By: Cara McKenna

“Slowly,” I said, surprised again by this new ability to make demands.

He obeyed, running his cupped hand along the underside of his shaft with perfect control. Next he smoothed the oil over the base, drawing his fist halfway up, then back down. With each stroke he came closer to the head, until his entire length shone in the dancing light.

“Does it feel good?”

“Yes, wonderful.” His hips joined the motion of his hand, thrusting his cock into his grip. Arousal obliterated a dam inside me, flooding me with heat and urgency.

I rose to stand at his side and study him from every angle. He seemed to understand what I wanted from this show, intensifying the movements. With his free hand he reached up and clasped the canopy rail, leaning forward to emphasize everything that had me so mesmerized. He held his fist still, fucking it with his cock and letting loose a deep groan. The sound sucked the breath from my lungs. I circled to the back, imagining this vision—the undulations of these strong hips and ass and shoulders—was how he’d look, taking me.

With a shallow, fearful inhalation, I reached out and touched him, trailing my fingertips down his spine. He moaned from the contact and I pulled away, but only for a moment. When I touched him again, I let myself linger. His skin was hot, as though he’d been standing in front of a fire, and damp with the finest sheen of perspiration. I traced the crests of his jutting shoulder blades, then down his back to his hip. Beneath my palm I felt the strength in his muscle and I marveled simply to be touching a man this way. To be touching a man this flawless. It was a glorious crime, like breaching security to stroke my palm over Starry Night and memorize its luscious brushstrokes.

As I rounded him, I dragged my palm across his lower back. I admired the flex of his arm, with my eyes as well as my touch. How extraordinary, that this was actually happening to me, that I was allowed to enjoy the most beautiful man I’d ever seen and he couldn’t break my heart.

I went back to the bed, kneeling on the mattress in front of him. As he fucked his fist, I mustered the nerve to touch his face. His gaze, half-mast though it was, felt too intense.

“Close your eyes.”

He did.

I memorized his cheekbones and the rasp of his stubble, the shapes of his ears and nose. I held his jaw, awed by how real he was. How he could look this astonishing yet still be flesh and blood. I rose enough to graze my closed lips against his lower one, not quite a kiss.

“I’m close,” he whispered. The words brushed our lips together, the most potent and personal caress I believe I’ve ever felt.

“I don’t want it to end yet.”

He nodded.

“Can you stop now, or are you too close?”

“I can stop.” And he did. He straightened, chest and belly rising and falling with each harsh breath.

“Could I watch you bathe?”

“Of course.”

“When you’re ready, I mean.”

He smiled at that. “Thank you.” He ran his hands through his hair and gulped a few inhalations, until his composure returned.

“That was… That was exactly what I wanted,” I told him.


I felt myself blushing but continued anyway. “Does it make any difference, that it’s me here with you when you were doing that?”

“Of course.” He met my gaze and as intense as it was, I welcomed it. “Everything I did was for you. Every thought that ran through my mind was of you. And it thrills me to be the only man you’ve watched, that way.”

The blush raged to a full-blown fire. “Oh.”

“Whatever you desire tonight, I want to be the one who gives it to you.”

I felt too many things, at that moment—lust and awe, and a romantic thrill quickly eclipsed as my traitorous, annoying brain reminded me we were only together because I was paying him. But the illusion felt too good for the ugly thoughts to win. That’s the magic of Didier—he lets you believe this romance is real. Because for the six hours you’ve reserved with him, it is.

“You want to watch me bathe now?”

I nodded.


I followed him to an adjacent, tiny bathroom, lit by the clear bulbs framing the cabinet mirror. This is a garret, I’ll remind you, so don’t imagine he has an actual tub, merely a shower cubicle. But it’s an elegant little nook, tiled in teal and turquoise and indigo, with antique copper fixtures. I took a seat on the wooden lid of his toilet and marveled at how close his naked body was. He got the water running, leaving the glass door wide open.

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