Dinner for One (6 page)

A waiter sweeps past him holding a plate of jiggling cake, fruit adorning the frosted top. The waiter sets the plate on the table, and the woman makes several noises of appreciation. “It’s so pretty,” she gushes, phone out to take pictures of it. “I almost feel bad about eating it.” He doesn’t hear what the waiter says, but the woman giggles in response, and her husband looks vaguely amused.

Watching her gives him an idea for how to spend the rest of his time. He unlocks his phone and opens his Instagram (he follows his family and some restaurants but doesn’t have any posts of his own), trying out different usernames until he finds the restaurant—@DansLaVilleNY—and subsequently Bastien’s linked profile: @BastienLaVille. Bastien’s profile is mostly a mix of animals and food. There’s several of a prissy-looking cat spread throughout, and a random spattering of dogs and, oddly enough, horses. The food seems to be random as well. There’re pictures of dishes that are clearly served in the restaurant, but then there’re pictures of a cupcake tray and another of artfully arranged pasta set against a tablecloth that definitely isn’t from here.

There’s the occasional personal photo as well, and James finds himself drawn to them. A few were obviously taken by someone else, with Bastien in profile as he cooked and one with him sacked out on a large gray couch, face mushed into a pillow while a young girl held finger-paint-stained hands over his head. The captions are a mix of English and French, and James manages to while away his remaining time painstakingly typing everything into Google Translate.

Chapter Four

IN EXACTLY
one minute, his hour is up, and Bastien is a nervous wreck. His palms are sweaty, and it feels like the butterflies in his stomach are throwing a rave. Jean claps him on the back. “You should be excited, no?”

“Mostly nervous,” Bastien admits. James is charming and perfect, and Bastien is awkward.

“Don’t do it if you don’t want to,” says Jean, moving him out of the way to get to the freezer.

“I want to,” says Bastien. He really,
really
wants to. He just needs to get a grip.

His minute is up. He takes a deep breath and exits the kitchen before he loses his nerve. James is sitting at the same table, sipping his wine, and it’s probably all in Bastien’s head, but he would swear James’s gaze is smoldering as he looks him up and down.

“Ready to go?” asks James, and Bastien can’t speak, so he just nods.

James stands up, and he’s all long lean lines that are clearly accentuated by his formfitting slacks and his crisp white button-up. He holds his hand out to Bastien, twining their fingers together and swiping his thumb over the back of Bastien’s hand. “If this is too fast…,” he says.

“It’s not,” says Bastien hurriedly. “It’s good.” He doesn’t want to say
I’m sorry, I’m awkward, I know
.

James squeezes his hand reassuringly. “All right. Your place?”

“Yes,” says Bastien, relieved. He’s comfortable in his place, will feel more confident there.

They walk, because it’s New York, and neither of them is crazy enough to own a car. Bastien offers to pay for a cab, but James says no. It’s comfortable for a New York night, and he wants to enjoy it. Bastien thinks he’s giving him time to settle, to lose the edge that’s making him stutter as he talks.

James does most of the talking at first, but after the third block, Bastien can finally manage to speak without tripping on his words. James asks him about where he was born (Montreuil, France) and why he made the move to New York (he was offered a job at an upscale French restaurant in Manhattan). In return Bastien asks what James does (he’s a writer) and where he’s from (San Francisco).

Before he knows it, they’re at his apartment and he’s twisting his key in the lock and letting James inside. He flicks the switch in the entryway, and the lights come on slowly. His calico cat, Chloe, meows loudly from her perch on the couch and promptly flees the room. Her fluffy white and black tail is a blur as it disappears around the corner.

“Friendly cat,” says James.

“She’s not used to strangers,” admits Bastien. He doesn’t normally bring people to his home. He wonders what James thinks of it. It’s on the second floor, and the living and kitchen area are open plan. The kitchen is separated by a low wall on which he has different knickknacks neatly arranged that he’s picked up during his travels. There’s a mask from China, a book from a market in the outer regions of France, a sculpture of a naked man from Italy. Over the wall you can see the kitchen itself, gleaming tile countertops and an island in the center, with cabinets and drawers set into it. His pots hang from a rack over the stove, and his cabinets are all made of cherrywood. He’s glad he thought to do the dishes and put everything away that morning.

His living room is equally clean, for once. His couch is made of worn black suede, and oriented toward the television against the far wall. His TV is on a stand, sitting atop his entertainment center. Inside the drawers are a wide selection of films and games, a jumble of controllers. His coffee table is a low to the ground black one he picked up from IKEA and the only thing on it currently is the copy of
American Gods
he’s been reading. The wall nearest the door has shelves and shelves of books, their worn spines there for all to see.

He shrugs off his gray peacoat and hangs it on the hook by the door. He isn’t sure what do with himself after that. Does he ask James if he wants something to drink? Does he offer to take his coat? Does he lead him to his bedroom?

He decides he’s going to be polite and turns to ask James if he wants a drink, and if he wants Bastien to hang his coat. He’s met with James’s mouth, his lips crashing into his. Before he knows it, he’s pressed against the wall, one of James’s legs slotted between his and his hips rolling as he kisses him back. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. They start out in James’s hair, combing through the thick strands, and then end up on his back, fingers tracing flexing muscles, before finding their way to his ass. It’s a glorious ass, firm and nicely plump, and Bastien can’t resist pulling him in closer by it.

Bastien moans into their kiss, has to tear his mouth away so he can breathe. “Bedroom,” he says on a gasp. He definitely wants to move this to the bedroom.

“In a minute,” says James. “I like you like this.” He emphasizes his words by shoving his thigh up, grinning delightedly as Bastien moans and rides the firm muscle. He kisses him, teasingly tugging on his bottom lip. He licks into his mouth, hands spanning Bastien’s waist, pinning his hips to the wall to keep them from moving too much.

Bastien whines, grips James’s shoulders to try to get some leverage, to shudder his hips back and forth. His cock is pressing against the zipper of his slacks, painfully hard and in need of release. He can feel the wet spot blooming already as he leaks copiously.

James moves back then, and Bastien can’t help but giggle breathlessly when he sees the state of James’s hair. It’s standing on end, rucked up from Bastien’s roving fingers. He reaches up and smooths the mess down, grinning at James. “That’s a good look on you.”

“Right back at you,” says James, smirking as he eyes Bastien up and down.

Bastien decides the bedroom is too far away, and they end up on the couch, James sprawled out and Bastien lying on top of him. “Is this okay?” he asks between lingering bites up the long expanse of James’s neck.

“More than okay,” laughs James. He rolls his hips teasingly up against Bastien’s. “Can’t you tell?”

He’s hard against Bastien, clearly into it, and Bastien groans, grinding down and biting into James’s shoulder at the same time. James gets a hand in Bastien’s hair and wraps the other around his hip, tugging him in close and drawing him up for a kiss. His teeth pull on Bastien’s lower lip, and when he lets go, Bastien can feel his lips curve in a smile.

“Can I…,” he starts to ask and gets distracted by James sliding the hand on his hip down the back of his pants. He rocks into the movement, gasping into James’s mouth as he sinks his fingers into the fleshy part of his ass and hoists him up.

“Can you what?” asks James, moving to mouth at Bastien’s jaw, drag his teeth over the hard line.

It takes Bastien a second to focus enough to answer the question, to remember what it is he wants to do. “Can I blow you?”

James’s mouth is back on his then, his agreement swallowed by their harsh breaths and tangling tongues. Bastien reluctantly pulls away after a moment, letting James detangle himself from him before sliding to his knees between his legs. James’s legs bracket him, tight against his shoulders, and Bastien’s fingers fumble with the buttons of his slacks, clumsy in their eagerness.

He has to pause and take a calming breath, tilting his head into the pressure of James’s hand as he runs his fingers through Bastien’s hair. The action helps center him, and he’s finally able to undo the buttons. James lifts his hips up, and Bastien tugs his pants down, leaves them tangled around his thighs.

He lets himself admire the sight before him, James with his legs spread and his cock lying flushed and swollen against his dress shirt. He leans in, noses his way up, pressing light kisses till he reaches the crown. He sucks it in, flicks his tongue over the slit, humming as he does. The fingers in his hair tighten, but they don’t pull or push. He takes his time, laving the head with attention before he sinks farther down.

It’s been ages since he’s done this, and he can’t take him all the way down, so he focuses his mouth on the plump head and twists his hand around what he can’t reach. James moans steadily above him, and his hips twitch, the muscles in his legs bunching as he tenses.

With his free hand, Bastien rubs at himself. He doesn’t want to come like this, wants James to take care of him, but he can’t help himself.

The grip on his scalp gets near painful when James gets close, and he grits out, “I’m going to….”

Bastien flicks a glance up at him, takes in the view of his flushed and sweaty face, his red and bitten lips. He hollows his cheeks and hums.

James loses it.

He pulls him up after, licking into Bastien’s sloppy mouth. “You’re gorgeous,” he says. “Absolutely perfect.” He gets his hand in Bastien’s pants and grips him tight, jerking his hand up and down, flicking his thumb over the crown. Bastien grunts into his mouth, rutting forward, holding his shoulders for balance.

James stops before Bastien can come, swinging him off his lap and flat onto his back. He slides down him, pushing up Bastien’s shirt, leaving a trail of wet kisses and stinging nips. When he gets his mouth on Bastien’s cock at last—after an interminable minute of trying to shove Bastien’s pants off and not take his mouth from Bastien’s skin—Bastien arches up with a whimper and wraps a leg around James’s waist, thumping him with his heel.

James laughs around his cock, and Bastien wants to be able to last, he really does, but he can’t. He comes with a drawn out groan, his hands fisted in the fabric of the pillow behind his head and his stomach heaving with his harsh breaths.

He reaches for James, who comes willingly, kissing Bastien’s lips gently and then collapsing on him, nuzzling into the joint of neck and shoulder.

“Will you stay?” asks Bastien, breathing in the scent of James’s hair—sweat and a hint of citrus from whatever shampoo he uses.

“I wouldn’t think of leaving,” answers James, kissing his neck. “But how about a shower?”

“In a minute,” says Bastien. “When my limbs don’t feel like jelly.”

James sinks his teeth into Bastien’s shoulder, sucks hard enough to draw a moan from him. He grins up at Bastien, delighted. “Are you saying I’m so good that you can’t move?”

Bastian shakes his head, smiling at the ceiling. “No,” he says. “I’m not saying that at all.”

“But you are,” laughs James, rolling to his side and slinging a leg over Bastien’s. His limp cock brushes the firm length of James’s thigh. James reaches down and gives him a light stroke, and Bastien releases a low sigh, his cock valiantly trying to get hard again.

James lets him go, brushes his lips over Bastien’s ear. “I want to make you come again, and then I want to fuck you while you’re oversensitive and begging for it.”

He shudders against him, arching his hips up helplessly. He can feel James’s lips curving into a smile against his cheek. “Yes,” he says. “We should definitely do that. Now.”

He groans as James rolls over him and off the couch, reaching a hand down for his. “Shower first,” he says. “I need time to recover.”

It’s an effort, but Bastien manages to stand. They end up kissing in the shower, Bastien backed against the wall, bodies pressed together from head to toe. He’s extremely grateful his apartment has a decent-size shower. They have room to move. They’re not cramped at all. The water is hot, billowing steam around them, and his body feels lazy. Well, not all of his body. His cock is definitely starting to get with the program.

“I thought we were supposed to be getting clean,” he gasps as James sucks on his nipple, biting down just on the right side of pain.

“We’ll get to that,” says James, pulling away. “Are you in a hurry?”

He shakes his head no, and James goes back to lavishing his nipples with attention. He does eventually move back, reaching for the body wash. They take turns washing each other, fingers painting bubbly streaks over glistening skin.

Bastien is pretty sure this is the best shower he’s ever taken.

Eventually the water starts to turn cold, and they get out, toweling each other dry and then stumbling to Bastien’s bedroom. He didn’t make the bed that morning, so his gray comforter is crumpled at the end, his black sheets tangled and messy. He has a moment to think that’s probably good, this way he won’t have to take his comforter into the dry cleaners, and then James pushes him flat on his back on the king-size bed, and he isn’t thinking about anything other than sex anymore. Bastien spreads his legs wide eagerly, his cock already hard and lolling against his stomach.

“Lube?” James asks, looking hungrily down at him, hands running over his knees and heading for his thighs.