Author's note: Dedicated to all the wonderful people who left me loyal, heartfelt comments on my work. I really do appreciate comments, darlings, it means a lot to me to know what you think. And it inspires me to write more, knowing that people appreciate it.
And to Fallon, for being an angel and typing this up for me when I was too flustered and busy to do it myself.
Can you tell this was written while in Rome, surrounded by paintings and sculptures of gorgeous, naked, incredibly nubile young men? Saint Sebastian gives me indecent ideas. I've determined he's the most fuckable saint.
He dances like a young god fallen to earth, holds the floor like an experienced stripper, gyrating his hips like life is sex and sex is a dance. Around him men cluster like flies to honey, drawing their hands down his golden chest, catching their fingers in the beltloops of his too-tight black pants, as if to see if they can slip any lower on his hips. And as much as he basks in the touches and attention, he doesn't give any of them a second glance.
I can't look away.
There's a break in the music—the DJ skips a track and the trance is broken. He extricates himself from his admirers and heads to the bar for a drink. One of them makes a grab for him and he dodges smoothly—and crashes right into me. I catch him. "You all right?"
He meets my gaze, surprised. At close range I can see that beneath his fuck-me-now aura, he's got the face of an archangel. Michelangelo would have given his right hand for the honor of putting this boy in paint or marble, and either way, with an ethereal face, and a body to inspire lust in the very stones, he would be breathtaking.
His surprise quickly solidifies into a grin. "Hey, gorgeous. Want to take me home?"
"I'd expect your name first," I reply, setting him carefully back on his feet.
"T.J.," he offers, taking the opportunity to slide into my lap. "You?"
"Sebastian." I put my arm around his waist, if only to ensure that he doesn't fall.
"Sebastian?" He laughs. "Nice. So now you've got my name, you gonna fuck me?"
I smirk a little. Fascinating though he is, with a front like that, he's either a whore or a slut, which explains why he learned how to dance like that. And I don't do one-night stands. "Sorry."
His face falls so fast I'm completely taken by surprise. He quickly hides the disappointment, but I'm shocked speechless by the depth of it. There's a lot more to this kid than his front, and I'm interested, just not enough.
"But whether you were asking for business or pleasure, I'm sure there are plenty of other men who won't disappoint you."
"I liked the look of you," he responds, quiet.
I watch him for a moment. He's giving me this kicked-puppy look after my business-or pleasure comment, and he was irresistible enough without it. "Supposing that I wanted to take you home with me, but without the sex?"
Emotions flicker rapidfire across his face. Gratitude. Confusion. Apprehension. I am completely intrigued by this emotional little enigma in my lap. It's clear now that he's not a whore, although I don't know what to think of his dance floor performance and his front, combined with this baffling kicked-puppy sincerity.
"Then... what do you want from me, if not sex?" He's wary now, doubtful.
"Conversation, maybe? I'll buy you a drink, if you like."
"But why would you take me home if you don't want sex? What've you got against it?"
"How old are you?" I have to ask. He looks of age, but he talks like he's fifteen.
"Twenty." He glares, annoyed at the question. "Well?"
"I prefer my sex with strings attached," I tell him. "No one-night stands."
"Oh." He moves closer. "So if I stay with you awhile, you'll fuck me?"
He reaches down, and I grab his hand at once. I don't need him knowing how much it affects me to have someone this gorgeous in my lap. My grip on his wrist is firm, but my voice is gentle. "That's not quite what I meant."
He shrugs, suddenly again all nonchalance and self-sure cockiness. "I'll take what I can get. You're weird. But hot."
"Are you really twenty?" He's an inch or two beneath average height, and a good half-foot shorter than I, so he neither looks nor acts twenty.
However I expect him to respond, it's not the long, hesitant stare I get, with a shy but honest nod. If he's lying to me, the kid deserves an Oscar. One thing, however, is evident enough to explain at least a little of his behavior. "Homeless?"
The look that goes across his face breaks my heart. I can't believe I'm actually falling for this boy I've only just met. I want to take him home and tuck him into bed, and I had no idea I was capable of this kind of sap while I can barely restrain myself from throwing him down and ravishing him right here.
"Kinda," he manages at last.
I take pity and kiss him. He gasps against my lips, surprised, but gets over it quickly and kisses back, sweet and eager. I expected him to kiss like he dances--hot and sultry--but instead it's almost innocently excited. I'm more confused than ever, so I break the kiss quickly. What is a catch as sweet as this doing making prepositions like a cheap whore?
He's scooted closer, and now I know he can feel my erection straining through my jeans. "Let's go," I say. I don't need to ask twice.
"What kind of car you got?" he asks, curious.
"I don't. Sorry. It's not far."
I take him back to my flat.
He walks with his hands in his pockets, and damn, he even walks like he's the incarnation of sex. I'm sore pressed, trying to keep my no-one-night-stands policy, a sub-category of my no-sex-without-love policy, which qualification is already half reached by how hard I'm falling for this sweet, lost little sex-kitten. He keeps his gaze down as he walks. I think at some point someone must have hurt him bad, and I want to track them down and rip their lungs out.
I want to have him. I've already decided that I will, that he's mine and I don't ever want him to forget that, but I don't know how to tame him, and I don't know if he'd resent being leashed.
I don't mean to be staring at his ass, but I am, in his tight little black leather pants, and he really does belong in marble, because each globe is sculpted, tight and round, like God's gift to sodomites. If homosexuality is really a sin, then the devil must be a sculptor, to create a body of such incarnate temptation.
"Are you hungry?" I ask, setting my coat down on a chair. He's looking around my flat with a kind of awe, and only after a moment does he respond, looking up and giving me a quick nod. I keep a cluttered apartment. It gets most of its color from my books and posters, and I'm surprised to see him go for the books rather than the posters or the big, coffee-table volumes of drama and attraction. I go into the kitchen, cooking up a quick dish of pasta for him. He appears in the doorway after a few minutes.
"Is this true, what they say?" He asks, concerned.
I scoop a swathe of pasta sauce onto my finger, and offer it to him to taste. He makes me regret it almost instantly when he closes his plump perfect lips around it and sucks, darting his tongue over it like an experienced cocksucker. My higher brain functions grind to a halt. He kisses my fingertip as he pulls away, with a sweet little grin that's both maddeningly cocky and endearingly unsure at the same time. He holds up the book. I somehow manage to tear my gaze off his lips to follow his finger in the book. I stare at the page uncomprehending.
"Well?" He prompts. "I think they're wrong. I think he forgot to figure the moon into the equation and that's why he says it doesn't work. But it does."
Of all things, he's picked up one of my physics texts. I'm struggling to manage basic English, and he's presenting me with complex physics. I stare at him. "You understand this? At twenty? What kind of education did you have?"
He shrugs, confused. Doesn't even realize he's a genius. "My mom let me read some stuff. I just like science."
"What? No not really." He hesitates, uncomfortable.
I frown, gentling my tone. "Sorry. Let me just finish dinner, then you can explain it o me, okay?"
It takes him a half hour to explain his question in terms I can understand, because I'm fighting the urge to jump him, every second, but I can't deny he's right, and the Ph.D physicist had made a mistake that no one else had challenged for 20 years.
"What happened to your mom?" I ask, clearing our plates.
"She died," he says, tracing sad little patterns on the marble countertop. "I was twelve."
"I'm sorry," I say, and mean it. "Where did you go?"
"My uncle. He was rich. Kinda. Mean. A little crazy, had a nice library though. He just died a few weeks ago." He looks up quietly. "Don't be sorry again. I hated him."
I nod. "Didn't you inherit?"
He shrugs. "Nothing to inherit. He had more debts than possessions. Are we done talking now?"
"Sure," I say, and he grins. He's such a rare combination of genius and innocence. And sex, I am powerfully reminded, as he leans into me and takes a kiss. This kiss is more like his dancing, playful and hot, and I know I'm lost so I don't bother fighting, just pull him up against me tight and kiss back, all lust.
His heartbeat is rapid when I break the kiss, breath coming in little flutters. "Can we?" He asks. "Please?" His hands are on my shirt, nimbly undoing the buttons.
"Just try and stop me," I reply, kissing him again with my tongue deep into his mouth and he has a way of making soft, sensual little groans that shoot straight to my groin. I can't bear to wait for the bedroom, so I push him up against the wall, bracing him with my weight and fumbling with the zipper on his pants.
He flinches slightly when his back hits the wall, and suddenly his responsiveness just stops. "Wait," he says, with a little whimper.
Trying to form words is like trying to swim through cold molasses, forcing myself to pause and meet his eyes is hard enough, but I see fear in his eyes, and it makes something go cold in my belly. I don't like seeing fear in those sweet expressive eyes of his.
He swallows, looking away with something like shame in his features. "Go easy on me okay? I haven't done this before."
In retrospect, I figure I should have been expecting that, but at the time I'm shocked speechless for long enough that he starts to cringe with shame. I lifted his chin with a warm smile. "I'll be gentle."
After a moment, I'm rewarded with that big playful grin of his and a kiss. I grin back, giving his hand a quick peck before using it to drag him into the bedroom.
I press him into the bed and straddle his hips, intertwining our fingers as I take the time for a long, lingering kiss, testing my capability for patience. He squirms, laughing, and I like the way he squirms between my thighs, so I tickle him, and he dissolves into bubbles of laughter, trying to push my hands away. I divest myself of my shirt, then my pants, and then finally I get the pleasure of getting him out of those incredible tight black pants of his. I want to see him, I want him to see me, I want skin on skin and he responds eagerly, with feverish kisses.
I don't want to ask, but I can't resist the possibility of making him even more irresistibly sexy, and I'm too aware of scars beneath his skin to do anything without asking. I flick my tongue over the tender skin of his earlobe before whispering, "Can I tie your hands?"
His eyes widen slightly in surprise, but he nods with an excited grin. I press his wrists together and lean over to dig through the nightstand drawer, not wanting to let go of him for even a second. The cord I draw out between my fingers is white silk. Perfect. He holds his hands up willingly for me to take, watching me with so much innocent love and trust it takes my breath away. For a moment I feel a kind of sick fear, thinking of how close I'd come to turning him down, and imagining him going home with some other man.
"You're mine, "I whisper in his ear and he shudders deliciously, arching his body up towards mine.
"Please," he says, and oh, I don't want to wait another instant to fuck him, but I don't want to rush something this rare. I fasten his hands securely above his head so that he lies before me exposed to my desires and eagerly willing.
Like any respectable Greek youth in marble, he's not so well endowed, to modern eyes, but he's breathtakingly gorgeous; one knee raised slightly as if it would protect his already ravished modesty, in the form of a rosy marble pillar straining from a grove of golden curls. I pause to peck a nipple, because he has such invitingly tender pink nipples, and I hear his breath hitch, loose golden strands of his hair teasing his flushed hot cheeks.
I'm curious how loud he'll scream in ecstasy, so I wrap my lips around his pretty pink cock and lave my tongue across the head. He satisfies me with a cry and a shudder, so sweetly begging for more. Who could bear to deny him?
I take him deep into my mouth and suck, and it's clear he's a virgin because it's spare moments before he cries out and comes into my mouth, his whole body arching off the bed. I lick my lips with a grin, because his cum is the same earthly-sweet as his smile, and I almost enjoy the way he flushes, shamefaced, when he realizes his inability to last.
"The night's not over yet," I tell him with a grin. "That's just the appetizer."
He mirrors my grin back at me, happily leaning up for a kiss, and we make this one long and slow, my fingers stroking him back to attention, teeth nibbling on his sweet innocent lips. I reach up, generously freeing his hands, and he's endearingly eager to wrap them around my shoulders.
"Roll over," I tell him, and he obeys without question, flicking a grin back at me. He really does have the most amazing ass, I can't praise it enough.
Relishing my sweet, responsive little virgin, I part his cheeks with my palms, thumbing that tight little bundle of muscle and nerves hidden within. He quivers with pleasure, and I know I have to have him, all of him, so I glide my tongue along his sensitive crease lapping tenderly at the secret tight hot center of him. He mewls with desire, begging me in the most deliciously profane language—"fuck me, take me, please, Basti, please."
I especially savor the nickname he chose for me. Basti. And I already know I can't refuse him anything. I kiss the soft bumps that mark the base vertebrae of his spine. "Alright, sweet, I will," but it doesn't stop his begging and I didn't want it to. I fumble impatiently for a condom, determined at least not to lose all my wits over this incredible beauty of a boy. He whimpers at the interruption, so I make it up to him by drifting two lube-covered fingers around his entrance before dipping one inside.
We both gasp, he's so tight, and I push a second finger through. The throbbing convulsions of his tight little arsehole are deliciously massaging my fingers, pulling them inside like it's desperate for more, and my strained patience snaps with the force of desire. I have to fuck him.
Slathering more lube along my considerable length, I let my weight settle atop him, chafing the head against his entrance in warning.
"This'll hurt, sweet," I whisper. "I'm big."
He nods, desperately aroused. 'Please..."
I part his cheeks and enter him with one deep thrust, and this time his cry is loud and I'm glad I have thick walls, because this time even I moan. He's hotter and tighter than I thought was humanly possible, but I'm sure by now that he's too perfect to be human. He's so tight, and his hot sweet channel is spasming around me so exquisitely I can barely breathe for pleasure.
He makes a hurt little noise and I shift, coaxing his fingers out of his white-knuckled fists, pressing wet kisses along his shoulders. "Relax, pretty," I murmur. "Breathe."
He takes a deep breath, shuddering, and lets it out in little whimpers. I pet his sides, willing him to relax, waiting for his pleas to start again, somehow calling on reserves of patience I didn't know I had so I can keep from pounding into this amazing nubile body of his.
"Please, Basti," he begs, as my fingers wrap around his prick.
"Yes?" I ask with a smile, pressing a kiss to the side of his throat.
"More, Basti, please, please fuck me."
He doesn't need to ask twice, I pull out, forcing myself to be gentle as I plunge back into that sweet, tight heat. We moan as one, which makes him laugh a little, and he's adventurous enough to start jutting his hips back to meet each of my thrusts, which very nearly sends me over the edge right then, but I'm determined not to trip without taking him with me.
I change my angle, so I can't go as deep, but this way I brush against his prostate with each thrust, and finally I get the reward of that scream from him.
"Harder, Basti, please," he begs. "Take me, fuck me."
I'm not sure he's ready, but I pull out and thrust in hard, and he screams with desire moaning. I give up all hope of restraining myself and plunge into him hard, again and again, until he screams one last time and comes into my hand quaking. He's so hot and tight already that when his orgasm sends the most delicious spasms through him, I trip, filling the condom with my seed.
He melts in my arms like butter, making a few happy mumbles when I pull out, only taking the time to discard the condom before wrapping myself around him. He's fast asleep already, and I don't mind overlooking my hopes for the full night, because he sleeps like an angel, cuddled into my arms all shy and trusting. And I'm not letting go anytime soon.
"Hey, Basti," he murmurs, when I wake up the next morning to find him in my arms. It looks like there's something he wants to ask, from the way he opens his mouth, but then shuts it quickly with a blush.
"Hungry?" I ask, and he grins, nodding.
It's halfway through breakfast before he finally gets his question out, leaning against the counter like a painter's wet dream in his little tight black pants. "So," he says, pulling a cocky grin. "Wanna be my boyfriend, instead of just my fucktoy?"
I fight a grin, taking a casual sip of my coffee. "I thought it was the other way around."
The blush that goes across his face is delicious. He's hurt, so it takes him a moment to recover his cocky façade. "Basti," he whines, with this exquisite little jailbait pout. "Fine." A moment later he's got his playful grin back. "I'm your fucktoy."
"No," I say simply, with another sip of coffee and this time I really do enjoy the raw heartbreak on his face. I set down the cup and draw him into my arms, and he looks ready to cry, he's fighting so hard to act unfazed. "You're my boyfriend."
The gasp of shock and delight that goes through him rushes through my heart like a wave, and I'm so lost for this boy I give up all hope of escape.
He kisses me breathlessly. "Say it again."
I laugh, pulling him back to the bedroom to get him back out of those pants. "You're my boyfriend."