24. Milo

That weekend,when he spent a small fortune—I imagine—on a small cinema just for Nia and me was when I knew it was hopeless.

It was hopeless to try not to fall in love with Keaton and even more hopeless to try to deny it. And it's become even more impossible ever since.

In the six months since we "got together," he's booked out the entire Manhattan View Café so we can have brunch uninterrupted with the view of the city at our feet and all the food anyone could ever hope for, jetted me off to London where he had business to attend to, carted me off to Paris for a weekend "for the fans," and shown me the wonders of Hawaii while he was there to unveil a new shelter for those without housing.

He didn't need to take me to all those places, but he did, and even though it's just for show, it doesn't help my melting heart.

We may be one of the internet's "it" couples and have a constant barrage of photographers on our tail, but that doesn't erase all the private moments spent in pleasure and passion.

I know he's only enjoying me because he's paying for me, but try telling that to your aching heart. There's no rhyme or reason or a way to control how I feel about him. At this point, I'm ready to deal with the heartbreak when it comes in another six months' time.

"I think it's time we get married," he says thirty thousand feet in the air on our way to Europe.

I don't know where he's taking me—it's a surprise—but I at least know that much.

"H-what?" The champagne goes down the wrong hole and some of the bubbles come out my nose, but somehow, I manage not to choke, although I can't help but cough a little.

Still, none of it is as shocking as what came out of his mouth only moments ago.

"Get married?" he repeats as if they're normal words and not, like, the biggest declaration ever.

"Wh-what do you mean?" I ask, and he cocks his head with narrowed eyes, the champagne flute masking his irresistible fucking lips that just so fucking casually said, "We should get married."

"We've been dating long enough. And since we're trying to sell the whole insta-love thing, I think we should tie the knot. That will certainly get the numbers up and the board off my back."

I take a deep breath and down the rest of my champagne, trying to cover my fuck-up.

Of course he's talking about MilTon, as the fans have nicknamed us, which I hate with the raging fire of a thousand suns. Of course he's talking about the image of the couple we've built for the public, for the stock market, for his board.

Why would I think he's proposing to me? What on earth possessed me? How could I forget?

"I thought the board was happy with the company's performance on the stock market."

We've been going at it for half a year. He's already gotten the results they asked of him. He's gotten more than they've asked of him. We're the gay sensation of the year. #Cinderfella is constantly in the top ten trending hashtags across all platforms. App sign-ups and subscriptions have sky-rocketed. Couples flood his pages to tell us their love stories, how they met through Cinderfella or through other hookup apps. And with every story I read, my heart breaks a little more because their love is real, whereas ours is just a front. I know it shouldn't matter. It's just a job, but fuck, it's so, so easy to forget.

Despite my personal feelings, Keaton's plan is an absolute success. I don't know what else the board wants from him, and I don't know why he cares so damn much, aside from creating the app from scratch himself and all that.

Keaton finally sips his own drink before he sets it down and readjusts in the luxurious seat of his private jet.

As if I'm used to flying in private jets. Well, used to are strong words. I'm not used to it. I'm just not as flabbergasted as my first time flying in it.

Also…flabbergasted? Who says I didn't pick up anything British while in London?

"Oh, they are. They're very pleased with everything, but the stock market is very precarious, as is the board. Getting married will certainly get more solid numbers."

I try hard not to roll my eyes. Sometimes, it really sounds like he gets horny for numbers but only sometimes.

"Okay. And then what?"

"What do you mean?" It's his turn to ask for clarification.

"We get married and numbers go up. What happens when they go down? We have a kid? Are we supposed to have a child every time the numbers go down? Or do we renew our vows? Or get a divorce?"

Keaton bites his lip and takes a deep breath. Have I upset him? I've probably upset him.

"You know our contract is up in six months?—"

I shake my head.

"That's not what I mean. I know that." I've made my peace with it. Or trying to, at least. "I'm talking about you and your mental health. You worry so much about the stock and the board. Are you going to spend the rest of your life worrying about them both in fear they will take the company from you? What about you? When do you get to live your life properly? Or are you going to live a new romance with a new Elite guy until the day you die just so the stock remains up?"

I know I hit a nerve when he looks away from me and focuses on the champagne flute fizzing away.

"I…you…we…" He doesn't say anything in the end, so the silence builds around us, and it's deafening, and if you've ever been on a plane, you know how loud flying is, so that's quite the achievement.

"Anyway, I don't think we should get married. Yet." Something dies inside me saying it, but I've got to be realistic. And focus on the job I'm being paid for.

Keaton glances at me again, a puzzled expression straining his beautiful face.

"I think we should move in together first." It's what makes sense for a couple, even an insta-love couple like we're supposed to be. "No one gets married before they move in together. Or at least no one sane."

I give him a little laugh to lighten the mood and watch his striking eyes as his face softens.

"You've got a point. So…we should move in together."

I smile and refill my glass.

"To moving in together." I offer my glass to his and we clink them together.

I ignore the storm raging inside me. I ignore that gnawing feeling that wants the statement to be true, to really move in together, to be with Keaton for real, not just for numbers. I swallow everything down with the champagne. Because this is my life now. Luxury and heartache all mixed into one.

We spend the rest of the flight figuring out the logistics. Keaton insists on moving into my place even though I know he's used to the comfort of his penthouse, but he prefers my apartment. He spends most of his nights at my place. Besides, my apartment is still anonymous as can be. At least the paparazzi haven't discovered it yet. Which I don't know how long that will last.

When we finally land, I still have no idea where we are. That is until we deplane and I spot the Italian flag waving in the distance.

"Welcome to Rome, sweetheart." Keaton offers me his hand and kisses mine like a true gentleman.

His five o'clock shadow tickles my skin and goosebumps travel all the way up my nape, making it harder to breathe.

He's just a client. I just have to keep reminding myself. He's just…a client.

There's a car already waiting for us, and we take it into town. I've never been to Rome, and once we reach the center, we take it on foot so we can see and feel the European city at its core.

Most streets are cobbled and uneven, which makes them hard to walk on, but considering how ancient they are, it doesn't frustrate me. Rather, it adds to the appeal and charm of this historical place.

People greet us in their language with big smiles, and we get invited to restaurants, bars, and cafés in equal measure as we pass by.

We only sit after I've seen the marvel that is the Colosseum and my camera overheats from the number of pictures I've taken.

I mean, like any regular person, I've watched Gladiator a healthy amount, which is to say, dozens of times… What? Don't tell me I'm the only one who likes seeing Russell Crowe sweat? Anyway, nothing beats seeing the ancient building in the flesh, so to speak.

"You like it?"

I shrug and cozy up to him. It's just for the public eye. That's my excuse anyway. We tend to be very PDA when out and about since there could be paps at every turn and also because he's nice to cuddle.

What? That's still a physical attribute. He's huggable. Which means when I hug him, it's not crossing a line. Although how two people who've fucked endlessly for six months can cross a line is beyond me.

Even so, I don't want to make him think I'm unprofessional and developing feelings for him. I'm sure the last thing he needs is complications to his grand plan.

"I don't like it per se. I mean, people died here. But standing next to this thousands of years old building does give one some perspective." Like how pathetic I am for fawning over my client.

Keaton presses me even closer to him by putting his arm around my shoulders and protecting me from the gentle fall breeze. It may be September and still warm in the Mediterranean, but it's breezy today. Even if it wasn't, I still wouldn't object to Keaton pressing me closer to his body. Or to him claiming my lips. Or staring into my eyes.

"Shall we get a drink? I'm parched." I pull away from him before I let my feelings get the better of me and make me say something I'll regret. I drag him back to the cobbled streets for an appropriate establishment to get boozed up.

He orders whiskey, I order wine, and we both enjoy the fresh European air as the sun sets and the streets come even more to life.

"There's one more place I want to show you," he says as if we're in a time crunch, but as far as I know, we're here for the weekend.

He takes me through the streets with peculiar familiarity, and we somehow find ourselves next to loud splashing water.

"Fontana di Trevi. The most famous fountain in the world."

It's beautiful, majestic and enchanting. Quite a lot like the man beside me, actually. There is a statue of a bearded naked man commanding the horse statues at his feet, the water glowing aquamarine under the spotlights. There is much more detail and story to tell by looking at every part of the construction. I can't wait to take it all in, even if I'm overwhelmed.

My camera proves my trusty companion in this case, allowing me to zoom in and photograph everything I want. But it's not just lifeless art that interests my lens. It's how people react to it. How people feel looking at it, being near it. I take several photos of people throwing coins into the fountain or sitting at the edge until I spin around and find my viewfinder filled with gray eyes that make my heart beat louder.

He's made all of this possible. He's brought so much change in my life. Thanks to him, I'll never have to worry about Grandma's accommodations again, nor have to worry about making rent. Thanks to him, I'm seeing places I haven't seen before. And the consistent stream of sexcapades doesn't hurt either.

Instead of taking his picture, I put my camera down and take him by the hand.

No matter how fake our relationship is, he doesn't have to do all this for me. Renting a movie theater, dragging me around the world, helping me set up my new TV when it was being a douche.

"Where are we going?" he asks when I drag him to a quieter side street. "We haven't even made our wish yet."

"Oh, I'll make a wish all right," I mumble and push us into a narrow dark alley, pinning Keaton against the wall.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Thanking you?" I shrug with a smirk and unzip his pants.

I take hold of his soft cock and drag it out into the open. It gets instantly harder by the tug and a few more before it's as rock-hard as I prefer.

"I should stop y—" he says before a groan stops him.

I press against his body and cover his lips with mine, grinding my hand up and down his length, rubbing against my own erection, which I keep firmly in place.

This isn't about me. This isn't about getting my release. It's about him. For him. And I'm not stopping until he comes undone.

"You…are…a good…boy," I praise him every time I come up for air from our kisses.

I can feel his muscles harden the more I tug and he embraces me.

"Daddy is happy." More kisses. More pulls. My palm is soaked in his precum in seconds, and the heat coming off his cock spreads through to me and across my body, igniting every part of me that's still asleep or cold from the evening chill.

Keaton makes another attempt to talk, but it proves impossible when I up my speed. The way he pulses in my hand and how his breath hitches every two seconds tells me he's getting closer.

I deepen our kiss, eagerly exploring his mouth with my tongue for several moments before I pull away and look around us. A couple passes the street we came from, but we're still in the clear. It's just him, me, and the danger of getting caught on foreign soil.

"You like this, boy?" I whisper in his ear. "You like exposing yourself out in the open?"

Keaton moans in response. Not too loud, but audible enough to make my erection more strained.

"Come on, sweetheart. Come for Daddy. Come for Daddy out in the open. Spill your seed on the streets of Rome."

That solicits another groan out of him and he bites down on my earlobe as I rub him harder.

We stay locked like that for seconds, minutes, hours, for all I know. My hand around Keaton's hard, thick cock, his pants down to his ankles, his teeth around my lobe, his hands loosely hanging off my neck, and my free palm pressed flat against his chest. If only I could take a picture or see us from someone else's eyes. I bet we're a sight to behold.

God, I'm going to miss this when it's all over. I'm going to miss having him come undone under my rule. Having him pressed against me, throbbing for all we can give each other. Waking up next to him and staring into his bright, gorgeous eyes as I fuck his tight little hole.

"Come for me, slut. Come on. What are you waiting for, boy?" I urge him and my movements become erratic, desperate. "Come for me, fag."

He pulls away from my ear and lets out a loud moan that I trap in one hand as he spills his seed all over my other hand, leaving burn marks everywhere it touches. Some of it colors the pavement milky white. No matter how hot it is, it doesn't scorch me like his eyes do. Looking into them is like coming undone myself. Seeing the pleasure and satiation color his face and knowing I've put that there is my own sort of orgasm.

I lift my hand between us, and we both lick his cum clean before we even think about getting him decent and presentable again.

"God, I love this," he says, and I pause to stare at him. He doesn't. He keeps licking his cum off my fingers, gazing into my eyes as he does it.

Seeing him like this, his lips wet with his own seed, piercing into me with those gorgeous gray eyes, I could believe him.

I could believe that he loves us.

But he only means the sex part I can offer him, and I know it.

I just have to accept it. Heartbreak Express will be here in six months. And there's nothing I can do to stop it.