8. Winnie

8

WINNIE

C onfession: I’d never been with anyone who made me feel truly special.

Okay, so yes, Alistair was a nice guy and under his never-ending supply of beige sweaters—excuse me, jumpers—he had a big heart. He was kind, generous, attentive, extraordinarily smart, and good in bed.

Hold up…he was amazing in bed—the perfect combination of rough, tender, and passionate. He fucked me into the mattress, pounding my ass so hard I saw stars. But he also made love like an artist, worshiping my body with a reverence that made me want to cry.

It wasn’t “making love” in an ooey-gooey boyfriend way. We weren’t those guys, and we never would be. Though I had to admit, I was beginning to feel jealous of the men who’d come before me who’d had the right to ask about his day, hold his hand at dinner, and snuggle up with Alistair at night.

Colin was a fool. He was probably happy as could be—so, good for him. But had he really thought Alistair’s prowess in the bedroom was uninspired? What a fucking idiot .

I slipped into the role of short-term boyfriend without any fanfare. Cuddling, talking about hopes and dreams, arguing over stolen blankets…that was my jam. I was good at companionship and sex. I hadn’t had much practice with long-term relationship-style intimacy, but there was no need to worry about that with Alistair. We could delve into personal territory without feeling exposed.

I told him about my wacky, selectively-traditional Mexican family—the cousin we were sure was involved with a cartel even though he claimed he’d bought his Rolls Royce selling produce at the farmer’s market. And my Italian brother-in-law, Milo, who quoted Goodfellas with alarming accuracy and always seemed to know a guy who could “help speed things along.”

“Jazz met him at the restaurant she worked at. He’d ask to sit in her section with his buddies to talk business with his ‘associates.’” I rolled my eyes, swirling my sauvignon blanc. “And he must have had some kind of understanding with the owner, because her appointed section changed whenever Milo walked in the door. I judged hard. I love my sister and I watched The Sopranos, damn it. But guess what?”

“She loves him and she’s happy?” Alistair offered, slathering butter on a piece of warm, crusty bread.

“Yep. They have two kids, a gorgeous house in Bel Air, and by choice, Jazz hasn’t worked in a decade. By all accounts, Milo is a doting husband and father, but what Jazz really loves is that he’s good to our parents and grandparents. And me. My family knows how to put on the super macho facade, but in reality, we’re very accepting. If Milo had been a jerk to me, he wouldn’t have lasted a day with Jazz. He was always cool, though.”

“That’s nice.”

I pointed my wineglass at him and took a sip. “It is. I’m gay, no one cares. My sister’s married to the mob, which is way more concerning, but hey, we love her. It makes for interesting holidays and family vacays. Blended Italian and Mexican chaos with the best food ever.”

“Sounds like you’re very close,” he commented with a smile.

I nodded. “Are you close with your family?”

Alistair shrugged as he handed me a slice of buttered bread. “Reasonably so.”

“What does that mean?”

“We get along well enough, but I’m the odd one out, you might say.”

I bit into the carb heaven and moaned. “Because of the Egypt stuff?”

He chuckled. “Because of the single and homosexual stuff.”

I went still. “They’re bigots?”

“No, no. Not at all. They’re lovely people. It’s more an emphasis on the single aspect. They adored Colin and it’s not that they’re heartbroken over an old breakup, but I think they’re impatient that I haven’t gotten on with it and found someone new.” He paused and widened his eyes comically. “They’ve decided to do it for me.”

“They set you up…with suitors?” I asked incredulously.

Alistair sighed. “Afraid so. My mother introduced me to a nice gentleman from church on my last visit home. He was a sixty-year-old widower who, according to Mum, had recently gone gay. She thought we’d get along smashingly.”

I pulled a funny face. “Not so much?”

“Not at all. He enjoyed crossword puzzles, the symphony, and he had a cat. I can’t recall anything else about him because he was so…”

“Boring?”

“Dead boring,” Alistair groused. “Frankly, I was insulted they’d thought that uninspired, uninteresting man was perfect for me. It’s not flattering to think that’s how they see me.”

I bristled on his behalf. “That’s perifitous! ”

“That’s not a word, Win,” he corrected fondly. “Preposterous?”

“That’s it. You’re smart, passionate, sexy as fuck, and interesting. You work with archeologists and museums. You have a fast-pass ticket to the Louvre because they freaking know you. Gah! I wish I had that kind of rizz,” I lamented with a dramatic sigh. “And rizz is definitely a word.”

“Rizz? What is that?”

“Charisma.”

Alistair grinned. “Thank you, but you’re the interesting one here. I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”

“Ha. Lots of people say that about me, but they don’t always mean it as a compliment.”

“Well, I do. You’re charming, full of life and joy, and…you’re drop-dead sexy. Your inventive use of the English language and your impressive capacity for carbs should be alarming, but they only add to your overall mystique.”

I sat up tall, blushing from head to toe. “Mystique? I have one of those?”

“You do.”

I smiled shyly and sipped my wine.

I wanted to tag this memory in my mental inbox, relishing the light-headed buzzy feeling of good wine and an enchanting atmosphere when I was home again mopping up peroxide-tinted locks.

But most of all, I wanted to remember Alistair.

My cell vibrated on my nightstand at way-too-early o’clock. No, this was Alistair’s room, but I was alone. I noted the stream of light from under the door as I reached for my phone. 6:04 a.m. Text from Raine .

Bonjour! Just wanted to check in with you. How’s gay Paris?

I rubbed sleep from my eyes. Magnifique! Why are you texting so early? It must be 4 a.m. in the Maldives.

Bali. Heart emoji. Are you having the best time ever?

We exchanged a few selfies from our trips. Raine shared one of him and Graham on the beach, sporting sunburns and matching sappy grins. I scrolled through dozens of photos I’d taken over the past week of Alistair and me—in front of the huge clock at the Musée d’Orsay, on a bench at the Luxembourg Gardens, at a café overlooking the Seine.

In the first few pics, Alistair looked resigned and maybe a teensy shell-shocked, but his smile was a thousand percent genuine in the photo from yesterday of us on Pont Neuf at sunset.

And me? I looked…happy. Like stupid happy.

It was a better pic than the one of me with the glass triangles of the Louvre in the background, but I sent that one instead to avoid questions like…are you screwing around with my boss?

Yay! I’m so glad you’re loving it , Raine typed. The conference is coming up soon. You may have to interact with Prof C more at that point. He’s a rock star with that crowd, but the socks will be an issue.

Got it. I frowned at the screen before adding, I met one of his colleagues at the hotel already. Gerard Poitier. Do you know him?

What?! In Paris? Omg, can you talk?

One thumbs-up emoji later, my cell buzzed.

“You met Gerard? Spill.”

“That’s all I have,” I replied in a low voice. “He was cordial and suave, and he had a homotastic artifact he wanted Alistair to look at.”

“Alistair? You’re like old chums,” Raine teased.

“Calm yourself.”

“ Hmm . I know Gerard respects the professor, but if you ask me, he takes advantage. He’s a savage name-dropper who just happened to marry the only other Egyptian linguist expert with ties to the museum.”

“Marrying for a museum pass? That’s a new one,” I snarked.

“Not if that pass gives you access to experts from the most prestigious antiquities departments in the world. Not that—” Raine paused abruptly. “Graham’s calling me. Gotta run.”

“Okay. Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye out for him. The professor, I mean.”

“I know you will. If you have any questions, I’m a text away. Also, I hid an emergency box of Jammie Dodgers at the bottom of your suitcase for the professor. He’s an eat your feelings kind of guy, and he’ll want those during the conference for sure. Love you.”

I left my cell on the nightstand and pulled on the hotel’s complimentary fluffy white robe before padding barefoot into the living area, where Alistair was hunched over the table.

I smiled at the sight of him.

His hair was wild, his oversized T-shirt was hopelessly wrinkled, and his glasses were crooked…and probably smudged. The way my heart lurched and somersaulted in my chest, you’d have figured this dude was the incarnation of a younger even sexier George Clooney, not an overworked man who lived part-time in a world that had been gone for almost two thousand years.

“Good morning.” I kissed the top of his head. “How long have you been awake?”

Alistair pushed away from the table and swiveled the chair, scooping me into his arms in a flash. “Since four. Did I disturb you?”

I draped my arms around his neck and shook my head. “No, I was up.”

Okay, not true, but I decided there was no need to share my conversation with Raine .

He loosened the tie at my waist and slipped his hand under the robe, splaying his fingers across my stomach, then brushing them along my length. Just a whisper of a touch…featherlight and intoxicating. I arched instinctively, leaning into him and nipping his bottom lip.

He pressed soft kisses on my throat and skimmed fingernails along my sides. The robe slid off my shoulder and damn, I felt like a movie star—one of those old-timey divas who wore silk and slept on satin sheets. He nuzzled my neck, humming in appreciation.

Appreciation you say? Well, yes. This was adoration. I recognized it in his reverent gaze and tender caress. If I was the professor’s newest distraction, I wanted to be the best distraction ever. He could study me, decipher me, set me on a shelf and admire me. He could fuck me, use me, consume me—that worked too. As long as he kept looking at me…just like…this.

Alistair shoved the robe open and held me firmly at the base, stroking me the way I liked it. I returned the favor, flattening my palm over his erection currently straining to poke a hole through his briefs. He gripped my wrist and shook his head, gently pushed me off his lap.

Next thing I knew, I was in his arms being carried like precious cargo. Yes, all six feet of my skinny ass. I laughed, clinging to Alistair’s neck like a koala as he strode toward the bedroom and dumped me onto the middle of the mattress.

We snickered, rolling from side to side in a halfhearted fight for dominance. Somewhere in the mix, I lost the robe and Alistair shimmied his tee and briefs off, and finally, we were skin to skin. We groaned in unison as if it had been years and not hours since we’d been naked and writhing.

“I win. Let me suck your cock,” I panted.

Alistair chuckled. “Be my guest. ”

I used every trick in the book to please him—licking his shaft like a lollipop, twirling my tongue, and doing my best impression of a shop vac. When he was incoherent and reduced to British swear words, I fumbled for the lube and stretched my opening while he suited up. I didn’t do a great job, but that was okay. I wanted the burn. I wanted to feel him all day, all night.

I lowered myself onto Alistair’s gorgeous dick, watching a myriad of expressions cross his handsome face. Wonder, desire, wonder, lust, wonder. I held his hands, undulating my hips to a rhythm we set together. He moved faster, fucking me harder and nailing my prostate with every thrust. I couldn’t hang on and he knew it.

Alistair let go of my hand and stroked me till I was surfing a wave of pleasure so much bigger than either of us. Any second now, it would bury me and?—

“Oh, fuck, I’m coming,” I roared, spilling my seed over his belly.

He held me against his chest and switched our positions, fucking me in a frenzy to the finish line.

I ran my fingers through the professor’s hair, breathing heavily in the afterglow. I was wrung out and a little sore, but I didn’t want him to get up yet.

A medley of thoughts jostled my brain at once— He fits me, he smells good, his skin is soft, I want his cum inside me, I wonder if he’d want that too.

“I’m squishing you.” He kissed my nose as he pulled out before I could protest.

I watched Alistair disappear into the bathroom and listened to his movements. I knew he’d return with a warm cloth. I knew he’d wash away the mess, offer me water, and make room for me to cuddle up next to him. Those were things attentive lovers did, right? I’d had that before.

Maybe he just did it better .

Maybe he did everything better.

So why did this feel extraordinary, as if he were filling empty spaces, adding color, adding a spark of something new? I didn’t have answers, but I was smart enough to know not to question a good thing. And Alistair was my good thing.