me your address. I have pizza.”
“Great,” Brendan said, and gave Marc his address. “Hit the buzzer that says Burke.”
“I haven’t forgotten your name. I’ll be there soon.”
He set the phone down and stared at it, his heart racing. What the hell am I doing? Tucking his doubts aside, he ran to the bathroom and gargled mouthwash. He checked his hair in the mirror. He needed a cut, it was getting a bit too long in the front. But Marc seemed to like it. He’d kept running his fingers through it while they were in bed. In bed .
He darted into his room to make sure the bed was made and there weren’t any dirty socks on the floor. Then he went back to check out the rest of the loft. It was a nice place, and he was proud of his decorating, simple but elegant. But he wouldn’t say that to Marc for fear he’d start talking about American riches and hookers again.
The doorbell buzzed.
Five minutes later Brendan opened the door to Marc holding a box of pizza, and he had a surreal moment where he felt like he was trapped in the best porn movie ever. “Come in.”
Marc stepped inside and his eyes did a sweep of the loft. He was wearing the same outfit he’d had on the first night Brendan had seen him at the restaurant, black slacks and tight black tee shirt. His brown hair looked clean and soft.
“This is nice,” Marc said.
“Here, I’ll take that.” Brendan grabbed the pizza box so he’d have something to do besides stare at Marc. That nervousness was back, making his gut do flips, the very presence of the man stirring things in his pants.
Marc followed him over to the kitchen bar and sat on one of the stools, watching Brendan as he set out plates and napkins. Brendan couldn’t even think about eating, but he slapped a slice of pizza on each plate, avoiding Marc’s penetrating stare.
“You look good in jeans,” Marc said. “I didn’t think anything could be better than the sight of you in a suit. I was wrong.”
“Thanks.” Brendan smiled. “Do you want a beer?”
“Love one.”
He took out two Sam Adams’ and grabbed a couple of frosted glasses out of the freezer. After popping the caps he poured one for Marc, but his hand didn’t seem to want to cooperate, and he spilled a bit down the side.
Marc stood. “Here, let me do that.” He rounded the breakfast bar and stood beside Brendan, taking over. “I poured enough of these tonight, I’m kind of an expert.”
Their elbows brushed and Brendan had to fight not to suck his breath in, the contact like an electric shock that ran straight to his groin. “You bartend?”
He poured Brendan’s beer and slid it over to him. “I do a bit of everything at the restaurant.” He glanced at Brendan. “I get paid under the table. See, there. I told you one of my awful secrets.”
Brendan laughed. “Scandalous. At least you told me something .”
Marc’s grin wilted, his beautiful lips tightening.
Shit. Shouldn’t have said that . Desperate to save the mood, Brendan reached out and gently touched the underside of Marc’s chin. “Where’d you get the scar?”
Marc looked him straight in the eye. “A gang
‘But he has a charming Italian accent and he makes my dick hard and he tastes like heaven and he smells like spiced vanilla and he said as soon as he saw my eyes he didn’t hear a word I said!’
And then his friends would laugh and call him a pussy.
His phone rang, and Brendan nearly jumped out of his skin. “Jesus, calm down,” he said to himself. “Pussy.” He answered. “Yeah?”
“Are you hungry?”
Brendan swallowed, the sound of Marc’s voice making his cock twitch. “Sure, I’m hungry.” He was, but not for food.
“Give me your address. I have pizza.”
“Great,” Brendan said, and gave Marc his address. “Hit the buzzer that says Burke.”
“I haven’t forgotten your name. I’ll be there soon.”
He set the phone down and stared at it, his heart racing. What the hell am I doing? Tucking his doubts aside, he ran to the bathroom and gargled mouthwash. He checked his hair in the mirror. He needed a cut, it was getting a bit too long in the front. But Marc seemed to like it. He’d kept running his fingers through it while they were in bed. In bed .
He darted into his room to make sure the bed was made and there weren’t any dirty socks on the floor. Then he went back to check out the rest of the loft. It was a nice place, and he was proud of his decorating, simple but elegant. But he wouldn’t say that to Marc for fear he’d start talking about American riches and hookers again.
The doorbell buzzed.
Five minutes later Brendan opened the door to Marc holding a box of pizza, and he had a surreal moment where he felt like he was trapped in the best porn movie ever. “Come in.”
Marc stepped inside and his eyes did a sweep of the loft. He was wearing the same outfit he’d had on the first night Brendan had seen him at the restaurant, black slacks and tight black tee shirt. His brown hair looked clean and soft.
“This is nice,” Marc said.
“Here, I’ll take that.” Brendan grabbed the pizza box so he’d have something to do besides stare at Marc. That nervousness was back, making his gut do flips, the very presence of the man stirring things in his pants.
Marc followed him over to the kitchen bar and sat on one of the stools, watching Brendan as he set out plates and napkins. Brendan couldn’t even think about eating, but he slapped a slice of pizza on each plate, avoiding Marc’s penetrating stare.
“You look good in jeans,” Marc said. “I didn’t think anything could be better than the sight of you in a suit. I was wrong.”
“Thanks.” Brendan smiled. “Do you want a beer?”
“Love one.”
He took out two Sam Adams’ and grabbed a couple of frosted glasses out of the freezer. After popping the caps he poured one for Marc, but his hand didn’t seem to want to cooperate, and he spilled a bit down the side.
Marc stood. “Here, let me do that.” He rounded the breakfast bar and stood beside Brendan, taking over. “I poured enough of these tonight, I’m kind of an expert.”
Their elbows brushed and Brendan had to fight not to suck his breath in, the contact like an electric shock that ran straight to his groin. “You bartend?”
He poured Brendan’s beer and slid it over to him. “I do a bit of everything at the restaurant.” He glanced at Brendan. “I get paid under the table. See, there. I told you one of my awful secrets.”
Brendan laughed. “Scandalous. At least you told me something .”
Marc’s grin wilted, his beautiful lips tightening.
Shit. Shouldn’t have said that . Desperate to save the mood, Brendan reached out and gently touched the underside of Marc’s chin. “Where’d you get the scar?”
Marc looked him straight in the eye. “A gang
Similar Books
