The Start of a Beautiful Friendship Page 4

  “No.” I brushed his hand away. “I’ll take care of this.” I wasn’t going to tell him he didn’t have to compliment me, that I didn’t need pretty words; I’d meet his fee with no complaints.

  He ran his tongue over his plump bottom lip, leaving a sheen of moisture behind, and I dipped my head and licked that lip, then sucked it into my mouth and nipped it. His breath tasted minty—he must have used the spare toothbrush the hotel provided, which was a good thing. I didn’t like anyone using my toothbrush.

  I slipped my tongue into Louis’s mouth—and okay, I was fully aware of the dichotomy of that, but fuck it, it was my psyche.

  Louis wasn’t passive in all this. He writhed under me, wrapped a hand around the back of my head to bring our mouths closer, and stroked his tongue across the ridged roof of my mouth. Then he curled his tongue around mine, all the while arching into my thrusts.

  I knew it wouldn’t be long before I came, so I closed my hand around his cock. He was a very satisfying handful, and I started jerking him off.

  He tore his mouth away from mine, gasping and rocking up to meet me each time I surged forward, and finally what felt like an electrical shock raced down my spine, over my hole, and settled into my balls. They drew up, and I groaned and climaxed, with Louis right behind me.

  I collapsed onto him, struggling to catch my breath. God, there was nothing like a good fuck.

  “Merci!” He gave a huff of laughter. “I know, I know. English! But mon Dieu, Rick, that felt good! Do you know, I have not been fucked like that in a very long time? Perhaps I should pay you!”

  “My… my pleasure.” I eased my cock out of him, grabbing for the base so the condom wouldn’t spill its contents. Once I removed the condom and knotted it, I stretched out my right arm and dropped the rubber into the trash pail. “You hungry?”

  “Mmm?” He cuddled up against me, an arm draped over my waist, his head on my chest, and a leg across my thigh.

  “Louis?” I poked his shoulder and then wondered if I should apologize to Joan of Arc.

  God, he’d made me dopey!

  “Louis!”

  He mumbled something, his breath warm across my nipple, causing me to shiver and bite back a moan. And I realized he was asleep. I couldn’t help grinning. I’d worn out a rent boy.

  Well, there was nowhere I needed to be. I dragged the duvet over us, propped my free arm under my head, and let my thoughts wander to what I would do. Not to the Archbishop—in spite of everything, he was just business. No, I thought about Sperling and what he’d face when I caught up with him.

  IX

  A COUPLE of hours later, Louis began stirring.

  “Merde! I fell asleep?”

  “Yep.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Not a problem, although I have to wonder why.”

  “This has been a bad week for me. A friend… died, and it struck me harder than I had anticipated. We had worked together for a time, but then he….” Louis sighed.

  “I’m sorry.” I thought of UB. “Cancer?”

  “No, he was a Sagittarius.”

  “Huh?”

  “Pardon? Oh, you are inquiring about the cause of death. No. You might say it was lead poisoning.”

  A bullet wound? At least that was what “lead poisoning” meant in all the Westerns I’d watched as a kid.

  Yeah, I could see that. The life of a rent boy could be dangerous.

  “I lost someone recently too,” I heard myself saying.

  “I am sorry. A lover?”

  “No. Not even a fuck buddy. We spent a day together once.”

  “Ah.” Louis rolled onto his back and stretched. “So, what do we do now?”

  “What do you say to some lunch?” I’d worked up an appetite, and I was starved.

  “We just had breakfast.”

  I glanced at my watch. “A few hours ago.”

  “Truly? That much time has already passed?”

  “You did take a nap.”

  “Ah, that explains it. I was wondering why I felt a little hungry.”

  Considering what the French had for breakfast, I wasn’t surprised.

  “Does this hotel have room service?” he asked.

  I burst into laughter.

  “I take it that is a no.”

  “You’ve got that right, Louis.” I freed my arm and gave it a shake. Damn, it had fallen asleep.

  “Do we go out?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Maybe later.” He seemed relieved. Did he think I’d be ashamed to be seen with him because of what he did to survive? Not fucking likely. “I need a shower.” His semen had smeared over my abdomen and dried in my pubic hair, making me itchy. I got up, crossed to the little desk, and opened the middle drawer, which held a stack of menus. “You’d better call. Every time I do, they don’t understand me, and I wind up getting something I’d never have ordered on my worst day.”

  “You have been here in Paris before?”

  “On business.”

  “Perhaps you should learn the language.” He rose and joined me, took the menu, and scanned it.

  “You said something about teaching me.”

  “I did, didn’t I?” He grinned but continued to study the menu. “What would you like?”

  “Anything except fish.” I pointed out one item. “I’ve had this before.” It was heirloom tomato Napoleon, and I figured I could get away with it, since Napoleon was pretty much the same in English or French. “That’s a safe bet for me. Order whatever you’d like. Get a bottle of wine as well. And don’t forget to tell them we’ll need forks and knives. And glasses. Here.” I handed him five hundred francs. “This should cover the tip too.”

  “Bien sûr. Of course,” he translated with a lazy grin.

  I laughed and went into the bathroom and shut the door.

  His jacket hung from a hook behind the door. In a pocket was a disposable cell phone. He must have been the kind of working boy who kept his contact numbers in his head, because nothing was listed in this phone. And as for recent calls—apparently he hadn’t made any or received any. Okay, the phone was of no use, so I put it back.

  His trousers were tossed carelessly in a corner, and socks, a pair of black boxer briefs, and his T-shirt rested on top of them.

  I turned on the shower, and as I waited for the water to heat up, I rifled through his pockets.

  All he carried was a wallet in his front pocket, which was a smart move if you wanted to foil pickpockets. I opened his wallet. He had roughly a hundred dollars US in franc notes, as well as a keycard with “Madame Beauchene’s gîte touristique” printed on it.

  Now this was interesting. He didn’t carry any form of ID; not a driver’s license, insurance card, or anything else.

  Who are you, Louis?

  I returned his wallet to his trousers, made sure everything was the way it had been, and ducked under the spray.

  Because of my height, being in a French shower was an adventure. If I didn’t angle my head just so, I risked smacking it on the showerhead.

  I managed it, and finally I was done. I stepped out onto the mat and yanked a towel off the shelf.

  As I was rubbing the moisture out of my hair, I heard a tap on the bathroom door. “Yeah?”

  “Lunch has arrived, Rick. And for your first lesson—lunch is déjeuner.”

  I wrapped another towel around my waist and opened the bathroom door. He must have put on my shirt to answer the door. I was six foot three, and the shirt pretty much dwarfed him.

  His gaze was hot as he ran it over me. This time I was the one wearing a towel.

  I repeated, “Déjeuner.” And I swallowed a grin when he flinched. I dropped the towel, took a pair of shorts from the wardrobe, and pulled them on.

  “We will work on your accent later. Mon ami—my friend—we neglected to remember one thing.” Louis tsked, came into my personal space, and threaded his fingers through my hair, smoothing it into a semblance of order. “Much better.”

  No
one ever did that, not even sometime lovers. It was kind of nice.

  “Now, where are we to dine?” he asked, flirting his lashes once again.

  “Did they include a tablecloth?”

  He gave a huff, going from seductive to disgruntled so quickly I had to bite back a laugh. “Why would they, when I did not ask for one?” He muttered in French, “And why would I ask for one when we don’t have a table?”

  “English, Louis.”

  He glowered at me. “You should have told me we would have need of one.”

  “Don’t worry about it. We’re gonna have a little picnic.” I handed him the red wine and a corkscrew, and while he opened the bottle to let it breathe, I took the basket that contained our déjeuner and carried it to the bed I’d slept on. “What did you order?”

  “You are having crêpes with sautéed pears.”

  “I should have told you to order me a hamburger. What about you?” If that was what he’d ordered for himself, I was going to wrestle him for it.

  “I am having fresh salmon croque madame. Which you are going to sample. You need to broaden your culinary horizons.”

  He had no idea how broad my horizons actually were. I began placing the plates of food on the bed, and when I sat down, I made sure I sat above the spot where my Glock was hidden. “Pour the wine.”

  THAT was the only time we had a picnic, although the following days were… fun. I took him to the movies, on a boat ride after dark on the Seine, and shopping for a suit, so we could dine at a classic restaurant on the Place des Vosges.

  And of course we fucked and fellated and mutually masturbated—I’d said something about being a poet, hadn’t I?—and fucked some more.

  X

  IT WAS our last night together. We’d gone to a jazz club, had a late dinner, and now we strolled back to the hotel. I had my arm draped across Louis’s shoulders, and he was leaning into me with his arm around my waist.

  Okay, that might not have been the brightest idea, but it had been a good week, and goddamnit, wasn’t Paris the city of lovers?

  Louis was trying to teach me to say, “Va te faitre foutre, telling me it meant “I don’t care.” I knew it didn’t, but what the hell? I’d let him have his fun.

  We passed an alley, and someone snarled, “Tapette.”

  “You want to come out here and say that to my face?” Louis snarled back in French.

  Three burly men sauntered out. They looked Louis over from head to foot and then dismissed him. “You,” the biggest one addressed me in French. “You’d be worth taking on if you weren’t a fag. I’m gonna enjoy beating you to a pulp, and then maybe I’ll show you what being fucked by a real man is like.”

  “He doesn’t understand. He’s American.” Louis kept his eyes on the men and said in an undertone, “Rick, get out of here!”

  “Why?”

  He ground his teeth and swore. He was inventive. “They plan to hurt you.”

  I grinned at the big guy. “Va te faitre foutre.”

  Louis groaned and poked me. “Now you get the accent right?” he hissed. He turned to our new buddies. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” he told them.

  They must have decided they’d talked enough, because they charged us. I grabbed the arm of the one in the lead, swung him around, and sent him flying headfirst into a wall. He collapsed to the ground without a sound.

  I was worried about Louis, and I looked around for him, which was a fucking careless move on my part—was I losing it? It left my back exposed to the biggest one, who took advantage of my distraction. He got his arm around my neck and pulled me off my feet. I drove my elbow into his gut, and although his breath came out in a whoosh and his hold on me loosened so my feet were on terra firma again, he wouldn’t let go. So I stomped on his instep—the sound of bones breaking made me grin, but all it did was make him grunt and tighten his hold on my neck again. I drove my head back into his face, and this time it was his nose that made a satisfying crunch. Too bad, so sad. I’d rather have curled my fingers back and shoved the heel of my hand into his nose, sending bone fragments into his brain, but I took what I could get.

  The noise coming from his mouth was garbled, but the fuck wouldn’t let go.

  Okay, asshole, you asked for it.

  I reached down, grabbed his balls, and squeezed… hard.

  The sound he made was indescribable. It was a cross between a gasp, a whine, and a breathless shriek. He finally let me go and collapsed to ground, clutching at his balls with one hand, cupping his bloody nose with the other, and rocking back and forth.

  Well, that was two out of the way. I turned to take on the third one, only to find him down, trying to crawl away. An arm hung uselessly, and his leg didn’t look good either.

  “What happened to him?”

  Louis shrugged. “He fell down. And those two?”

  “Beats hell out of me. Maybe they tripped over their own big feet. I was just minding my own business.” If he pushed for answers, I’d tell him I’d taken a couple of karate lessons.

  “We should leave.”

  “Just a second.” I leaned down, and making sure that Louis couldn’t hear me, whispered in French in the leader’s ear, “Next time, you’d better think twice about taking on a fag. We’re not as wimpy as you might think.” And then I kissed his cheek. I’d have kissed his mouth, really skeeving him out, but his breath was awful and blood from his broken nose was all over his lips. I straightened, kicked him in the ribs for good measure, and turned to Louis. “Allons-y,” I said.

  “Oui!” And he beamed at me, as proud as if I’d given a valedictory speech instead of just saying “Let’s go.”

  XI

  SO, YEAH, this was our last night together. Oh, we’d probably fuck a few more times before morning, but I had to check out by noon.

  Right now it was almost two, and we were getting in one of those times. Louis felt so fucking good, clenching around my cock and sliding through my palm. He had hardly any precome left, but there was still some lube, and I’d slicked him with it.

  And then in the middle of it—as if running into those three clowns wasn’t enough—Louis proceeded to drop a bombshell of his own.

  “I am not a—” He gave a deep, appreciative groan as I targeted his prostate. “—a rent boy!”

  I froze over his back—we were going at it doggy-style this time. “What?”

  “I… do not… peddle my ass… for a living.”

  “I heard what you said!” Annoyed, I released his cock and began to withdraw. “This is a hell of a time to tell me that!”

  “No, do not stop!” Louis shuddered and swore in French. He was fucking inventive, but no way would I tell him that. Not only was I not supposed to understand what he was saying, but…. I didn’t want him to get a swelled head.

  “Fuck that,” I snapped. “I thought you were a pro. I could have hurt you!”

  “But you didn’t.” Louis’s breath came in a whine as he tightened internal muscles—was he hoping that would cause me to postpone this discussion until a later time and I’d continue fucking him? “You could have done anything you wanted, but you never once forced me, or hurt me, or even treated me like a whore.”

  “Asshole. So, if you’re not a whore, what are you?” And why the fuck had he chosen now to spill the beans?

  “Shut up and finish fucking me! We can talk about this later.”

  I gave up the battle and began stroking into him once again. I reached around to take his cock firmly in my hand and went back to jacking him off. He panted harder and thrust back wildly. He’d never been so out of control at any other point in our time together.

  The warmth of his semen—what there was of it—spilling through my fingers triggered my own climax, and I bit his shoulder to keep from shouting.

  Louis’s knees gave out, and he sprawled on the bed beneath me, his legs framing mine.

  “This isn’t the end, you know,” I murmured in his ear.

  “I hope not!”r />
  “Ass. Why pretend you were a whore?”

  “Why did you want me to be one?”

  I opened my mouth to rebut that, but there was no way I could. I drew in a breath. “Yeah, I guess you have a point.”

  “Would you mind explaining it to me, because je vous assure, I am at a loss.”

  I licked the reddened spot on his shoulder—I hadn’t bitten him hard enough to break the skin—and finally said, “The guy who died? We met in Paris. I did this with him, and I didn’t want to be reminded of it. If you were a rent boy, I wouldn’t have to treat you like anything more than that. Not a lover… not a friend,” I muttered under my breath.

  “But that is how you did treat me, cher m’sieur, the entire time we’ve been together!”

  “That was just common courtesy,” I scoffed.

  “Imbécile!” He twisted beneath me and smacked my head. “Do you think I do not know what—” He cut short whatever he’d been about to say. “Get off me. It feels like I have an elephant on my back.”

  I pinched his ass and eased out of him. “Turnabout’s fair play, Louis. How come you let me believe I could buy you for a week?”

  “Eh. For much the same reason as you. My friend who also died… we did work together. And no, he was not a rent boy either.”

  “Did you fuck?” It wasn’t a good idea to get involved like that. I knew from my own experience with my idiot partner. I stripped off the condom, knotted it, and tossed it into the trash pail.

  “No. We made love.” He rolled over and stared at the ceiling.

  “You loved him?” Jesus, that was an even worse idea!

  “Why not? He was a good man. Eh,” he said again and rubbed his hand over his face. “It was a long time ago, and we were both young.” He began humming something.

  “What’s that?”

  “‘Cette Vie Enchantée.’” He sang a couple of lines in English. “We drank from the cup of life/Too late we realized it was the wine of regret….”

  He looked sad. God, I hoped I never cared for anyone like that!