Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
“Oh, my God. That was…”
“Okay?”
I sputtered a laugh at the inadequate adjective. “Amazing.”
“Bon.” He smiled as he stepped aside and picked up a discarded towel from my laundry basket. “For cleanup, or do you want tissue?”
“No, that’s fine.” I wiped up the mess and dropped it to the floor with a chuckle. “I can’t believe we did that. I’ve never…”
“I know. You are straight, remember?”
I shoved his chest playfully and melted into a scorching kiss so powerful it came with a side of courage. I eased my thumb under his waistband. “You need some help?”
He captured my wrist, brought my fingers to his lips, and shook his head. “No, that was for you.”
“That doesn’t seem fair,” I said, unsure if I was relieved or worried I’d done something wrong. I didn’t know the rules here. I was so far out of my depth, it was almost funny.
“It’s perfectly fair.” He found our T-shirts and handed mine over.
We redressed in silence and headed upstairs to find the storm had weakened a bit. It was still raining, but the wind had died down and so far, no more lightning or thunder.
I plucked an umbrella from a hook in the foyer and met him on the front porch. “Take this.”
“Merci and bonne nuit, Riley.”
“Bonne nuit.”
Jean-Claude walked along the path to the sidewalk and made a production of opening the umbrella. I snickered like an idiot when he pretended to get blown away by a gust of wind, Mary Poppins style.
And then he was gone.
I crossed my arms, casually watching rain drip from the eaves as though the last two hours hadn’t knocked my world off course and sent me reeling.
I had a strong notion I had more problems than a tuna salad sandwich could cure.
4
JEAN-CLAUDE
It’s a miracle. No headache this morning.
What kind of a message was this? I supposed it was positive to hear from Riley after last night, but I wasn’t sure if this was a “Let’s pretend that hand job never happened” text or a “Let’s do it again” text.
What I did know was this…I’d made a terrible mistake. I was undeniably attracted to Riley, but I’d had no business acting on it. My lack of restraint puzzled me. He was lonely in an unfamiliar town and I was a foreigner, like him. Maybe he truly believed my tuna salad would aid his recovery, but he’d also been restless and adamant about wanting company last night. My company.
Perhaps he was just horny in his forced hiatus and I was available. I’d been with a few straight men who’d given in to their bi-curiosity when they were out of town for a night or a weekend. Some could tell themselves a hand job between men wasn’t a big deal, and others were more adventurous. I understood better than most the psychological mind games necessary to allow oneself to surrender to desire.
Once upon a time, I’d been that curious “straight” man, desperately hoping one night was all I needed before I could go back to my normal hetero life. It had taken years for me to finally crack, and the aftermath was ugly. I regretted the hurt I’d caused. It wasn’t fun to grapple with truth, but it was better than living a lie.
I didn’t know if any of that applied to Riley, of course. Sometimes I wondered, though, if the Rileys of the world gravitated to me…as if they knew I understood the potent mix of fear and need and wouldn’t judge, might even offer some sage advice.
Not likely.
Communicating nuances in English was difficult for me. It was easier to brush off misunderstandings and blame them on a language barrier than to admit I didn’t know how to talk about my queer experience…the things I’d been through, the people I’d lost along the way.
No, it was better to stay in the kitchen, where expectations were simple. I cook, they eat.
I read Riley’s text again and decided that joking about the healing effects of tuna salad was the safest option.
I’m glad you’re feeling better, I replied.
Nolan burst into the kitchen before I could chastise myself for being a pussy. It was just as well. I needed a distraction, and Nolan was always a pleasant one.
He looked happy, well caffeinated, and if I were a crass individual, I might add, freshly fucked this morning. Good for him. The downside of befriending this particular ex was that I was familiar with his, um…how do you say it—post-sex glow?
“Bon matin.”
“Good morning, sunshine. And yes, the sun is shining. Could you believe that storm last night? It was nuts! My mom told me a few shingles blew off her roof last night. How’d you fare?” Nolan asked cheerfully.
“My shingles are fine.”
He chuckled. “Good to know, but that wasn’t what I meant.”
“Ah, you were asking how the rain made me feel. Like psychology, eh? Well, Nolan, it made me feel wet,” I huffed sarcastically.