Reluctant groom, p.1
Reluctant Groom, page 1
Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2021 Evernight Publishing
ISBN: 978-0-3695-0365-7
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: Audrey Bobak
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
October Surprise by L.J. Longo
Sins of the Father by Hannah Morse
Protecting Chauncey by Cooper McKenzie
Making It Real by Marie Medina
Worth the Risk by Allyson Young
Not So Sham Wedding by Megan Slayer
Room with a View by James Cox
OCTOBER SURPRISE
L.J. Longo
Copyright © 2021
Chapter One
A blackmail letter sneaks onto my desk in early spring. I’m on a call with a local school board member who needs to be reminded he’s essential, and I open my mail with indifference until the handwritten lettering peeks through. Chisel-tip marker, quite beautiful, if I’m honest. I look at the envelope again—good forgery of City Hall’s seal.
The message reads: I know your secret. When we meet, you’ll give me what I want. No questions asked.
The fellow from the school board pauses, so I mirror enough of what he’s said to make him continue on.
There’s a tiny part of me that’s pleased to receive a blackmail letter as the mayor of a mid-sized city. Death threats, I’d grown accustomed to during quarantine two years ago. But to be blackmailed … that’s proper validation.
The greater part of me is confused. Do I have a secret worthy of extortion? I’ve spoken openly, though not frequently, about my sexuality. I’m not exactly proud of my time in the Army, but there’s nothing to publicly shame me. As far as I know, I’ve never been successfully bribed. Maybe something from before. Before the military. Before my political ambitions.
Sunshine will know which of our old friends sent this.
I return the letter to its envelope, tuck it into my jacket pocket, and focus on my phone call.
After I’ve soothed the school board official, I sit in the silence. City Hall is a tomb after hours, a pristine echoing place, especially my office. The clean empty walls are cool and crisp as snow.
The last time I talked to Sunshine—not so much talking as moaning and panting, if I’m honest—I hadn’t returned his calls. He knew I wouldn’t. I’m the mayor of a mid-sized city, aiming to be governor, and he was … is … a strange kid. Feral, lawless, but not in a mean way. Boy’s heart is pure gold, just … unpredictable. He’s magic to kiss, heaven to hold, and impossible to keep. For me, anyway. Someone with less ambition and a softer heart might tame him. But he’s too fragile for my strength, too odd for my world.
Still, he answers the phone when I call. As usual, he doesn’t speak first.
“Sunshine, it’s me.”
“Who?”
“William Duluth.”
“Naw, it ain’t.”
I smile to spite myself. “It’s Whim, then.”
“Shame on you, Whim, forgetting yourself.”
Considering the blackmail letter filling my pocket, is there shame in forgetting what deserves to be forgotten? “I’m glad you remember me. How’ve you been, son?”
Sunshine bucks against the small talk. “What color’s the sky where you are?”
“Black.” Then I look out the window and consider the darkest part of this southern sunset. The springtime heat floats in a haze above the asphalt. Rows of city-approved palmettos and oaks sway in the glow of streetlights, and the skyscrapers hemming in the historic district reflect the peaceful twilight. The glowing dome of City Hall dims the stars. “Hazy gray.”
“I’ve been where the sky is purple in the night.”
“You outside the city?”
“Yup. Just ’cross the river. I like your town, Mayor Whim.”
His endorsement means more to me than a dozen donors. “Proud to hear that. Listen, I’d like to—”
“Where and when?”
“Sunshine, you don’t even know why I’m calling.”
“You sound lonely.” I bet he’s smiling to hide his own aloneness. “You know I’ll keep you out of trouble.”
In more ways than one. “Nothing has changed, son. If I’m honest—”
“I know it.” He has no patience for my defenses.
“Let’s—as a thought experiment—keep it professional. Set some boundaries.”
He laughs at my attempt. “Come and fuck me, Whim.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, frustrated by his transparency and by the excited energy zipping through my spine. “I’d rather meet in public.”
“How’d that work last time?”
Last time. Winter. He’d worn a pink scarf from a street vendor, a long trench coat, and— I learned when he’d sauntered into my condo later—nothing else. The brightness of cheap cashmere on his mysterious dark skin … the platinum blond cloud of his shoulder-length afro … the memory burns my blood.
“It was a good effort.”
“We know how this goes, Whim. It’s like playing with matches in a pile of newspapers.”
Or a flamethrower in a weapons bunker.
“Come on over and start a fire.”
****
His apartment is a converted factory—one of my administration’s infrastructure projects. The hallways reek of weed and air freshener, but his apartment smells like lemon, coconut oil, and the cheap take-out Chinese he’s ordered. The entry wall has a mural of a tree, with spoons and paint splatters to serve as leaves. The bent spoons support his hats, purses, at least one cape, and my outer jacket.
“Take off your shoes, darling.”
Sunshine, an “urban scavenger,” surrounds himself with trash he’s refurbished into treasure. That ex-pallet shines as a table. Those curtains and couch cushions are a rainbow of rags. The broken glass of a hundred bottles finds new polished life when sanded down and glued together as lamps. The whole room is an intricate pattern of restoration. A narrative of salvation in a visual language I can’t read.
“Does your landlord know about this mural?” I stand out in my pressed suit and my black socks. The solidness of my age and stoicism doesn’t belong with his vibrancy.
“I do her taxes, fix the plumbing, and promised to repaint the wall when I left. She don’t mind.” Sunshine sinks into the patches of his couch like a prince. Stretching from the cuffs of surprisingly clean jeans, his bare toes shine with silver nail polish. That ridiculously masculine belt buckle is only visible because he’s tucked in the front of the oversized woman’s knit shirt falling off his shoulder. His dark skin and gold necklaces peek through the cotton chains of the summer-sweater. Tonight, his hair hangs in a waterfall of platinum micro-braids framing his dark eyes and his darker eyeliner.
But it’s the light of his smile that burns the frost in my heart. I regret every day I’ve lived without his beauty.
The closest I come to admitting this overwhelming love is to say, “Young man, you look dangerously close to respectable. What am I supposed to do with that?”
“I’ll look a lot less respectable when I’m naked. Wanna start there?”
“No.” Half the fun of being with Sunshine is keeping him at bay. I sit in the chair across from him and reach for the take-out. “We can eat first.”
The spoons from the mural are stolen. Paint was “left-over” from his job at the hardware store. I only realize I’m part of the artwork when Sunshine photographs me with his tablet and then kneels on the floor to show me the full series.
I have a vicious, jealous instinct when I see the parade of models who have cycled through his home to provide this “human element.” But Sunshine doesn’t belong to me. Besides, he didn’t sleep with all of them. Probably.
I stand out from the crowd. The most dressed. The oldest. The darkest. Not just in skin tone, but in bearing, in posture, and in the oppressiveness of my suit and tie. Even the bit of silver peppered into my beard’s strict lines and the sleek shine of my bald head gives the impression of stone.
This merging of styles makes no sense to my eyes, but Sunshine wants me to speak. “Great contrast.”
“Yup. This might be my favorite.” Sunshine dreamily studies the image, still kneeling on the floor beside me. “Probably because it’s you.”
I correct. “Probably because it’s the newest.”
Sunshine ignores this. “Maybe the mural is about rediscoverin’ your roots…”
“Rather trite for you.”
“Trite can be true.”
When he props the tablet on the table, his position on the floor becomes sexual. There’s lightning between us that didn’t exist a moment before. Maybe it’s the way he puts his hand on my knee. Maybe it’s the slight shift in his kneeling that brings him directly in front of me. Maybe it’s the pink rhinestones sparkling past the cascade of his braids. He’s wearing girl-jeans bedazzled to display the sumptuous curve of his ass.
Lust dries my mouth and dampens my brow. But when he reaches for my belt, I stop him, “Before we… You don’t happen to be talking
“Ah. That kind of trouble, then?” Sunshine looks at me darkly, annoyed to have such a seamless transition so inartistically interrupted. Then gets to his feet. “You know, I thought that boundary stuff was weird.”
I hand him the blackmail letter from my pocket. “Weird is a good word for this.”
He takes the envelope and drops back onto the couch, reclining with such profoundly sexual petulance I regret interrupting him. One leg dangles toward the floor and the other is bent at the knee, so his legs are spread wide. The denim is so snug on his thigh, the outline of his cock is visible. The redder blackness of his nipples poke through the summer sweater, and he studies the envelope with the mischievous grin of a goblin.
“You don’t know who sent this?”
“No.” I’m surprised. “Is it obvious?”
“I guess not.” He tosses the envelope next to the uneaten rice. He shifts—no poses—more purposefully. “I thought you were just here for a piece of ass.”
“Well, it’s a magnificent piece of ass.” I can’t tell if I want him to open the envelope or get on his knees again.
I know he won’t do either when he flips on his back and stares at the ceiling. “Whim, did you know science still don’t have a functional definition of time?”
“You’ve been rereading Saint Augustine?”
“Science section of The Times, actually. My library just got a shit-ton of back issues.”
I roll with it, my attention partly on the unopened note, partly on his cock. Sometimes with Sunshine, it’s best to operate on his whim.
His whim quickly returns to sex. I don’t resist the sweet smolder in his gaze. We know how this goes. He’s the one to be hurt, but it was his choice to invite me over—his choice to wander toward me, to stroke the side of my face, to look steadily into my eyes.
These moments of blinding intimacy terrify me. Someday, one will burn me alive. Every time I look into those honey-gold eyes, I’m confident the moment of destruction is upon me.
Then he kisses me. His lips taste like duck sauce and lipstick. His fingertips are thin and calloused on my face. His sigh is eager, then desperate. Lust melts to my core, threatens to boil over.
But it never warms my voice. “How far do you want this to go, son?”
He chuckles enigmatically. “You’ll know if it’s gone too far.”
My boy is easy. Always has been. Always will be. Easy to get into his pants, no matter how tight the denim. Easy to toss him onto the couch. Easy to get his cock in my mouth.
He sings his pleasure, gasps for air, strokes his chest underneath that chaste summer-sweater while I tease his shaft with my tongue. I slip a finger between his cheeks. He’s tried to prepare. Cute. His fingers are small compared to mine, and he didn’t use nearly enough lube to make it easy for him to take my cock. But it’s the thought we count, right?
He comes quickly, without much fuss. I keep working his ass while he moans until he spreads his supple brown legs around me. He silently begs me with that bliss-glazed trust.
Christ, he’s so fuckable.
And I haven’t even loosened my tie.
I have every intention of carrying him to his bedroom. It’s the kind of gratuitous display of power and romance he likes, and I’m not so old I can’t rag-doll his skinny ass around. I have enough self-control not to fuck my boy raw on his couch, no matter how easy he makes it.
But Sunshine sees my gaze wandering over his body. Sees how I drink in his beauty. Just to tempt me, he tugs the white sweater over his concave belly. The bottom front hem, formerly tucked into his girl-jeans, is embroidered as prettily as a prayer sampler. The bright red thread reads, please, fuck me like the slut I am.
“So much for respectable.” I shake my head.
He opens my trousers. “Dangerously close, though.”
“I spoke too soon.” I brace my hand on the couch. Then watch him lead my cock out of my pants and into his mouth.
For a while, I let him tease me, let him gobble and lick as he sees fit. But when I make him, he takes it all, shivering as he strains. He’ll happily swallow if I fuck his mouth until I come. I know it by the way he gazes up at me while my cock disappears past his stretched lips. He’d be just as happy if I came all over his face … ruined that pretty, filthy sweater.
But he’s happiest when I pull my cock free and command. “Turn over.”
He nods and obeys. So easy.
I press just the tip into his hole, then let him do the rest. He wiggles and whimpers because he’s not prepared enough but pushes back until my head is inside. He grunts and hisses, a glorious melody, as he slowly impales himself on my cock. It startles me, as it always does, how much pain he’s willing to endure for my pleasure.
Sunshine clenches and flinches around my shaft as he gyrates faster and harder beneath me. His hair sizzles against the couch as he fucks himself.
I control my desire, don’t let the intensity overwhelm me, because I know if I wait … if I can hold out … if I can be patient and gentle with him…
Sunshine smiles over his shoulder with his blond braids in his dark eyes. Just a small, slight leer. His little dance beneath me, in and out and around, is easy now. That smile is the invitation to take all I want, to utterly destroy him if I can.
Which I do.
****
Sometime after midnight, I must have carried him to the pile of foam and blankets he insists is a proper mattress because I wake with a numb arm and my lover asleep on me. A million years ago, when I was this idiot’s age, I might have slept through the night like that. But in the half-darkness of his apartment, I remember the mayor shouldn’t be taking the walk of shame. I need to shower and change my tie, at the very least. What had I been thinking coming to this boy on a weeknight—
“Oh, shit…”
Sunshine laughs. “You just remember you’re being blackmailed?”
He made it so easy to forget. Lying there, gorgeously. Arms over his head, braids splayed around him like a halo in the dim streetlight. My little well-fucked angel.
I stroke his hair. “I know I probably distracted you, but … I don’t suppose you found time to give it more thought?”
He grins like a creature from myth, half-divine, half-demon. Something feral and sensual, but also wonderfully gentle and wickedly amused. “Between the soul-shattering orgasms and dealin’ with your cock? Naw, man, can’t say that I have.”
My clothes generally fell off in this room. “We’ll have to meet for lunch then.”
“You know.” He puts a hand on my shoulder but utterly fails to hold me. “Sometimes one-night stands actually stay the night. There’s no law that says you have to leave right away.”
I check my watch. It’s nearly three in the morning. “What’s that Aunt Phinney used to say? Nice girls don’t stay for breakfast.”
“Y’ain’t a nice girl,” Sunshine accuses, then cuddles into his pillow. “Come on, Whim. Please, stay.”
It’s the most direct he’d ever been. The kid is getting old enough to realize the expense of cheap thrills. Maybe I could ask him to more than lunch. Maybe—heaven forbid—I could actually date him. I’m not closeted after all. Gina, my campaign manager, agrees being more open would only help my image.
I study Sunshine smiling through his white braids, sinking into his too-soft bed. In the streetlights’ glow, I can make out the line of tattoos on his arm, the bruise I’ve left on his shoulder. An ancient longing cuts my heart, and—mostly out of habit—I shut it down.
Nothing about this well-fucked angel can help my image.
“No. But let’s not be strangers.”
“I hate the phrase. You can’t become a stranger.”
“Let’s have lunch at Kelsey’s tomorrow. Noon. Across from City Hall. It’s not fair for me to only call you when I get blackmailed.”
“Or need a piece of ass.”
