“You’re welcome, Sir.”
Leonidas hated and loved saying that. He fought back a frown and tried to remember this was temporary.
“Go lay on the bed.” Andy tipped his chin toward the corner where Leonidas’s bed was set up. “Next, we’re going to work on your restraint.”
11
Andy
Andy had spenthours taking Leonidas apart with his mouth and his hands. He’d edged him until he’d stopped speaking English and had been left on his bed covered in sweat, trembling, and muttering what Andy assumed to be curses in Greek under his breath. They’d finally fallen asleep together, with Andy’s cheek resting against Leonidas’s sticky thigh.
He hadn’t expected to find any of this in Paris. He hadn’t expected to find any of this anywhere, but now that he had it…everything changed. That had been the whole point of his trip, though, to wander and see what happened. To experience new things and new people, and he was doing all of that.
He just had someone to do it with now.
Last night had been something special, the way Leonidas had guided him without forcing anything, the way he’d made a safe space for Andy to explore these new parts of himself. The thing between them was rare, he knew that.
Andy stretched, rolling off Leonidas’s body and flinging his legs over the side of the bed. Leonidas mumbled something and rolled onto his belly, burying his face in the pillow. He looked delicious with this bare ass in the air, and Andy remembered the way that skin felt against his hands the night before. He’d stuck to Leonidas’s limit, and they hadn’t done anything new, only blow jobs and hand jobs, and Andy had been plenty good enough with his mouth to drive Leonidas out of his mind.
But as he padded quietly into Leonidas’s kitchen, his insides ached with emptiness and he couldn’t stop himself from wondering how good it would feel to have Leonidas buried inside of him.
He plugged in the kettle and turned it on, then found a mug in a cabinet and searched around for a spoon to mix the coffee. Andy would never get used to the fascination the French had with instant coffee; he abhorred it. He opened a drawer and instead of spoons, found junk. A black iPhone that looked like the battery was dead or it was turned off was on top of a pile of change and rubber bands and a tattered old postcard.
Andy knew he shouldn’t pry, but he pushed the phone out of the way and traced the outline of a large stone church on the picture side of the postcard. On the back of the card was a small line or two printed in Spanish.
“It’s the Santiago de Compostela,” Leonidas’s sleepy voice said from the bed.
“What?” Andy tucked the postcard back into the drawer and pushed it closed, resuming his search for a spoon.
“The burial site of St. James. There’s a pilgrimage route from France to Spain, near the coast. The spoons are beneath the kettle.”
Andy opened the drawer under where the kettle sat and produced a teaspoon, which he used to scoop coffee into his mug.
“Do you want some?” he asked.
“Please.”
Andy grabbed another mug, then made coffee for them both and carried the steaming mugs back to the bed. He passed one to Leonidas and crawled onto the mattress, sitting with his back in the corner so he could look out the window.
“I’ve wanted to do it my entire life,” Leonidas told him.
It was a small insight into this man who was otherwise an enigma. They’d talked and laughed together, they’d been bare and intimate, but Andy didn’t know a thing about Leonidas beyond the fact that he wanted him. That had to be enough. The rest could follow…would follow.
“You should.”
“I’m going to.” Leonidas sipped his coffee, watching Andy over the rim of his mug.
“When?”
“A week or so.”
Andy fought back a surge of bile in the back of his throat.
A week?
A weekor so?
He knew that Leonidas didn’t owe him anything, but is that really all he had left? A week with this man and then…and then what?
