12. Matthew

12

MATTHEW

I t's a lot to take in, but the spotlight in the center of the room has me watching the man who lives in 1004 being pegged by a woman in head to toe latex. And I'm not the only one watching. So is his wife. Holy shit.

I don't recognize anyone else right away, but I'm immediately flooded with the sense of being somewhere I don't belong.

"We need to say hello to Gibson," Fischer leans in tell me.

"Hold up. What?"

"My friend? Gibson? This is his place."

"Gibson's my boss ," I remind him.

"Oh, that's right. Well…you filled out the paperwork. He knew you were coming. Now you have to behave yourself like you promised."

"I was planning to."

"Right, but now that we're here…"

He makes a good point. The pegging is one thing. The people masturbating to the scene are another, but there's so much more going on.

Doors line each side of the space, some solid, some glass, all, I'm assuming, enclosing people fucking or—who knows? It's a lot to process. I have the urge to hold Fischer's hand, but then he'll make some dig about my being a child, and it's not about that. It's about having something to ground my thoughts. His hands are good at that.

To our immediate left is another open space partially hidden behind a transparent black veil. A bed is at the center, and men are lined up waiting to take a turn on the woman lying on it. She's face down with a man's hands on her hips as he pistons into her. She offers no resistance, and the expression on her face is nearly angelic. Like she no longer exists on earth. Fischer turns to watch with me. "She's been here every time I've come."

"Have you…"

He doesn't say anything, and I assume he has. "Is that like…her full-time job?"

"I think so."

"Wow." And I thought I had a lot of sex. "She almost looks like she could be asleep," I say, fascinated.

"You want to get in line?" he taunts.

"No. It's just…wild."

He leads me across the space that seems to encompass the entire top floor of the building toward a raised lounge area. I peek inside the glass rooms as we go. Most, to my surprise, contain same sex couples, usually one in leather and one who probably makes million dollar deals while they're having their morning coffee. Lots of impact play. "Have you always been this kinky?" I ask Fischer.

" I'm not particularly, no."

"You ever go down there?" I ask, pointing at the sunken stage.

At that, he chuckles. "No."

I spot Gibson Hayes, the owner of The Eastmoor. He gives Fischer a big grin and a quick half-hug in greeting. To me he says, "Enjoying your night off?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Drinks?"

I don't drink much, but Fischer does, so I have what he's having, a dirty martini, and we sit on a black, tufted leather couch a few feet from Gibson's armchair. He's speaking with another man who looks to be around sixty.

The pegging is over, and someone else I recognize struts to center stage. "Is that your assistant?" I whisper hiss to Fischer.

He chuckles. "You need to relax. A lot of people in this town have more than one job."

That's one way to put it.

Tonight, Gavin is wrapped in leather straps, revealing everything . A jewel in his belly button keeps catching the light. He's made up and glittery, looking a lot like Valentine when she dances, only shorter. Gavin definitely has a bigger dick, though. "What does he do?" I wonder aloud.

"I have no idea what he's planning."

We both sit back to watch.

It turns out, he gets spanked.

An older man in a gray suit—some power businessman, I'm assuming—strides over like he's bought the pleasure of the pretty blond. He takes a seat on a cushioned bench at the center of the mat and guides Gavin to lie face down across his lap. The businessman is relatively plain looking—like he's got teenagers who spend all his money and a body that doesn't get to the gym enough.

But when he starts rubbing Gavin's exposed ass, a hungry look crosses his face, and he brings his large hand down with a sharp crack. For the next twenty minutes, I watch, transfixed, as he alternates spanks with penetrating jabs of the lubed up vibrator in Gavin's spread open ass.

The intensity builds, both their chests heaving as Gavin's ability to take the slaps grows strained. He's whining and crying out until the man slides the vibrator deeper into Gavin's clenched hole and gives him a series of lighter slaps, which culminate in a choked off gasp of release.

By the time Gavin's ejaculate spurts onto the black leather floor, I have a massive erection, and Fischer is slumped against my side watching something else. I give his lap a glance and notice he's also hard, so I look around, trying to figure out what got him there. But his head is angled in a direction that makes it hard to follow his gaze.

I grab his chin and make him look at me. "What're you watching?"

He blinks a few times. "I was listening." He's on his second martini, and I assume he's tired since he came here straight from work. I scoot back, giving him more room to lean on me, and he takes up all the space I offer. Draping an arm around him, I slide my hips forward slightly, stretching out my body, which allows him to rest his head on my chest. He sets his elbow on my thigh, his drink in hand near my knee.

"You have an erection," he says.

"I'm not the only one," I mutter, adjusting it in my pants.

"Well, I might need to get mine taken care of. I don't have a muse waiting for me when I get home."

"You can't leave me alone here," I tell him, dead serious.

"What do you think is gonna happen to you?" he asks, using his free hand to draw a line down my dangling inner wrist with a fingertip. It makes me shiver. It feels almost seductive, and I can't handle that from him tonight.

I grab his finger, and we end up clasping hands. I turn slightly, managing to nestle us closer. When I cross my legs, he has to lift his drink. I go a step further, trapping his good leg beneath mine. He scowls at the tangle he's found himself in. "That's not fair."

"Let's talk about your day some more. That'll get rid of your boner, and then you won't have to abandon me in a room where half the people are carrying implements of torture."

"I'm not sure snuggling is gonna help."

"It's just me," I say innocently, but I do glance down at his mouth.

"I used to have sex with men. Did I tell you that while we were sleeping together?"

He did not, and he what? Trying to hide my shock, I shake my head, feeling another strong throb below the belt.

He goes on. Tipsy Fischer is always chatty. "The first time was with a congressman I was interviewing in a hotel in D.C. He came on to me."

"How'd he do that?" I ask.

"Got me drunk and offered to blow me."

I laugh softly. "So, just a blow job?"

"No, I fucked him."

"Hold on… you fucked him ?"

"We fucked ," he says more emphatically.

"But who topped?" I ask.

"I did."

I laugh. Maybe too loud. "Wait, you're kidding, right?"

"That's the part that's hanging you up?"

"Well…yeah…"

"Why?"

"I just can't picture it."

"As my brother, maybe I'd rather you didn't."

"You're such a bottom, though."

He gives me a confused look. "What does that even mean?"

"It means what I said. There's no way Nicole didn't ride you every time you had sex."

Fischer looks both surprised and called out. "How do you know that?"

"And I've met Ravenna. She's a top, too."

"Have you fucked her?"

"It's a vibe, Fischer."

"That's ridiculous." He shifts toward me, putting him practically in my lap, which proves my point. "Anyway, ask Gibson's pet. She basically only knows how to bend over and purr."

"Just because you can top doesn't make you one."

"I don't like this conversation."

"Why?" I ask. "Feeling too seen?"

He scowls. "Maybe. But Raven's not a top. She's just high maintenance."

"Why'd you stop fucking men?" I ask abruptly.

"That is a fair question I don't want to answer tonight, but also I met Nicole."

"And you're telling me you've never had a man inside you?"

"Why are we talking about this?"

"You brought me to a sex club and then opened a whole can of gay worms."

He sighs, "Fine. Mouth yes, but no. I've never had a cock in my ass. And when you put it that way, I'm glad I haven't."

"My poor intimacy-hating brother," I joke even as I mindlessly rub his back, and he wraps his calf around mine to the extent that he can. We're doing everything but making out. Luckily he didn't introduce himself to my boss as his brother. I get what this looks like. But I also get why we're like this, and it's more or less innocent. I think.

I basically nursed him back to health, which in my opinion, speaking of high maintenance people, he got kind of used to. I'm protective of him now that he's home and needing to walk with a cane. So it's kinda like I can't not touch him, and he likes the attention. Problem is, on my end, it's not a hundred percent platonic. I let him get away with a lot, and sometimes I don't think he realizes how far he's actually going. As in—it's hard to believe the congressman seduced him .

Ever since I let him lie on my chest to watch Game of Thrones , we've been practically on top of each other whenever we're in a room together. He likes to be petted, and I like touching him. Sometimes, he'll return the favor, by rubbing my back or whatever, but I almost always have to ask—or beg—like Monday morning when I wanted him to, and he acted like it was some big chore, not an actual habit that occurs at least once a week.

Having him home is a huge weight off. I've been more productive than ever. Which is why the sculpture I started in January is nearly finished.

One of the roughest days of my life was the day he left in a taxi bound for JFK to fly to the Middle East.

Look, I gestated with my sister, but I suffered with Fischer, and it feels like he and I have the deeper bond. Even if he does see me as a needy little brother, I consider him my best friend, and maybe a too frequently indulged fantasy.

All this to say my cock is fucking aching with his limbs twined around me and sex going on everywhere. His thumb rubbing my palm is driving me crazy. I can feel the edge of his erection on my thigh, and if he gets much closer, it's going to touch mine, and I might lose my mind and grab his ass or something. But he'd probably just think I was being affectionate.

This whole revelation about him having been with men in his past? Gotta admit, it's blowing my mind and filling our current situation with an unmistakable undercurrent—at least for my part. While I'm so fucking glad to have him home, I never would have thought to try anything more than cuddling. But now that I know he's sucked dick, it's got me thinking.

I decide to call him out on it. Like I said, I don't drink much. My tongue is a little loose. "You're not acting like you'd object to the company of a man…"

"Am I crowding you?"

"No, you know I like it when people are all over me."

He backs off slightly. His erection leaves my leg, but he keeps his hand on my lower belly. Our faces are close when he asks, "What's your point? You wanted me to keep you out of trouble, right? And you won't let me leave you alone."

"Maybe this was the wrong place to bring me."

He arches a brow. "You think?"

Fischer's sarcasm is part of his charm, both in prime time and after hours.

"I need to jerk off," I say bluntly.

He laughs. "Sure. Meet me back here in half an hour."

I glare at him. "Where are you going?"

"Hey, I'm single."

"I'm—look, despite what you think, Val and I aren't in a serious relationship. I just don't like fucking around when I'm regularly sleeping with someone."

"How is it not serious again?" he asks.

I don't know how to explain my muses to people. Especially not one like Valentine whose heart is completely unavailable. I'm obsessed with her, yes, but I'm also obsessed with dental hygiene and being on time. I have OCD for fuck's sake. I get stuck on things. Not usually on one person for as long as five months, but Val's unique.

When I say she's the perfect muse, I'm not exaggerating. She inspires my body and my mind without asking anything from me in return. She and I both know neither of us have more to give.

"It's physical —not personal."

"How's that different from what I come here to do?"

"I mean—it's more personal than this ," I say, gesturing toward the room.

"Maybe I don't need personal."

Having Fischer for a friend is great until I feel like he's mentally outmatching me. I wish I could put words together the way he does—express a complete thought in a way that makes sense. It would save us a lot of time. "If you don't want personal, then why don't you just jerk off?"

He takes a moment to match my glare.

I nod toward the sunken stage and all the people hooking up and masturbating on the steps as they watch the latest attraction—a man edging a naked woman with a feather.

"In public?" he asks.

"When in Rome…" I challenge.

"Would you ?"

I shrug. Seems safe enough. Comparatively speaking.

"Yeah. Sure," he says.

I blink in surprise.

"You called me uptight earlier."

"I called you a lot of things," I murmur.

"Let's go jerk off then."

"Fine. Let's go."

We work ourselves out of each other's arms and off the couch.

I expect us to separate. Sit on opposite sides of the amphitheater or something, but he sits next to me when I find a spot next to a couple getting each other off in plain view. I figure it'll give me more fodder than the relatively tame feather action at center stage.

I give Fischer a look as he unbuckles his belt, and half his mouth lifts in a devious grin.

How the fuck did we talk ourselves into this? If we aren't already, we'll be bonded for life after this.