36
Trevor is one pampered boy.
My life is so hard.
Like, ugh, it sucks so much to be me.
Observe the warm stones resting on my back like hot palms, and the skillful thumbs making putty out of my feet. Observe the relaxing music an hour later when I’m kicking back in a spa bath of warm spring water. Observe the kind lady gently massaging my temples with warm oils, and the pleasant tingling her work casts down the rest of my limp, noodly body.
Such agony.
Did I mention the endless service of any drink I could possibly fathom or any food I could possibly crave? I’m pretty sure I could request grandma’s fresh baked chocolate chip cookies on a platter of gold and find it brought to me within ten minutes. It may even literally be my grandma’s cookies. I have no idea how the magic of this place works; I simply know for a fact that it does.
When the spa treatments are complete, I’m actually expected to figure out how my legs are supposed to work. Seriously, a part of me expects the masseuses to carry me around the resort. How am I supposed to walk when my legs feel like two wimpy rolls of thrice-kneaded bread? Not to mention my arms. I can’t possibly be bothered to lift a glass to my thirsty lips, not after the morning of massages, treatments, and general pampering I just endured.
And some people get to experience this every day.
Like, I can’t even feel my muscles anymore. Every single part of me has been worked, pressed, twisted, pulled, mashed, beaten, and bent into flesh pudding.
I need to be poured onto a big dish and left in the sun to bake before I can call myself a functional human being again.
“Enjoying yourself?” asks Ben.
We’re in two reclining chairs shaded by an oversized umbrella with gorgeously garnished cocktails between us, a lavish pool to our right, a beach with calmly rushing waves to our left, and a cloudless sky kissed by the gorgeous, golden sun overhead.
And this joker asks if I’m enjoying myself.
“I suppose I’m alright,” I answer flippantly, going for another sip of my tasty cocktail. No, I don’t know what I’m drinking, but it tastes like happiness and everything right in the world.
“Oh? Everything not to your exact liking, Prince Trevor?”
He’s been calling me Prince Trevor all day. I can’t say I know where it comes from, but it seems to be some kind of inside joke to him, so I play along. “I’ll let you know when I am, in any way, dissatisfied. You’ll be first to know, in fact.”
I’m sitting here in just a skimpy pair of red trunks, by the way, courtesy of Benjamin Gage, who is responsible for this entire weekend’s wardrobe. I can’t really complain about it. Just like my outfit last night, the trunks fit me perfectly, cupping my cock and balls and cleaving my ass just right. Though it does make me feel a bit like a Ken doll on display for the whole world—Benjamin’s own personal trophy to show off, I suppose—it also makes me feel sexy.
I can’t remember ever feeling so damned attractive, sexual, and desired. Ben is making me feel so many things for the first time. And I don’t just mean the cucumber slices over my eyes.
The sun is overhead when Ben and I return to the cabana for a shower. This would be the second experience I’ve had in our giant, extravagant cabana shower, which makes me realize that I never bothered describing the first. Picture a walk-in closet, except it’s a glorious chamber of watery, soapy, showery delight. The mere size leads me to genuinely wonder why the hell a shower would need to be so big. Is it meant to house an orgy of eight at once? For the time being, I’ll ignore the sudden hot fantasies that spring to mind at that very thought—bookmarked for my next jerk-off session. This shower has a warm jet of water coming from every damned direction, so you don’t have to worry about scrubbing that spot between your balls and your butthole; rest assured, it will be thoroughly attended to by these invasive shower jets.
Not that any of that matters to Ben, whose hands are doing a plenty enough good job of soaping every single goddamned inch of my wet, slippery, sensitive body. I have never been so turned on for such long periods of time as I’ve been here in Mexico with Ben taking every liberty to touch me everywhere. He is all animal and a perfect gentleman all at once. He treats me like a piece of meat and a prince. How is it even possible?
Yes, I get and stay hard the entire shower. No, Ben doesn’t do anything about it except torment me worse and worse with each soaping and rubbing of hands against skin.
Of course, I’m allowed my turn to torture him when it’s my turn to lather up and rub my hands up his tatted body. Even for as slippery as the water and soap make us, his muscles still feel firm as marble. His abs are like rolling pins of meat. His pecs are two thick mounds of bread pinched at the end by nipples, which I give a teasing kiss to as I clean him. Yes, Ben bucks and moans.
Ah, so mister muscle man is sensitive there too.
Noted.
But I behave, and we save the real messing around for later. Ben gets out of the shower first to make sure all our evening plans are still in place while I finish up. When I step out ten minutes later and don the clothes he left out on the bed for me—a beautiful royal blue button-up with slacks, a sleek belt that must’ve cost a hundred dollars on its own, and shiny dress shoes—I feel like a totally different person.
I’m not Trevor Woodard. I’m Mr. Woodard, the young man who walks with his chin lifted a hair higher.
Is Ben spoiling me? Am I a spoiled little turd biscuit, now? Should I start popping my collars and complaining to the manager at every restaurant I go to?
When I step out of the bedroom, I find Ben on the phone in the kitchen. In a sleek grey dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up loosely and a sexy pair of slacks (all of which make Benjamin look unexpectedly laidback compared to his usual standards), he looks downright edible.
He taps his phone looking satisfied with himself, pockets it, then lifts his gorgeous face to me. “Ready for dinner?” he asks.
I bite my lip. “You mean it’s not you?”
He chuckles darkly, then shakes his head. “No. I’m the dessert, and I decide when you get to enjoy me.”
I scowl at him. Such a cock tease.
The dinner is nothing to scowl at, however. He takes me to a gorgeous restaurant I must not have noticed last night on our extravagant touring of the premises. The restaurant is located on an upper floor of the main building. Some windows have a view of the Caribbean Sea while others overlook the gardens of the resort. It’s the resort we view during my birthday dinner, which consists of a dish called Cocobichuela—which is a blend of shrimp and sliced lobster with rice and tropical fruits in a curry sauce. This cocktail of succulence is served in a hollowed-out coconut shell with a slice of pineapple on top, which is very intimidating at first sight, but after the first bite slips past your lips, you are certain you’ll never taste anything better for the rest of your life.
I spend half of my meal moaning, which is all too amusing to Ben, who’s enjoying my reactions almost as much as he’s enjoying his own meal. The sun begins to set as we eat, so by the time we’ve reached dessert, the ceiling light is traded for candlelight, and the gentle ambiance of families talking is now seasoned with a backdrop of romantic music courtesy of a live band.
But I’m too pent up to enjoy it. I’m too distracted by the man sitting across from me, the beauty in the grey dress shirt, the one who keeps tunneling through me with his deep, hungry eyes.
“Can we take our dessert to go?” I ask calmly, betraying my excited, jumpy insides.
Ben grins, knowing my mind all too well. “Anything for you, Prince Trevor.”
When we return to the cabana, Benjamin and I settle on the cushy swinging bench on the patio overlooking our private beach. Between us, we share tiny forkfuls of triple chocolate fudge cake swathed in the sweetest raspberry ganache. A single hole lives in its fudgy heart where a candle was lit, blown out, and plucked free. Only a tiny strip of sky is bruised dark gold by the sun, which has passed beyond the horizon, pulling its dark blue blanket of stars along with it.
And here we are, eating my birthday cake a bite at a time. He takes one, then I follow. It’s like a game, his eyes stabbing me fiercely as he watches me delight in the dessert.
“You are a fine looking twenty-one-year-old,” he tells me.
I smirk. “It isn’t midnight yet.”
“Nice observation.” He takes another forkful, cocky as ever. “But you weren’t born at exactly midnight, now were you?”
“One in the morning. Close enough.”
“So I’m sharing a cake with the world’s sexiest twenty-year-old for roughly four more hours.”
Shifting my legs under me, I’m reminded anew that Ben is even responsible for the underwear I have on right now: a pair of ass-cupping black boxer-briefs that feel like nothing. The crotch is shaped perfectly to accommodate my cock and balls, like a pouch perfectly contoured to fit my cock, with stitching on either side that runs right up the crease of my inner thighs. It could not be more fitting to my body if it were painted on.
Feeling sexy and in charge, I take the now empty plate and set it on the table next to us, then throw my legs over Benjamin’s lap, cuddling on the swinging bench. Ben takes to me right away, adjusting to put an arm around my back while resting his other arm along my legs, gently stroking up and down my calf as we slowly swing, enjoying the sights and the gentle sea breeze.
“It feels like we could just sit here for hours doing nothing,” I murmur, leaning my head against his shoulder.
“Second that,” mumbles Ben, breathing across my hair.
“Life can be so unnecessarily stressful, worrying about what my roommate thinks of me, worrying about the others and their opinions, worrying about my mom and dad and whether my education was worth the money we’d saved up for years … I wish I could bottle up the perspective I have right now and take it back home with me somehow.”
“I know that feeling.”
“Shouldn’t life just be about … love? It’s the only thing that matters when you take away stupid arguments you had … and bad moods, frustration, stresses, expectations … and money. In the end, all that’s left when you sift through the dirt is love.”
“Love, the golden nuggets in life’s big gold pan.”
I chuckle. “Thanks for carrying that metaphor full-term. You could have left it alone, but I’ll take it.”
He kisses the top of my head. Something about the slowness in which he kisses me is telling. He takes his time planting those lips on my hair, like his mind is full of deep, swirly thoughts.
Why am I the only one who gets to see this side of Benjamin Gage? Why does the world only know the hard-ass who beats the public images of celebrities like hot metals against an anvil until they’re perfectly shaped, strong and unbreakable when they cool?
Well, to be fair, I also get a far less gentle side of Ben, too—the side that wants to devour me whole every time he looks my way and undresses me with his smoldering stare.
“Would it be so wrong to … call you my boyfriend?” I ask.
His lips freeze atop my head. I clench shut my eyes, feeling like maybe I shouldn’t have pressed the matter. I don’t know why I need it to be stated that I’m his and he’s mine somehow, like the term is my staked claim of ownership. Benjamin is not the corner piece of brownie I’m jabbing my “mine!” fork into at a party; he is a human with willpower and a right to his emotional freedom.
But dang it, so am I.
“I would be lying,” he finally murmurs back, “if I said that what I feel for you isn’t strong. It’s pretty strong, Trevor.”
Every time he says my name in that softer, more sensitive tone of his, my insides melt. Who knew that just uttering a name could be so damned sexy and intimate?
“We don’t really have to label it,” I blurt out, maybe to save him the sweat of tap dancing around an answer. “Whatever this is between us. I don’t know why I’m so caught up in the ‘boyfriend’ thing. Maybe I’m just trying to express my feelings to you, and the only way I know how is … to call you my boyfriend.”
He tightens his grip around my back, squeezing me against him. “Every time you say that word, you make me hard.”
I chuckle, noting the firmness swelling beneath my legs in his lap. “Is that right? … Boyfriend?”
“And you make something else inside me soft.” Ben pulls his head back to get a look into my eyes. The look in his is infinitely deep, almost unrecognizable. “You mean a lot to me, Trevor. I’ve had so many walls around me my whole life. Defensive walls. Reasons to keep guys away. To stay alone. Everyone in my life has always wanted something from me … but it’s never been my heart. It’s just been my clout. Or my wallet. Or my big dick.”
“To be fair,” I quickly add, “I am very interested in your dick, and if it weren’t for your wallet or clout, we wouldn’t be here.”
He chuckles and gives my calf a little smack. “You know what I mean, smart ass.”
“My smart ass is in a very tight pair of underwear right now, thanks to you.”
Ben stares down at me hungrily and growls at my words. “I look forward to getting you right out of those later.”
I feel a sudden surge of humility. “Thank you for them.”
He considers my face for a bit before reluctantly replying, “You’re welcome.”
“And thank you for being patient with me,” I go on. “I know you must go lightning speed with boys you meet at nightclubs. You have had so much more experience at this than I have. I don’t know if I’m going to measure up to what you’re likely used to.”
“Trevor …”
“I just want you to know that I know that. And I also realize this slow pace has to be … hard for you. All of this … waiting …”
“Stop.”
I meet his eyes. The look in them is hard and knowing.
“I don’t have any expectations of you,” he states to my silent, anxious face. “There isn’t any ‘waiting’ happening. Whatever this is between us, it’s already begun. Sex is just sex. It’ll come when you’re ready.”
“Pun intended?” I put in teasingly.
He doesn’t laugh; his eyes pour with sincerity as he speaks solidly into my own. “I’m enjoying myself, Trevor. I’m enjoying all of this. Relax.” That one word from his lips sounds as comforting as it does demanding, almost like an order. “Just enjoy the breeze, go with the flow, and let things happen.”
I melt into his eyes. “I know you meant all that,” I murmur to him openly, “and it really touches me, it does …”
“Yeah?”
“But your words also made me really, really hard.”
I kiss him right then before he can respond. Everything goes away—the waves crashing in the distance, the crisp and salty air, the motion of the swinging bench—and it’s just Benjamin and I.
And this kiss.
So many things happen with his kiss, all at once. Boyfriends? Yes, we are, without a doubt, boyfriends. Lovers? There is so much passion bursting between us that we’d be fools to deny it, and it’s safe to say that neither of us are fools.
Walls?
I can hear them crashing down, one kiss at a time.
Benjamin is my lover and my boyfriend. He is everything I secretly wanted, filling the years of loneliness so completely that I forget I was ever lonely at all.
Maybe I was never truly alone. Maybe I can see the future and knew all this time that Benjamin Gage would come along to save me. It was only a matter of time.
“I don’t want to wait,” I breathe against his lips while we kiss. “I’ve waited long enough. I want it now. I want you now.”
“Trevor …” he growls like a warning.
“I’m giving myself to you totally. Please,” I nearly beg, “please give me what I really want. Give me you, Benjamin.”
He pulls away from me for one hard second. His eyes darken, all his features tightening with desire. “I swear, you’re going to ruin me, Trevor Woodard.”
Maybe I had it backwards. Maybe I’m the one saving him.
Maybe I’m smashing down all his walls.
The next instant, he sweeps me up into his arms and carries me toward our private beach, sand and wind and night swirling around us.