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.
