ANDY
Iawoke to the familiar ache of overindulgence, my body more wrecked than a demolition derby car. Bleary-eyed, I glanced at the clock. Eleven in the morning? Sunlight poured through the cracks in the curtains like unwelcome gossip. Matt had already flown the coop, off to tend to his empire of sin and luxury.
A note rested on the nightstand, its message scrawled in Matt’s assertive hand.Take it easy, gorgeous. I’ll see you at dinner after work.Oh, take it easy, he says—as if my body could muster anything more than a slow crawl after last night’s Olympic-level bedroom gymnastics.
Gritting my teeth, I shifted to escape the clutches of the silk sheets, every muscle singing a hymn of soreness. As I cast aside the blanket, an unfamiliar stickiness caught my attention. What in the—? My eyes widened as reality hit with the subtlety of a freight train. That dream with Matt, all hot and heavy, wasn’t just some nocturnal fantasy. No, it was an early morning encore performance. And I had been half-asleep for the whole production!
I felt stupid, embarrassed, mortified. The nerve of that man! Making love to me while I’m teetering on the edge of consciousness. He really is a shameless bastard.
With an indignant huff, I staggered to my feet and made for the bathroom, catching glimpses of myself in the mirror—more marks adorning my skin than a treasure map. My poor nipples looked like they’d gone ten rounds with a vacuum cleaner—tender and abraded from Matt’s insatiable attention.
My gaze wandered lower, landing on my cock—now red and swollen from what had clearly been an enthusiastic session that I didn’t remember consenting to fully.
“Great,” I groaned. “Just great.”
I was now more determined than ever to ban Matt from my nipples and, apparently, from my cock too.
The shower beckoned like an oasis in a desert. After taming the hot water into submission and stepping under its scalding cascade, I allowed myself to simply stand there for a moment—heat soaking into muscles and washing away traces of our nocturnal escapades.
After toweling off and working on regaining some semblance of normalcy, I pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, though even the soft fabric seemed to irritate my sensitized skin.
Stomach growling like an angry bear, I picked up the room service menu and dialed down for lunch. Screw it; if Matt could have his way with me while I was unconscious, then I deserved to eat like a king on his dime.
As I lounged on the couch watching TV, my stomach rumbled like a distant thunderstorm. The clang of the doorbell drew my attention, and I lumbered toward the sound. It swung open to reveal Bruno, as stoic as a gargoyle, wheeling in a food cart.
It was less a cart and more a gastronomic parade. The scent of truffle oil, roasted meats, and freshly baked bread mingled in the air, promising culinary delights.
The feast before me was absurdly opulent. A whole roasted chicken glistened golden brown, its skin crackling with seasoned perfection. Beside it lay a slab of prime rib, cooked to medium-rare glory with juices seeping onto the cutting board. Truffle mashed potatoes sat like fluffy clouds, promising creamy decadence with every bite.
Vegetables weren’t an afterthought either. Grilled asparagus spears stood upright like green soldiers, drizzled with lemon and olive oil. A Caesar salad heaped high with parmesan shavings and croutons big enough to be mistaken for small bread loaves added a touch of greenery.
The scent alone was enough to resurrect my will to live—and possibly my libido.
Just as I reached for a piece of roasted chicken—because priorities—my phone buzzed insistently on the table. Glancing at the screen, I saw Finley’s name flashing.
“Hey, Fin,” I answered, keeping my voice casual despite the feast beckoning me.
“Hey, Andy! Ethan and I are about to grab some grub before our shift starts. We’re just out on the side of the building where us mere mortals dine. Wanna join?” Finley’s voice chirped through the line.
I glanced at the feast laid out before me—a veritable cornucopia of calories—and knew what had to be done.
“Fin, my man, I’m currently staring down more food than is strictly necessary for one person. Get your butts up here and help me out.”
There was a brief pause before Finley’s enthusiastic reply nearly burst my eardrum. “Hell yeah! We’ll be right up. Ethan’s with me; hope that’s cool.”
“Cool? That’s sub-zero, Fin,” I said, grinning at the prospect of seeing Ethan again. “Penthouse level—just follow the smell of excessive wealth. You can’t miss it.”
After hanging up, I strode to the front door where Bruno stood like an unmovable mountain.
“Hey, Bruno,” I began, not bothering to hide my amusement at his stoic expression. “My best friend Finley—you’ve met him—and his brother Ethan are coming up for lunch. Do me a solid and let them in?”
Not waiting for his nod or grunt—or whatever monosyllabic acknowledgment he might muster—I spun on my heel and headed back to my feast, eager to dig in before Finley and Ethan arrived to share in this madness.
I was halfway through demolishing what could only be described as a culinary work of art—a second helping of the prime rib that melted in my mouth like butter on a hot skillet—when the door swung open. Bruno, ever the sentinel, stepped aside to let Fin and Ethan into the penthouse.
Dropping my fork with a clatter, I sprang up and crossed the room to greet them with bro hugs that could crack ribs if we weren’t careful. “Guys, you’re just in time to witness this feast fit for a small country.”
Their eyes bulged at the spread, mouths agape like they’d just walked into a foodie’s fever dream. Ethan’s gaze wandered around the penthouse with an air of childlike wonder before landing back on the banquet.
