Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
“Um . . .”
I laugh from the sofa. Can’t help it. Wrecked is one way to put it.
“. . . Not exactly,” Mark says as Brett’s gaze swings toward me. “I have company this weekend.”
“Hi,” I say, giving Brett a little wave. “I’m Asher.”
Brett tips his head to the side, and I can practically see the equations working behind his eyes. “You look familiar. Do you play soccer?”
“I used to. We call it football, though. Now I’m a photographer.”
“Huh,” Brett says slowly. “Nice to meet you.”
I stand up and offer my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Brett. I’ve heard a lot about your prowess at the chess board.”
“That’s interesting,” he says, shaking my hand. “Because I haven’t heard the first word about you.”
Uh-oh.
“It’s complicated,” Mark says at the exact moment that I say, “It’s new.”
Then we both turn and gaze at each other with wonder and amusement. Because it is, in fact, both complicated and new.
Brett chuckles uncomfortably. “Mark? Is this part of the reason you got divorced?” He’s still doing the math apparently.
“Nope,” he says, popping the P at the end of the word. “But it’s the reason I’m finally enjoying being divorced. I’m bisexual.”
“Oh. Cool.”
“Want some pancakes and bacon?” Mark asks.
“Sure.” Brett shrugs easily, and I see that he finally understands the equation. “Is there more of that coffee?”
“You bet. Let’s eat.”
We crowd into Mark’s smallish kitchen. He shoos us both to the table with our mugs of coffee. “Do you do . . . whatever Mark does?” I ask him.
He laughs loudly. “Yeah, but I’ll spare you the details.”
“Good. Because dumb jocks are Mark’s type. I don’t really understand finance. Although I do enjoy spreadsheets.”
Mark snorts from the stove.
“Eh. Finance can be a drag. But it pays the bills. Do you at least play chess?” Brett wants to know.
“Sorry, no.”
“Ah, well.” He sips his coffee. “Nobody’s perfect.”
“I like tennis, though.”
“Good to know,” he says.
I’m a lucky man.
I’ve lived a charmed life. No great childhood drama, no traumatic coming out story. I’m only thirty, and I’ve already had two fantastic careers. The first one on the pitch, the second behind the lens.
It’s very good to be me.
But right now, on a Saturday in September in Manhattan, as I walk through Greenwich Village with Mark, this is the day I want to bottle up.
From the sex marathon, to the pancakes, to meeting his nerdy banker friend.
Every second is perfect.
“And we’re almost there. The five percent errand,” I say, waving to the end of the block.
“Ah, so the sex dungeon you’re taking me to is up ahead?” Mark asks, swinging his gaze around the street.
Reasonable question, since we’ve passed leather shops and sex toy stores, all adorned with rainbow flags.
“That’s for later, pet,” I tease him.
Mark laughs. Something he’s been doing a lot of this weekend. He has a great laugh, dry and full of genuine humor. The man has a fantastic smile too. And I can’t help feeling like a king since I’m the guy who brings it out in him. I’m also the only guy who’s brought out this side of him. I don’t have a virgin kink, but I definitely have a Mark Banks one. Being his first for all the good stuff in bed only makes me want to experience more good stuff with him.
Every single night.
I drape an arm around his shoulders. “We can have a whole night of sex dungeon spreadsheets at your place any time you want.”
“Good thing I stocked up on handcuffs, then,” he says, offhand.
I stop in my tracks, and he pulls up short. “Do not tease me about handcuffs,” I say, in a deep, low voice.
Mark grins wickedly. “You kinky fucker. Are you into handcuffs, Asher?”
I’m into you. “I had a dirty daydream about you in handcuffs once.”
“Guess you can come play with mine tonight then,” he says, and yup, this is officially the best day ever.
I grab his face, give him a quick peck.
When I break the kiss, we walk the last several feet to one of my favorite clothing shops. Sexy music filters out, and a tall woman with short white hair and stern glasses glances up at us from the stark white counter.
“We’re going . . . shopping?” Mark asks, brow creased. “That’s your surprise?”
Oh, shit.
“Yes,” I say, and my heart skitters. Now that I’m here, it hits me⏤he’s going to think I’m trying to change him and I'm not really. This is just fun. “I thought maybe I’d get you some new shirts, but let’s forget it.”
“You really do hate my clothes.” He sounds amused.
But I feel like a jackass. “Actually, I don’t.”
“I’m so confused. You want to take me shopping. Get me some new clothes, but now you don’t?”
I had this idea to buy him some stylish new shirts that I’d want to rip off him, and it felt brilliant at the time. Now, it seems like an insult. “You don’t have to change a single thing for me,” I tell him. “I don’t need to take you shopping.”