Page 11 of View From the Bottom

Rocco continued licking himself, unaffected, blithely unaware of Enzo’s presence. Lucky bastard.

“Stevie,” Enzo started, then paused, then started again, his tone easing slightly. “Is everything alright?”

He must have noticed my unease, my inability to move, to speak. I had to respond or he’d think I was having a stroke. I hadto say something or do something or slam my eyes shut and just hope to the gods above that I would disintegrate into thin air, a smoky mélange of captive blackbirds taking my place, finding their freedom as they desperately flapped away in a cloud of dust.

At some point, I realized I had no way out. I was going to have to fess up to what I had done, say goodbye to Rocco, hand Enzo the key to his house, and be on my pitiful way, feeling humiliated and inferior. With any luck, I’d never bump into him in the neighborhood.

“Uh…” I stammered. “Yeah. Sorry, I was just… uh…”

“Stevie,” he interrupted, repeating my name for what felt like the tenth time.

“Yeah?” I finally turned, ashamedly glancing up to meet his eye, feeling the need to answer his every question, to obey him.

Fuck, he had only gotten hotter since I first met him. He’d hardly changed from what I remembered, but he suddenly had an authoritative quality about him. This time the slacks he wore were charcoal gray and his button-up lavender. His frame filled everything out nicely. His hair was cut short and purposefully mussed, the thick strands in front almost forming a widow’s peak on his tanned forehead. He still had the five o’clock shadow and pulled it off well, giving him the effortless look of a sexy daddy, salt and pepper still decorating his face.

He couldn’t have been any older than fifty, no younger than forty. Slight creases pulled at the corners of his eyes. It was the first time I’d really looked at him, seeing him as a man instead of just a client.

He stood still in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, his head cocked to the side, a modest smile pulling at his lips. A slight bulge tented the front of his slacks. Was he hard or were his pants just too tight? Both things were reasonably possible. Atwinge of intrigue appeared on that modest smile. “You probably shouldn’t be going through people’s dirty laundry.”

Did he mean that figuratively or literally? In that situation, either definition could have applied. He spoke to me like a child. I guess I deserved it.

“I swear… it’s the first time. I’ve never…”

He chuckled. A shy grin finally rested atop his rugged jawline as I choked on my words, struggling to explain what I had been doing and why.

“Look,” Enzo interrupted. “I’m not mad.”

“You’re not gonna fire me?”

“No!” He said it emphatically, as if I were crazy for even asking.

A sigh of relief escaped me and I felt my shoulders finally relax. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I’ll just get out of here and let you enjoy your weekend.”

I scurried around the bed and tried to squeeze past him in the doorway. He didn’t budge, forcing me to turn myself toward him to slide by sideways. He had five inches, forty pounds, and probably twenty years on me, and I suddenly felt like a child even without him speaking to me like one. As I passed by him, my crotch grazed his thigh. There was no way he didn’t feel my erection trapped in my shorts.

He suddenly turned to face me in the doorway. The expression on his face was hard to read as I glanced up into his eyes. It didn’t appear that he was angry, but more like some deviant streak had suddenly overtaken him, as though he’d been struck by lightning and the shock had unlocked a hidden desire in him, one that was driven by sexual hunger. Only, it was tempered by uncertainty, like it was the first time he’d been in this situation and he wasn’t exactly sure how to proceed.

“Or…” Enzo reached out and apprehensively grabbed my cock through my shorts, as if he were trying to confirm I was actually aroused. “Youcould help me enjoy my weekend.”

Holy shit. Was this actually happening? I’d hooked up with plenty of guys in the past, but typically, I met them at bars while we were both on the prowl. It had never happened like this before. Never with a client. And the sex was usually pretty vanilla. Never had a guy caught me going through his laundry, sniffing his jockstrap, and then invited me to help him get off.

My voice cracked as I spoke. “That’s what you want?”

“Yeah,” he admitted through a cute, crooked grin. His hand was still on my cock and he gave it a quick squeeze, causing me to flex and expand in his grip. “Is it whatyouwant?”

I quickly nodded my head. My mouth had gone dry. My throat had constricted. But I was finally able to speak with a feigned sense of confidence. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Enzo started, giving my cock another squeeze. “Then don’t go.”

My dick throbbed in his grasp and my mouth finally started to water. I wasn’t sure exactly what to do or how to proceed.

“Rocco,” he called, his eyes never leaving mine, his hand never leaving my crotch. “Living room.”

Rocco, acknowledging Enzo for the first time since he’d arrived home, jumped from his bed and squeezed between our legs before traipsing down the hallway and into the living room, probably to find a comfortable spot to sleep on the couch.

Enzo guided us into his bedroom, shutting the door behind us and stopping just short of the side of his bed. The room was quiet, and the French doors leading out to the back deck situated steps from the foot of the bed flooded the room with light. The backyard was fenced in for privacy. Leafy shrubs, tropical plants, and whimsical, towering rods of bamboo grew wild, not allowing for views from the neighbors if they’d tried. We were alone inhis house. In his room. But I didn’t feel trapped. I was nervous but not scared. Enzo was in control but he wasn’t aggressive. At least, not in a way I didn’t want him to be.

The smirk I glimpsed hidden beneath the surface on his otherwise stormy face gave me comfort. He was just as nervous about this as I was, but someone had to take control or we would have simply stared at each other until we died, our erections straining against our clothes, annoyed by our inability to act on our desires.

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