Lover by Chance

From the world of my first novel, Evasive Love, which you can get here!

Lover by Chance

Cuttelli’s Boston-style Bar lived in a cloud which made everything eerily foggy. The bar, filing station, and a pugilists’ ring rose out of the mist like a nightmare. Donatien saw another volex drifting away from the roof, dissolving into the white sky. As if that person had been swallowed whole or had fallen into forever.

Donatien smiled. He sorely wished for the gentle barbs of civility found only in the royal courts of his youth, but since he could not have his home, he’d settle for the dim lights and bleak hopelessness of its opposite.

When the volex’s hatch opened, the fog of stale beer and crushed dreams invaded the sterile rental. He breathed it deeply, bypassed the bar and approached the ring.

“You lost, friend?” The woman in the cage left no uncertainty that he was not her friend. Her coal-hard eyes appraised his costume and Donatien didn’t flinch. He had dressed in simple black slacks and black vest over a white shirt, a neat and clean outfit. Nothing as fancy as his birthright. The only ornamental touch was a scarf instead of a tie. Pastel. She looked at him because he was too clean and too pretty.

“No. I came to gamble.” He reached into his pocket and showed the bookie he carried cash. An easy ticket to any illegal dealings.

“We only deal in credit.”

“Ah.” Donatien almost walked away. Leave it to him to find the one legitimate pugilists’ ring left in this hemisphere. Instead, he shrugged and extended his ID card.

“Right.” She took the card and passed him the betting docket. “Who do you favor?”

“Which ones are gay?” He asked without looking at the form.

The woman looked up at him. “What are you? Suicidal?”

He shrugged again. “They know how to fight.”

The woman was not impressed or fooled, but answered, “tell you what. I’ll write down the fighters that haven’t hit on me today and you can take you pick of who beats you to death.”

Donatien smirked and nodded approvingly. He placed his bets and went to watch the fights.

* * * * *

For a legitimate operation, there was a lot of dirty fighting. They were mostly mixed fights, some boxing, some wrestling, some a combination of violent grappling with kicks and throws. Short and often bloody. His names were surprisingly good. For a change, he won more than he lost. He decided the next time he placed a real bet, he’d be just as frivolous and see if random chance won that gamble too.

His favorite was a spry giant of a man, Frank Mitchetti. He’d taken on an equally large man and danced around him in the ring. The other swung and missed until he tired, then Mitchetti dove at his head and shoulders, landing brutal and fast punches. Only a few before the opponent dropped to the mat. The other never regained his bearings after that and though they fought though the necessary number of rounds and punches and half-naked grappling, the loser was as foggy and unfocused as the air. Mitchetti stayed cool and collected.

* * * * *

He was not so collected when he came out of the shower in the tiny private changing room and found Donatien sitting on the bench.

“Jesus H. Christ.” Mr. Frank Mitchetti was from very working class background judging by his accent and the tram pass in his otherwise empty wallet. Though he could have been one of the most modest of the virgin cults the way he fumbled for a towel to cover himself.

Donatien smiled at his efforts.

“Who the fuck are you and how the hell did you get in here?” Mitchetti demanded when he recovered from his shock.

“Oh, someone so unimportant security never noticed me.” Donatien extended the pile of the pugilist’s clothing, enjoying the closeness of the naked man.

His body was even more impressive up close and wet. The water clung to the folds and divots of his muscle as if it welled from the man himself and desperately wanted to return to home under his skin. Most of his mass was in his shoulders and his calves, a man who built himself for sprinting around his enemies and hitting them hard. The coldness returned to his face and aside from the modest hand on his hip keeping the towel in place, the man looked more annoyed than concerned with his company.

Donatien couldn’t blame him. The man was a giant, easily over six-foot-tall and built it seemed from volcanic stone. They stared at each other in silence for a long moment, Donatien extending his clothes and smiling faintly. The pugilist glaring and trying to fit the man before him into the schemata of his life.

Mitchetti eventually settled on what he deemed most likely. “You with the cops?”

“No.” Donatien chuckled. He found the idea hilarious. “Want to guess again?”

Mitchetti shifted and looked around the small sweltering changing room. “No legitimate talent agency would sneak in—”

“I certainly hope not.”

The fighter bristled into anger. “If you’re with one of them illegal rings, you can forget it. I told them fuckers I won’t come back and they can’t make me.”

Donatien smiled wider and followed the progress of the fighter’s thoughts to the next logical connection. Slaver. Mitchetti’s anger darkened to fear and his eyes darted over Donatien looking for weapons he could not overcome with his strength, a gun or a tranquilizer, for evidence of a Petri dish containing some vicious nanotech or contagious bacteria. Finding no trace of a weapon, Mitchetti asked, bewildered and cautious. “What do you want, then?”

“To see you without that towel for a start.”

The pugilist tilted his head as if he understood the individual words, but could not make sense of the whole.

“I have a wealth man’s fascination with the poor and uncultured. And I’m deeply aroused by powerful people. When the two come together in one man I enjoy taking him as a lover.”

Mitchetti’s jaw hung slack as if the punches that had missed him earlier had suddenly found him.

Donatien chuckled amused by the fighter’s dazed response.

Mitchetti caught up quick and pulled his clothes out of Donatien’s hands. “That’s a damned dangerous business approaching a man that directly.”

“I place my bets carefully. It’s why I win. I made quite a bit of money off you tonight and I was prepared to continue my gambles. Do you object to the idea, sir?”

The pugilist stood with one hand on his towel and the other filled with his clothes unable to cover himself more fully without unveiling himself totally.

Mitchetti sneered at him. “You trying to blackmail—”

“I don’t have the time or desire to extort from peasants, Mr. Mitchetti. I told you what I wanted and I asked if you were interested. I promise that is the extent of my ulterior motives.”

“Extent of…” The fighter muttered to himself, then said loudly trying to shake Donatien. “You know I could drop you like an egg, right now? Break your neck and take you out in the fucking trash and no one would have any idea you were here.”

Donatien smirked. He liked the idea of the court combing the earth for him years after his death. The rumors of brutal assassination or a wicked imprisonment by some more powerful pervert would win over the truth of the matter, careless boredom. “Yes, sir. You absolutely could murder me, but first you’d have to drop that towel.”

The pugilist dropped the towel and his shirt. Donatien saw very little of the man who was not so little, and not as uninterested as he was pretending. Mitchetti pulled his trousers and braces on very quickly then reached for his dropped shirt. “Not interested in being wined and dined by no pansy-assed intelligentsia.”

“Good.” Donatien put his foot on the shirt, holding it to the floor. “I wouldn’t waste my time wining and dining you.”

The pugilist bent-over with the sleeve in his hand, lifted his eyes to Donatien. His ear was cauliflowered and his lip was cut and his eyes were mad with rage.

Donatien went on now that he had the man’s attention. “If I wanted good conversation, I’d find a professor. If I wanted someone pretty, an actor. What I’m looking for is a man who could break a bed with me.”

Mitchetti’s gaze drifted over Donatien’ s body, and he leaned back on his arms to allow himself to be judged. He knew he would not be found lacking.

The pugilist’s nostrils flared and he yanked his shirt out from under Donatien’s soft shoes and turned away. The man stared at the empty shower stall, really at the mirror reflecting his own hulking mass and the lithe man posed on the bench behind him. In the mirror, Donatien fancied he looked like a misty dream, the unattainable beauty just out of reach, soft and angelic a man who did not struggle daily for survival and so had to flirt with danger.

Whatever Mitchetti saw in that reflection, he lost the fight when he dropped his head and turned to look at Donatien. His voice was low. “Who outed me?”

“Yourself.” Donatien lied. “I’ve been gambling on you for some time. Now put on your shirt and let me fly you to your home.”

* * * * *

The pugilist’s apartment was distinctly a bachelor’s home. The kitchen had a smell of coffee and fried eggs. The screen was exactly the size he had expected, facing a small sofa and a well-worn recliner. The punching bag in the corner next to the outward facing window made Donatien wonder, “do you like to watch your neighbors while you work out, or to be watched?”

Mitchetti came up the stairs behind him. “Little of column A, little of column B. Why already jealous?”

He had proved excellently good-natured once he was out of Cutty’s as he called the bar and ring. Once Donatien had thrown a strong Irish stout into the mix, he’d gotten downright amicable. Not bad company at all. Donatien told him his name was Luke and lied about his pedigree; he’d already forgotten what he’d said. Something about being a merchant.

The pugilist’s hand touch his arm and pulled Donatien towards his massive body. As if he were a fly and not a man who outweighed him by several pounds of muscle, Donatien swatted at his hand. “Let me look around first.”

The fighter chuckled and released him. “Sure, you won’t find anything interesting.”

Donatien wasn’t looking for interesting. He was looking for dangerous. It was his turn to think about extortion and blackmail.

There were pictures on the wall of the man’s extended family, what appeared to be a brother and several nieces. If he was a criminal, he was either very dull to keep images of his loved one so close, or very keen to have faked a family. It was much more likely, he was just a blue-collar factory man who won fights in his off hours. After all, Donatien had found him by chance.

“Think I’m hiding bodies somewhere?”

“It’s ever-so-likely.” Donatien answered. He leaned his head into the bedroom. This room was very clean; no trace of clothing on the floor. Not like in the living room with the pants folded on the coffee table and the shirt hanging on the edge of the couch. It seemed Mitchetti’s habit was to strip down in the living room, work out and then spend the rest of the night in his shorts.

The pugilist came closer to him again and this time, very boldly grabbed Donatien’s hips and pressed his body close. “You found my favorite place to entertain visitors.”

Donatien nudged his shoulder to push the man back and sure enough the giant receded at once, afraid of abusing his strength. Donatien respected that instinct. He did not possess it, but it was a noble trait in others.

Mitchetti said, “You can be very cold for a fellow that walks up to strangers asking for sex.”

“Oh, yes. I’m like a stick of ice. A narrow glacier. Do you live alone?”

“Very.” The pugilist answered.

Donatien glanced around the bathroom, which as cluttered and messy with rags and bandages and balms for bruises and cuts. He lied, as he saw nothing that was unexpected. “My previous lover had a wife and a child who returned to their father unexpectedly in the middle of the act.”

“Don’t have neither of those that I know of,” the man chuckled.

Donatien watched the man rub his neck and glance around his own house, thinking possibly about what the small space said about its owner, thinking perhaps, about how much of himself was visible in his home.

Donatien turned to face the pugilist. “Good to know.”

“Are you satisfied?” Mitchetti’s fingers flexed at his thighs as if he were trying hard to not touch something that would pain him to touch.

“That you live alone, certainly.” Donatien leaned against the wall, smiling pleasantly. The ice melting out of his body in the smooth gesture. “Otherwise, not at all. But I’m certain you will see that.”

The pugilist grinned and his hands reached out. Thick hands wrapped around Donatien’s forearms holding him as if Donatien were going to try to escape. This time when they touched it was not fire meeting ice and flinching. It was the hiss of steam.

Did Frank Mitchetti have such poetic notions? Donatien imagined this fellow’s internal monologue was more akin to “stick your prick in this prick’s ass. Show him what the uncivil poor can do.” But even that, Donatien thought, was too alliterative, with too many words.

Donatien stopped thinking metaphors and word play and internal dialog when the pugilist kissed him. His kiss had the coppery taste that Donatien guessed was blood. It started as a combative kiss, a rough covering of his mouth, but when Donatien lifted his hands to Mitchetti’s forearms, gripping tight, the kiss gentled and the lips became slower and gentler asking permission. A light tap on his mouth, then another. Donatien pursed his lips and tapped back, grinning between kisses, denying the man any real passionate kisses.

Mitchetti grunted and his hands moved up Donatien’s forearms to the buttons of his waistcoat. Then Donatien remembered it was not a waistcoat. It was an ordinary vest. It fit tightly and he was wearing a long linen shirt as he would in court, but this vest was not cut the way a waist coat would be. It fell open in the fighter’s hands too easily.

“I have visions of you riding me wearing only this vest,” Mitchetti crooned in his ear, his voice deep and low. It reminded Donatien of a steam train he’d once ridden. Particularly of the man covered with coal shoveling deep shovels of the black rock into the furnace of the fire, that roar and the gravel that came from the man’s throat was the same as this man’s.

“Are you often prophetic?” Donatien asked. “You could turn that into a very good paycheck in some places.”

The pugilist chuckled, but did not answer. He continued kissing at Donatien’s neck, light plucking touches on his throat.

Donatien closed his eyes appreciating the tenderness of the mouth, the persuasiveness of his lips. Here was a man with talent. Donatien reached into his back pocket and pulled out the little tin that served to hold his precious documents and one other thing tonight; a small machine the size of a stick of gum with a tiny needle. It was only to sample blood, a test for diseases. Mitchetti was too invested in kissing to notice anything in Donatien’s hands even when Donatien wrapped his hands around the big man’s body, pushed his fingers underneath the man’s shirt.

He was about to stab him, a tiny needle prick stab; a man as callous to pain as a fighter might not even feel it. Donatien thought about poisons, nanotech, all those genetically engineered viruses. Hundreds of ways he could be killing the man with this little prick.

Donatien leaned closer, pressing against the man’s thick chest and licking at his ear, shriveled and hardened by repeated blunt trauma. Then when the man was shuddering with arousal, Donatien pressed the needle into the small of the fighter’s back.

He felt the sting and jolted. For a moment, all Donatien saw was that huge fist coming towards his face, then the other hand gripped Donatien’s slip of a wrist and jerked up the needle to see it.

The speed of his reaction, the power of it made Donatien lightheaded with desire. He was helpless before that raw physical power.

Mitchetti saw the innocuous machine, its purpose, and gave a growling sigh to approval. “You ought to warn a fella. If I’d a hit you…”

“It would serve me right.” Donatien wondered how he could possible explain away a black-eye and a broken wrist to the prince without admitting to this clandestine adventure. The device flashed green. “You’re clean, but you probably knew that. Do I need to stick myself?”

The pugilist shook his head and reached from Donatien again. “I’m old fashioned that way. You carrying it. all the proof I need.”

Donatien tucked the test back into his tin wallet and continued to tease Mitchetti by tickling his back and neck, rubbing against his leg, but never allowing him the deep kiss the pugilist was fighting for. Donatien glided his hands down over the man’s chest rubbing over the dirty t-shirt and then lightening his pressure over the bulge in the man’s jeans. He moved his fingers lightly around it, as if they were in a public place and he could not do more.

He imagined the sentiment “Fuck this pansy-assed tease” flashed in the pugilist’s thoughts, right before the man pushed Donatien hard against the wall behind him. Donatien’s shoulder brushed against a photograph frame when he maneuvered his hands to open the pugilist’s trousers. It was made of some coarse fabric, a rough corduroy or patterned denim. Mitchetti ground his hips closer, trapping Donatien’s hands between their bodies, making the fabric scrap against Donatien’s fingers. Still Donatien persisted.

His reward was a hot hard shaft, thicker than he’d expected, much fuller than in the changing room. He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall between the bedroom and the bathroom, just feeling the cock pulsing in his hand and the lips at his neck.

Mitchetti groaned and clutched his waist harder when Donatien squeezed. He thought about what it would feel like with that girth slamming inside of him. No time for gentle kisses on his neck then. Just heat and weight and the pain and pleasure of another man’s cock in his ass. Taking him, owning him.

Then Donatien opened his fingers barely holding the impressive rod, tickling the swollen tip and eager balls. Back to tormenting. Mitchetti grunted and rocked his hips, thrusting his cock back and forth, trying to fuck Donatien’s open palm.

“You’re a god-damned tease,” the man complained and pushed him away, pinning him against the wall.

He groped at the white linen and Donatien helped him loosening his tight trousers. Mitchetti’s hands moved up his torso under the loose tunic to hungrily squeeze his sides and chest and the man kissed him again. This time, Donatien let the kiss count. He parted his lips and invited the hungry man’s tongue inside. He felt the breath sucked from his chest when the combination of the other man’s strong grip and his insistent kisses made it difficult to breathe. Donatien squeezed his fingers, stroking the shaft in his hand again and Mitchetti rewarded him with another groan and more kisses on his throat.

Donatien’s mind drifted to another man’s mouth on his neck, a smaller prick in his hand. His highness, the prince, haunting him again. All beauty and grace, possessive even of toys he did not play with. Cruel enough to spend hours teasing.

He felt his trousers fall, leather creaking down under Mitchetti’s hands and he regarded them with detached interested. He gave the same attention to the pugilist. These weren’t his real clothing and this wasn’t his real lover. He was Donatien Marcoux and this was some boy named Luke being kissed by a prize fighter. Some boy named Luke with his pants around his ankles. Some boy named Luke being groped between the legs.

Mitchetti, not a particularly dull person after all, noticed. “What are you dreaming up, prince?”

Donatien stiffened with a moment of fear. Then steeled his heart and asked coolly. “Why would you call me that?

“Because,” Mitchetti ran his fingers over the fine linen of the tunic. “You might as well be to a fella like me.”

Before Donatien could respond, the big man’s fingers squeezed around his cock deftly. Earning a thick groan from his lover.

Mitchetti whispered more gently than a man with such an accent and such a bruised-up face should. “I’ve got no right even looking at a man like you, let alone touching you.”

Donatien stroked a hand over the fighter’s head, curving his fingers around the man’s malformed ear and tracing down to his jaw. “Not any kind of nobility, just a merchant’s son.”

“You don’t think they’re the same thing this far up?” The man answered.

Donatien had no answer; he had thought there was a difference. That even the very poor needed true nobility to be hidden from them.

Mitchetti gripped Donatien’s hips, rubbing his fingers over his bared skin. Then he groped his ass, spreading his cheeks, and kneading his muscles. “What do you think of me holding you against this wall and fucking you, prince? Never meet another man strong enough to do it.”

Donatien grinned, doubting the truth of the statement. “With the bedroom so close?”

The pugilist drew slightly away, seeming to be caught off guard. As if that phrase had never failed him before. He recovered with a leering smile. “There’s time for the bedroom later.”

“Yes,” Donatien said. His hands had fallen lamely on the man’s shoulders, fingers grazing over the unclean cotton t-shirt. “When I ride you wearing nothing but my vest.”

Mitchetti tilted his head, confusion written all over his face. He could not reconcile Donatien’s cool mocking tone with his own desire, with the promises Donatien had whispered to him in the volex and the bold proposition in his private changing room. He was a man who was used to enthusiastic lovers, or nervous ones overwhelmed by lust and loneliness ready to agree to anything, not to jaded wits looking for distraction.

Donatien smiled at his concern, at the respect the pugilist gave consent. Donatien said, “Poor man, I’ve been very cruel. I’ll be kinder now. Then, you must take me any way you like.”

As he spoke, Donatien dropped to his knees. Mitchetti let out an agreeable hum. Donatien could feel the tension relaxing as he took the man’s cock in his mouth. He tasted like a working man, like a peasant, sweaty and musky, a man caught unprepared by someone wanting him. But he had a noble cock and Donatien intended to treat it with the reverence it deserved. It was too wide and too long for Donatien to take it all. So he licked and sucked at the tip, while he stroked his fingers up the long shaft. He moved down the root, slowly and suckled gently at the fighter’s large low-hanging balls. The prince had waxed every part of himself smooth, so this experience of sweat and cottony musk was entirely different. Not unpleasant.

Donatien reveled in it, bathing the other man’s cock with his tongue and lips. Plucking kisses at the head until the man groaned, desperate for more. Donatien liked how vocal the man was, how much he seemed to enjoy Donatien’s experienced mouth. He wrapped his lips around the shaft again, stretching his mouth wide and bobbing his head up and down. He couldn’t get more than half way down until the pugilist put his hands in Donatien’s hair and pushed his head down.

Mitchetti had thick and calloused hands and they tangled in Donatien’s hair. The softness of his hair caught in the scratches and roughness of the pugilist’s hands.

“You’ve got such nice pretty hair,” the pugilist groaned, tugging it a little, even as he pumped more of his cock into Donatien’s mouth. “Nice pretty mouth. Looks good wrapped around that pole. Ever had a pole that big, sir?”

Donatien lifted his eyes to the man. No was the truth. Not the prince’s and none of the other men the prince made him pleasure. He would have smiled to indicate his approval either of the man’s great cock or his ironic title, but there was no room in his mouth and the pugilist wasn’t giving him room to back away.

“Suck it all down, sir,” Mitchetti said without the trace of a command in his voice. A kind of egging on, a ring-side taunt, a I’ll-bet-you-can’t-do-it-because-you’re-weak tone.

Donatien took another few inches and felt the throbbing head threatening the back of his throat. Donatien groaned with pleasure and Mitchetti soothed his hands over his hair, petting him gently and giving him the room to move back, take a quick breath, and bob back down.

Mitchetti groan with pleasure and he whispered, “oh that’s good.”

Donatien kept it up for a few minutes, feeling the throb and swell of the other man’s cock stretching his lips until his jaw ached. Then the man’s hands took his hair again pulling him again, urging him faster, deeper. Unable to breath, Donatien fought his way out of the fighter’s hand and the man receded at once. His big, broken-knuckled fingers poised above Donatien’s head as if afraid of him.

Donatien looked up at him and smiled. He’d been kinder. Now the man could take him however he wanted, he’d promised as much. He wondered what Mitchetti would do, if he’d take him up on his offer. He fancied he didn’t look very regal kneeling on the floor, cheeks flushed and eyes wide and uplifted. He probably looked innocent.

The pugilist smiled down at him and then took half a step into the bathroom and emerged with a half-empty bottle of petroleum jelly. Donatien wondered how it had gotten half-empty—it was a large tub—then he remembered the man’s cauliflower ear. While Donatien remained on his knees the pugilist flipped open the lid and slicked a gob of the pearl-yellow stuff on his hand, then onto his cock. Donatien watched as the shaft slick with his drying saliva began to gleam with the lubricant.

Mitchetti put the jelly onto a nightstand in his bedroom and Donatien began to stand. Before he had even half rose, the pugilist took him by the arms and lifted, lifted him past his feet and pinned him against the wall, holding him higher than Mitchetti’s head. His pants which had seemed so tight on his thighs slipped down over his calves and took his shoes with them to the floor.

“Put your legs around my waist,” Mitchetti commanded.

Donatien smiled, the fighter had figured out his secret. Donatien obeyed the command, wrapping his bare legs around the man’s thick waist. He was firmly pinned to the wall by the pugilist’s chest and one hand. He hissed as Mitchetti impatiently pushed two jelly smeared fingers past the nervous clenching of his pucker. The pain of intrusion left quickly replaced by the slick easy entrance of the two fingers. They thrust faster until Donatien was wriggling against the wall and clutching to the man’s neck.

Then, with about the same warning, Donatien had given him before stabbing him with the blood sampler, the fingers were gone and Mitchetti’s cock was pushing into him. He gritted his teeth forcing himself to be silent as he felt the pain spearing him. No matter how well stretched he’d felt, two fingers were not the same as this man’s cock. He dropped his head against the wall and tried to exhale slowly, but found the breath escaped him in a fast wince.

The pugilist nibbled at his neck. It would leave a bruise the next day, Donatien was certain. He wondered if the prince would notice, but he could not force himself to care right now. Not with Mitchetti’s hands gripping hard at Donatien’s thighs and ass to support him against the wall. Not with his low gravelly voice crooning something soft and reassuring. The only thing Donatien could focus on was the cock pulsing into him. Deeper and deeper until finally he felt the course fabric of the pugilist’s trousers and the bristle of his pubic hair.

Donatien hung on the man, his legs tight around his waist and his arms tighter around his neck and shoulders. His entire body curled towards Mitchetti.

“How about it, sir?” the pugilist asked. “Still want that bedroom?”

Donatien didn’t have time to quip back at him before Mitchetti in one smooth movement lifted him higher and pulled his hips back. For a moment, Donatien felt empty and relieved, then the man’s cock was back. Donatien grunted with the return and gasped to get his breath again.

The pugilist repeated this gesture, lifting Donatien then pulling him down. Always groaning with pleasure and gradually Donatien acclimated to the thrusting and braced himself against the wall to push back, to help his new lover in his relentless drive towards orgasm. Donatien panted his encouragements and gripped his neck and back. He could see why the pugilist liked this particular position; it gave his lovers the chance to marvel at his strength and appreciate the ripple of his muscles and the smooth fluidity of his strength. Certainly it was nothing the prince could have done.

Donatien could see Mitchetti was close to coming. The way his words turned to a frothy groan, the way he burrowed his head into Donatien’s neck, the fury of his thrusts, and the tension in his shoulders. When he came, he arched back and Donatien lifted away from the wall. Donatien worried briefly about falling, that the man in his ecstasy would forget to hold him and he would fall, but instead Mitchetti leaned his weight into him and pinned him even more securely to the wall, banging the photographs beside them as he hammered, finishing himself off. Donatien clutched at his head, kissing his forehead, cheek, and ear, until the man was still.

Then Donatien said, quietly, imitating the man’s particular dialect expertly. “How about that bedroom now, sir?”

Mitchetti lifted his head and grinned hearing his own words and his own accent, then without another word yanked Donatien away from the wall and carried him into the bedroom. Donatien had not been expecting it, but gripped him tightly and remained aloft until the pugilist plunked him down like so many sacks of potatoes on the edge of the bed.

Mitchetti continued his path to the floor and knelt between Donatien’s legs. Donatien smiled as the pugilist, without any hesitation or fooling around started sucking his cock.

Donatien wove his fingers through the man’s hair, thin and short so that there was nothing to grab and hold onto. He didn’t need anything to hold onto. He was neither as insistent as the pugilist had been, nor did he need to be as pushy. The man took all of him easily, and enthusiastically sucked at his shaft. It didn’t take long for Donatien to come either, exploding out into the man’s mouth. He meant to warn him, but forgot in his pleasure. He supposed he was selfish that way, but the pugilist didn’t seem to mind.

By the time, Donatien relaxed completely into the delirium of orgasm, the pugilist was aroused again. Donatien only smiled when the man lifted him and pulled him up higher on the bed. He wrapped his hands lazily around the pugilist’s arms as the man kissed his neck, then slowly entered him again.

* * * * *

When the sun was rising, Donatien found himself straddling the pugilist, wearing nothing but his vest. He wondered as he churned up and down on Mitchetti’s unquenchable cock, if he’d ever manage to sneak out of the prince’s keeping again. If the prince had already noticed he was gone. If this was the last sunrise he’d ever see outside dungeon walls. He kept a steady rhythm, driving his lover mad with desire, and tried to hold this moment in his mind and memory forever. Something of his own to hold in the dark, a pugilist’s muttered kindnesses and the rising sun.

“Too bad you didn’t bring a camera, prince.” Mitchetti chuckled up at him, grinning and seeing through him as he had often through the night.

“Nothing special about a sunrise.” Donatien shrugged.

Mitchetti lost interest in his slow and leisurely pace and took Donatien by the hips to roll him down to his back. This time, Donatien took his prick in his hand. He held back until the pugilist was coming and allowed himself to come only when his lover emptied another thick load into his ass. In an entire night together, it was the first time, he’d let them come together.

* * * * *

Donatien left the pugilist sleeping, which was all for the best. Sometime during one of their brief fits of rest, the man had started talking nonsense about meeting again in the future. Donatien couldn’t even remember the false name he’d given the fighter, but he wouldn’t soon forget the man.

Donatien was still smiling when he started falling asleep in the rented volex. It would drive him back into the prince’s stables under the earth and his alarm would wake him. Then he’d sneak back into his tower room and the volex would pilot itself back to the rental station and no one would ever know Donatien Marcoux had ever been above ground without the prince.

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We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars. –Oscar Wilde

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