17. Derek

I looked away when Wyn showered last night. I told myself various things about personal space, honor, and respect for others.

I had all those things last night, but I don't have them tonight.

Wyn's crossed the suite in a skittish zigzag at least four times, darting back and forth to the closet and his bag for more and more items. He has a towel wrapped around his waist when he heads out to the shower, one hand clutching it tightly. Last night, I kept my eyes closed or averted the whole time. I don't tonight. Tonight, I ball a second pillow under my head, giving me a better vantage, and watch as he hangs up his towel and steps under the spray.

His body is lean. Hard. A subtle suggestion of muscle rather than bulk. Fine lines and indentations cause shadows to ripple as the moonlight hits his skin. He's wet. He's facing away from me, and there's water running down his back in thick, shiny rapids. His shoulders are a little broader than they look in clothes, his waist narrowing the perfect amount, dragging my eyes down to his ass. It's an ass that makes me ache. Physically ache. Wet and slick and silver from the moon. Soft semi-circles that quake as he washes himself. Two dimples are deeply indented above it, and I swear, they call to me. They say my name. Softly at first, but the more the water runs and steam wafts into the bedroom, the louder it gets.

Derek

Derek

Derek!

I palm my dick under the covers, digging the heel of my hand down my shaft and back up again. My hips buck involuntarily, and I have to force myself to stifle a moan that escapes from the instant need for more.

It's different tonight. I'm different. For one thing, I'm not fighting my madness. I've conceded. It's won. What's more, I'm not the least bit sad about it. In fact, I think I might like it. My madness, I mean. I might like it a lot.

I watch Wyn as he walks to our bed. He's wearing another pair of those fucking adorable little shorts of his. Soft white fabric that rides up and sticks to his upper thighs as he walks. These have Daddy's Boy on the waistband too, but this time, they have cartoon drawings of tiny dogs all over them. Adorable, until I notice they"re all going at it in every conceivable variation of doggie style.

"Are those little dogs"—I can't resist, so I don't even try—"boning?"

He tries not to roll his eyes, but I can tell it costs him.

"Let me guess, your friend Gould—of the Daddy discipline spanking relationship with a much older, no, a lovely man named Stuart—at play again?"

"Yes," he replies stiffly.

I throw the covers open for him. He looks at the bed as if it's made of battery acid. "So," I say to distract him, "you've got Bridget, fresh out of a terrible relationship, Gould and everything that goes on with him. Any other friends I should know about?"

He gets into bed and lies back with a sigh. "Well, there's Trouble."

I chuckle. "Sounds like there's a story there."

"Not really. I mean, sure, he's unspeakably beautiful, indomitable, and a world-famous burlesque dancer, but other than that, he's completely, well, not down to earth exactly, but close. Especially if you don't take into account the fact his life partners are two childhood best friends, both bi guys, who Trouble took great pleasure in, and I quote, ‘waking the fuck up.'"

It takes a second for all that to land but as soon as it does, a laugh barrels out of me so hard and fast it could easily be mistaken for a snort.

"Anyone else?" I ask.

"You mean anyone normal, don't you?"

"Absolutely not!" I say defensively. "I didn't say that."

"Good, because Luke and Jessie are completely normal. They've been together forever, are stable and lovely, and have a dog and everything. I mean, yeah, technically, they're stepbrothers, but that's really only weird when you see them with their parents."

I laugh so hard my eyes water.

I turn out the light, and Wyn keeps talking, telling more about his friends and family. In the dark, I cling to his voice. I hang on his words.

Eventually, he slows and then stops talking. The room falls silent. Everything except for the sound of the ocean crashing into the shore goes away. It's quiet.

Quiet but not peaceful.

Under the cover of night, my madness grows louder. Heavier. Darker. It swirls around me.

I let my mind wander. I let myself think things I've spent my whole life trying not to think. I think them and think them, and nothing happens. Nothing. Nothing bad happens. There are no bolts of lightning. No damnation. Nothing changes.

I start to play with words and concepts in my mind. I test them. Taste them.

I want him. Him. Him.

I want Wyn.

Madness swirls harder and faster, whipping around the room and spinning me. I'm awake for hours, spinning, breathing, watching the shadowy profile of the man in my bed.

The moon's begun its descent, changing the light in the room from pitch black to ink with a dash of milk when Wyn laughs in his sleep. It's a soft, sweet sound. The softest, sweetest sound I've ever heard. A tiny giggle muffled by sleepy lips.

What makes someone laugh in their sleep?

Whatever it is, I want it.

I want him.

I want Wyn.

I want him more than I've ever wanted anything.

How the hell do I get him though? How? I'm pushing fifty. He hasn't even hit thirty. I haven't been on a date with someone new for almost as long as he's been alive.

How do I get him? How? How?

It's late or early, and madness has had its way with me because, in the blue light of morning, I find myself landing on the obvious solution.

I'll buy him.

Of course I'll buy him. That's how I get everything I want. That's how everyone gets what they want. They buy it. There's no shame in it. It's how the world works. Things have a price, and you pay it.

I work hard. I do well and make a lot of money. A lot of money.

I like nice things.

And Wyn Foster?

Well, he might be the nicest thing I've ever seen.

I breathe easy when it's decided. Easier than I have in days. Easier than I have since the day Wyn walked into my office. I turn onto my side, so my body weight causes the mattress between Wyn and me to dip. Wyn rolls into the dip. Swallowing and murmuring quietly as he slumps closer to me. His body presses against mine, and he nuzzles his head into my chest just like he did last night when I did the same thing.

I wait until breakfast has arrived and Wyn has been to the bathroom and flattened his hair with handfuls of water and product before making my proposition. I think it's only fair to give a man time to splash his face and cover his modesty before hitting him with a licentious proposal.

He sits across from me at the bistro table on the deck. Massive palm leaves dip in the breeze, tapping softly against the roof of the bungalow. Wyn wraps his robe around his neck and pulls the belt tight before raising his coffee to his lips. I let him have that sip and the next one before I begin.

"D'you know, Wyn, that kiss yesterday was the first time I've done something with a man?"

"Hmm," he says, brows shooting up as he peers at me over his mug. His eyes are bigger and bluer than I've ever seen them. He seems at a loss as to what to say next.

Can't say I blame him.

Fortunately, I'm severely sleep-deprived, nursing a mild hangover, and I'm stretching my wings after decades, decades, in the closet. It's a combination that's lowered my inhibitions significantly and seems to have impacted my impulse control and decision-making as well. "Yeah. First time."

"Soooo"—he drags the word out, looking quite frightened—"what did you think?"

"Not bad," I say, just to see him bristle. He doesn't disappoint. I lower my voice, letting it roll around low in my throat before expelling my next words. I'm trying to buy time, hoping against hope that sanity, reason, common sense, or anything like that will jump to attention and take the helm. Sadly, they don't. Oh well. "Not bad at all. In fact, I want more."

"M-More?"

There's a pitch in his voice, a squeak, that I like. A high-pitched sound that wakes something feral inside me. "Yes. I want more. I'm new at this, late to the party, as it were. I'm behind, and I hate being behind. I won't stand for it."

He looks as confused as I've ever seen him but fixes his gaze on me and flattens his lips into a well-practiced smile with a professional slant. "What are you saying, Mr. MacAvoy?"

A damn good question, I admit. To make sure he understands exactly what he's dealing with, I speak slowly and clearly. "I'm saying I want you to show me what it's like to be with a man. I want you to show me. I want you to give me access to your body. I want you to let me try things, taste things…maybe even teach me a thing or two."

Wyn sets his coffee cup down with a clatter, spilling a good amount onto the table.

I calmly lift his cup and mop the spill with my napkin as he sits, hand on his throat, clearly searching for something to say. The hand on his throat rises and wipes his brow roughly and then dabs at his top lip.

"Quick question," he says when he's able to make eye contact without losing his shit. "Are you suggesting that I allow you to-to-to experiment on me?"

It's not the word I would have chosen, but it's close enough. And it isn't a flat-out no. Nor is it a threat of a sexual harassment lawsuit.

"Exactly," I boom, a surge of happiness, victory, and quite possibly another heaped dose of madness taking over. "And not to worry, I'll compensate you for your time."

"My time?" He sounds incredulous, but again, it's not an outright no, which buoys me.

"Your time, your service. Skill. Whatever you want to call it. Name your price, and it's yours. And don't worry, what happens in Hawaii stays in Hawaii. When we get back to LA, things will go back to normal. We'll keep work strictly professional."