Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 149982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 750(@200wpm)___ 600(@250wpm)___ 500(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 750(@200wpm)___ 600(@250wpm)___ 500(@300wpm)
He pumps me in a pace that swells arousal, vapor and a tormenting desire wrapping around me. With my other hand, I clasp his hard jaw, but I can barely feel him in my clutch.
Dreaming…just a dream.
“Ask me,” I choke out again, our mouths grazing but not touching. Ask me if I want to be kissed.
His hoarse, deep voice says something against my lips. I can’t hear him, and I’m dying under the almost-there, the so-close, the one-breath-away of this moment. This second.
“Long Beach…” My nickname is faint.
I glance down at my cock and watch his large hand tug me. Shockwaves ripple through my muscles, my veins, my head—I’m spinning and a groan erupts from my throat.
“Long Beach.”
I jolt awake.
Oscar shakes my shoulder, standing in the aisle of the private jet. Our eyes meet, and a new type of heat bathes me. Mortified.
I’m on the plane. I fell asleep on the plane and had a fucking sex dream! Dude, dude, dude, Jack. I’m a smooth operator. I flirt, date, and sleep with women without tripping, but around him lately, I want to go for a dive and end up belly-flopping.
Again, mortified.
“We’re about to land,” Oscar says, his hand still on my shoulder and we both suddenly zone in on that fact, his breath and my breath stilted. He pulls back, but no lie, I wish he wouldn’t.
Did he hear me groan?
Oscar has a black bandana, already rolled, and begins to tie it around his forehead. “If you need to use the bathroom, now’s your chance.” His eyes dip for half a second. To my crotch.
I glance down. Oh, fuck, Jesus, I have a boner. I’m rock-hard, the outline of my cock pressing against my dark jeans.
And I was worried that he heard me groan. Shit. I shoot to my feet. Embarrassment deflating me more. “Yeah, thanks for the heads up.”
He grins, hopefully just at my choice of words. “Hey, it happens to the best of us.” He pats my shoulder, and again, the placement of his hand on me catches our breath.
I stare at his hand for a second too long. That hand was just wrapped around my shaft, and it’s not just an act I want to stay in my head.
I’m not straight.
I can’t be straight with how drawn to him I’ve been. With how aroused I become, and the attraction is too clear to deny or question. Those clouds are gone.
But the endgame of my future is nothing but a fog. My life’s plan—what does that even look like now? I’m used to having the big picture mapped out. High school. Prom King. College. Swim Team. Producer. Wife. Children. Awards. Happiness. Retirement. More happiness.
I’ve erased essential parts of my map! But the fuck if I even know what a map is anymore. Or maybe, I’ve added question marks to it. Husband? Or wife? Or spouse? Children???
What even is my sexuality if I’m not straight…I don’t know.
Oscar drops his hand.
I slide out into the aisle, catching his eyes. I think about work. I’m here to film Charlie, and I can’t open the floodgates to me and Oscar in this moment—that’s if he’d even want me.
I need to play off what just happened. So I say, “What is that you told me? I don’t need an emotional baby blanket. Same goes for me, Oscar. Treat me how you’d treat any of your other co-worker non-friends.”
He nods slowly. “Nice woodie,” he says casually.
“It’s even bigger without the pants,” I say, just as casually, and then I turn around, hoping he’s burning up just as much as I am. Every step to the bathroom feels like crossing molten lava. I can’t tell if it’s because I’m still mortified or if it’s just jacked-up levels of attraction. Probably both.
Definitely both.
10
OSCAR OLIVEIRA
No earpiece. No radio. I don’t need them. I’m in Paris without anyone from SFO. Officially on my own, and it’s just another day at work.
My current office is The Louvre. I’ve lost count the number of times I’ve been here, but I try my best not to take these things for granted.
No matter how many times Charlie comes back to see the Winged Victory of Samothrace, a gorgeous eight-foot marble sculpture of a winged goddess, he still has that same awed reverence in his eyes as the first time I saw him here. It’s a gift not to become jaded by beauty.
My gaze drifts to Jack.
With a Canon in hand, he’s busy talking to Charlie, and I hang back out of earshot, only because it’s a busy day at the museum. I had hoped we’d be going to the Musée d'Orsay. It’s less crowded. Smaller. Easier to coordinate with the museum’s security, and one of Charlie’s favorite places in the city.
Landing here, and being on the same floor as the Mona Lisa, isn’t ideal.