Page 16 of The Jock
“I think you could give me some shots of protein another way.”
Justin went fuchsia, and he turned into Wes’s chest, smothering a smile as he ran his fingers down Wes’s flat stomach. “I already calculated that into your daily nutrition.”
They made dinner that night, a simple chicken-and-pasta dish with garlic bread. For the first time since he’d arrived in Paris, Wes was full—after eating a pound each of chicken and pasta, along with a whole baguette. He was like a bear entering hibernation, warm and sated and happy, enjoying the breeze coming through the window, half a bottle of wine in his veins. And enjoying the sight of Justin across the little bar top they were eating at, his chin in his hand as he swirled the wine in his glass, smiling with the sun on his face.
Wes tried to thank Justin by doing the dishes while Justin typed emails on his phone, keeping in touch with his family and friends. He wrapped a dish towel around Justin’s eyes when he was done, then dropped to his knees and gave Justin a slow, sloppy blow job. Justin gripped his short hair and thrust into Wes’s mouth, hips shuddering as Wes tried to mimic what Justin had done to him with his tongue and his throat and the way he twisted his lips over the head of his cock. “I’m sorry,” Justin gasped after he shot down Wes’s throat. “I thought I’d last longer. Jesus, that was too good.”
Wes licked his lips. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”
Justin laughed, pulled Wes up, and kissed him until Wes was dizzy, then put his hands down Wes’s pants, jerking him off as they kept kissing and kissing until Wes spurted into Justin’s hands and whimpered his name, burying his face in Justin’s neck.
They went for walks at night, looking at the sights, sitting at sidewalk cafés to people watch with a bottle of wine or cups of coffee. They went back to the Champ de Mars, where they drank a bottle of champagne and lay on the grass, watching the Eiffel Tower light up every hour. In between light shows, they made out, trading soft kisses as Justin draped himself across Wes’s chest and Wes ran his fingers through his hair.
In the mornings, Justin joined Wes for his runs, and, now that Wes was eating enough, he went back to calisthenics, dropping into squats and lunges and stopping for push-ups and pull-ups as they jogged around the park. When Justin held his ankles so he could pump out a hundred sit-ups, Wes didn’t count a rep official unless he kissed Justin’s lips at the top. Once, Justin lay down beneath Wes when he was doing his push-ups, but Wes only got twenty-seven reps into his set of eighty before he went down and stayed down, wrapping his arms and legs around Justin and kissing him in the dewy dawn.
In class, they only had eyes for each other, and while the rest of the group was going wild over the Riviera or the Alps or gossiping about their trip to Lake Como, Wes called Justinmon coeurandmon amourand doodled two swans on the pages of their workbook. They sat on the quad to eat lunches Justin packed, watching the ducks and the swans float across the pond until Wes got the feed and they came running. Eventually, the ducks learned Wes meant food, and after that they were swarmed as soon as they tried to picnic.
Every night they made love, and each time was different. Justin rode Wes and held his hands, the lights of Paris dipping into the curves of his naked chest, the planes of his trim, tight muscles. He lay on his stomach and Wes spent a half hour eating him out, exploring his hole with lips and tongue, French-kissing him in a whole new way until Justin was a panting, quivering mess. Wes slid inside him then, kissing his way up his spine and the back of his neck to whisper in his ear, “Mon amour, tu as mon coeur pour toujours.”
Other times it was fast and frantic. Too much teasing in class, too much footsie and kissing in the bathroom and holding hands beneath the desk, and when they got back to their room, it was all they could do to get their pants down and shirts off and their bodies together, skin to skin, lips on lips. Wes was an animal in those moments, caging Justin to the mattress or the wall, pushing his body into Justin’s, twining his fingers with Justin’s as he held his hands over his head and pressed their cheeks together. They’d groan, Justin bucking into Wes’s hips, driving himself onto Wes’s cock until Wes slid his hands down to Justin’s waist and took control. They’d both roar when they came, Justin’s seed painting the wall or the sheets or his belly, Wes exploding into the condom. After, Wes always brushed his thumb over Justin’s hip. Always hissed as he pulled out, and kissed between Justin’s shoulders, over his spine.
An idea grew in the back of Wes’s mind, something planted the night they walked back from the school and stopped by the opera house. He had to sneak away during class, duck out to use the restroom and slip down the stairwell to make a call. He fumbled through his questions in French, and the bemused Parisian on the other end patiently explained to him how much tickets were and which seats were the best in the house.
It took three days to apply for the credit card over his phone and then email customer service to say he was studying abroad and was trying to buy ballet tickets. They’d given him a modest line of credit, but it was enough to buy two good tickets toSwan Lake. He spent more than he ever had in his life, but the thought of Justin’s face when he’d touched his fingers to the playbill, and the desire in his eyes, made it all worthwhile.
It was the day before their last long weekend at the school, and he waited until they were eating lunch on the lawn before he pulled out the tickets he’d printed from the university’s computer lab. He passed the folded sheet of paper, wrinkled from being shoved in the pocket of his Wranglers, to Justin. He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing at all. The tickets would say more than he could.
Justin’s eyes boggled as he stared at the printout and then up at Wes. That searching look was back, excavating the deepest parts of Wes, and he wanted to squirm away, but he stayed, let Justin look. Let him see Wes’s slow, hopeful smile. “I thought you might want to go.”
“Might?” Justin blinked. His hand holding the paper shook. “How did you…”
“I opened a credit card.”
“And you want to go to the ballet?” Justin’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead, reached for the puff of his pompadour. “That hardly seems your scene.”
“I’ve never been. I have no idea if it’s my scene or not. But I know you like it, and I want to take you. Can you show me what it’s like the way you see it?”
For a moment he thought Justin was going to cry, and he panicked, thinking he’d miscalculated, done something horribly wrong. He gnawed on his upper lip, trying to come up with an apology. But Justin leaned over and pressed his lips to Wes’s, kissing him on the university quad like they had no cares in the world. “Some days, I don’t believe you’re real,moncowboy.”
“I could say the same about you. I didn’t think anyone could know me the way you do.”
“I think I could spend the rest of my life with you, and you’d still surprise me.” Justin’s gaze was equal parts searching and adoring, like he was appraising a fine piece of art, a priceless wonder they’d stumbled on in the museum. “I think there are whole oceans inside of you.”
Wes smiled and turned his face to the sun. The heat slid under the brim of his hat, warming him to the core. “You can dive into every one.”
“Maybe I will.”
The performance was Friday night, and Justin spent the entire day an excited bundle of energy. He picked out his outfit at lunch, then picked through Wes’s selection of T-shirts and his two pairs of Wranglers before telling him to wear the hunter green Ariat and his darker jeans.
“I’m sorry I don’t have anything nicer.”
“You look amazing no matter what you wear,” Justin said, kissing his cheek as he shaved.
They were the most casually dressed couple at the ballet, mingling in the gilded lobby with women wreathed in silk who hung on the arms of men in suits that were too expensive to even look at. Wes spotted opera gloves and pearls like the flappers used to wear in the Roaring Twenties, and even a real peacock feather in an older woman’s hair comb. But no one bothered them, though there were a few raised eyebrows as he led Justin to the orchestra-level seating. Justin clearly knew how good the center-section seats were, and he squeezed Wes’s hand so hard he thought his bones would snap.
Wes lost himself in the ballet, captivated by the dancers’ muscles rippling and clenching, by their deceptively delicate movements that concealed strength and power rivaling those of the running backs and wide receivers he knew. The ballerinas and danseurs had better vertical leaps than he did, and he’d been considered a favorite for the NFL combine had he chosen to go.
The danseur’s skintight leggings that left nothing to the imagination, outlining every shift and curve of his thighs, his ass, and the heft of his bulge, didn’t hurt.
