“Right.”
“But really, you’re not, Asher. I mean, I’m no expert at . . .” He trails off again. Neither one of us is using labels. “But you rented that hot car, you took me clubbing in Florida, and you stole me away to the beach, and you made a fun thing out of everything. I think you’re pretty good at this . . .”
Fuck labels.
I just want Mark, whatever we are.
But I have no idea how to have him. And we’re both shit at discussing it. So we don’t.
Instead, I handcuff him to the bed later that night and torture him with my tongue until he’s begging for release. And I still want more. More than handcuffs. More than sex.
Just more Mark.
47
MY LIFE IS A FRENCH FILM
MARK
We trudge up the steps to my building on Sunday afternoon.
“Thank you for taking me to the Statue of Liberty, and the Empire State building. But I’d have to say my favorite part of my forty-eight hours in New York has got to be the M&M shop in Times Square. It was a lifelong dream to go there,” Asher replies as we reach the top step.
“Had a feeling you’d love all the tourist traps.”
We did none of those things today. Which made this Sunday another perfect day?filled with sleep, sex, coffee, walking around Manhattan, and Asher.
My . . .
As I unlock the door to my building I wonder once again?what is Asher to me after this weekend? Because lover is a weird fucking word to use in any situation except for a French film.
As I wander down the hallway, my chest hollows. Tomorrow, I won’t see him. Or the next day or the next. But I want this life. Hell, I want a weeknight life with him too?seeing him after work, or after Rosie goes to bed. I never thought I’d want that at all.
But now I want that so much I can taste the possibility. The last day we were in Miami, this was what I imagined having with him, but it’s going to vanish in mere hours, when he walks down those steps and gets on that plane. And, holy fuck, my head is a French film.
I hate foreign films. I’m not broody.
Except when it comes to Asher St. James.
“Next time, will you take me to a show and on a carriage ride?” Asher asks, deadpan.
“Count on it . . .” But the sentence dies as I stick on next time. How the hell do we get to a next time?
A door creaks open at the end of the hall. “Yes, I know, Zoe. Sprinkles. Get sprinkles. It’s one of the four basic food groups.”
“Wine, sprinkles, cake, and sushi,” Zoe calls out to her wife.
Shutting the green door, Valencia comes into view, all olive skin, waves of chestnut hair, and big eyes that fire questions at me when she acquires the target?me with a man.
“Hello there, friend,” she says, pointedly, then gestures from Asher to me, then back.
“You mean bad friend, I believe, Valencia. And to answer your unsaid question, this is Asher.”
“Who can only be the smug and hot one?” she asks with a too-big smile.
And for the fiftieth time, my face flames red.
Asher loops an arm around me, cracking up. “Aww, fuck you, Mark.”
I laugh too. “Yes, the smug best man.” My . . .
Why does a label even matter?
Valencia strides forward, grabs Asher’s hand, and says, “I had a feeling about you two.” Then she gives me Robert De Niro I’m watching you eyes. “And I expect a full report later.”
She heads out the door as we hit the stairs, Asher behind me.
“She knows you wanted to fuck me?” Asher asks.
This guy. Laughing, I answer. “Yes. She’s a good friend. She wants to set me up with her dentist. And before then, it was her creative director,” I mention casually, catching him up on my friendship with Valencia.
“And you said . . .?” Asher’s voice is stripped of all fun. It’s intense. Commanding even.
I turn to him on the steps. There’s no humor in his eyes. Only possession. “I said no. And I’ll still say no.”
He doesn’t even smile. He just nods crisply. “Good answer, Banks.”
I keep walking up, a smile teasing at my lips as I look ahead. With that understanding?this is exclusive?the stranglehold on my emotions loosens slightly. But only slightly.
That means I need to say more.
Thirty minutes later, Asher is packed and ready to go, his car arriving within the hour.
I flash back to Florida, to the morning in the guest house when I was rehearsing how to ask him for more. I swallowed my words then. I won’t do that now.
I gesture to his suitcase. “Funny, how much I was dreading the first flight with you back in June.”
Way to go, Banks. Start it off by telling him you hated him.