Chapter Text
Jean thought he was on top of his game. He was certain he was playing this multimillion-dollar mogul, a Mr. Marco Bodt, for a sap, but there was something amiss…
This guy was way too nice.
Jean met the affluent stud at studio party in West Hollywood. It was at a super exclusive recording studio, and the only reason Jean was able to get in the doors was because he was a friend of the owner’s son. Well, more like he knew the owner’s son. Knew him well enough to get inside and poke around. Jean went to the party with the master plan of buddying up with some of the music-industry notables that were attending and giving out his demo, but his mission was side tracked the moment he saw Mr. tall, dark and handsome standing at the edge of the bar in what was at least a 3,000-dollar suit and giving a million-dollar smile. This guy looked loaded, and Jean had set his hunter’s mark.
I’m gonna fuck that, Jean thought. Normally he would need to get close enough (and tipsy enough) to chat with his soon-to-be sugar daddy and test the waters. Jean’s gaydar was pretty spot on, but there were times where he confused flashy affluence with flamboyance. But not this time. No, this guy was definitely his for the taking. Every woman who was trying to flirt him was visibly disappointed at how amiable he was, whereas he was giving a different vibe to the guys. Mine, Jean thought. Mine mine mine.
After a few drinks, Jean was able to strike conversation, and good fucking lord this guy was even better looking up close. His face was splattered with freckles like a Pollock painting, and his teeth were perfect and he smelled like cinnamon. His eyes were a dark brown like decadent chocolate truffles. His voice was light, but not too airy, and Jean knew that if given the opportunity, he would listen to this man speak all night long.
All right, so let’s make one thing clear: Jean Kirschtein has been infatuated before, but he’s never been “swept off his feet,” as it were. He’s never been so enamored by someone’s charm that he can barely get through a conversation without relying on the crutch of alcohol to ease his nerves. This man, who’s name he soon learned, was Marco Bodt, had shown up in his life and swept him off his feet unlike anything he ever experienced before.
No literally, somehow one thing led to another, and Jean bet the millionaire that he couldn’t “carry the weight of a deadbeat like himself” and low and behold, the guy picks Jean up bridal style and earns a few cheers from onlookers. I’ve got this guy in the bag, thought Jean. After this much casual flirting and mutual interest, Jean figured his night was set.
Music soon entered the discussion, and when they began discussing the importance of vinyl records, Marco insisted that Jean come back to his penthouse (yeah he would have a fucking penthouse) and listen to a “proper auditory experience” as Marco referred to it. God, this guy was too fucking much, but things were going much easier than expected. Jean usually would have to wait at least until the first coffee date before he could get a house invite. This was way better. Before long, they couldn’t possibly be any more obvious with their flirting. They bid the fancy shindig adieu and hitched an Uber cab to Marco’s, Jean holding onto the millionaire’s arm like his prom date.
Once inside, Jean was in utter shock at how immaculate this place was. It was a huge house up in the Hollywood hills, but according to Marco, it was really only designed for a couple.
“I know it seems big, but the second you get more than two people in here, everyone starts to get in each other’s way,” he was saying, pouring them more drinks from his mini bar.
“Tsh, if my place were even half this size, I’d be happy,” Jean replied. He felt almost guilty walking around the completely white carpet in his loafing, grungy Doc Martens, but Marco didn’t seem to fuss about him removing his shoes or anything. In fact, he was quite inviting and welcoming despite the wealth of this place.
“Care for a fire?” Marco asked as he brought Jean his drink. He was still dressed to the nines, and Jean was hoping that wouldn’t be the case soon.
“Sure,” Jean took the drink and sat on the couch, which was also white. Everything in this place was white. The walls, the carpets, the furniture. Even the decorations like the vase of flowers on the kitchen table and the paintings on the walls. White white white.
“You sure like white,” Jean remarked.
“It’s a good base color,” Marco conversed as he worked with the gas switch to the fireplace. “I like to decorate around the holidays, and I don’t want a lot of colorful, noisy furniture distracting from my Christmas or Halloween decorations. White is like having an empty canvas.”
Jean laughed. Was this guy for real?
“Wow. You decorate. You run a business. You buy and sell real estate. You collect vinyl records. Is there anything you don’t do, Mr. Bodt?” Jean asked, a sly grin appearing on his face.
“I don’t clean,” Marco admitted with a little guilt. “Bless my house keeper. She’s an absolute doll.” The millionaire rose from the now low-burning fire-place, crossing over to join Jean on the couch. “And I don’t smoke.”
“Don’t smoke anything, or just cigarettes?” Jean inquired.
“That’s a secret,” Marco grinned, and Jean had to bite his lip. Fuck he’s cute. He’s playing the mysterious routine.
“Anything else you don’t do?”
Marco stirred his drink in its glass, looking at it thoughtfully before fixing his those round, chocolate eyes on Jean once again.
“I don’t kiss and tell,” he responded, taking a sip from his drink. Jean caught the velvet inflection of Marco’s voice, and Jean was more than ready for the next octave of their evening.
“You saying you’re gonna be kissing someone soon? Or that you have kissed someone and aren’t gonna tell me?” Jean was unconsciously leaning closer, resting his cheek in his hand. He was melting into goo right on Marco’s couch.
“You’ll just have to wait and see,” Marco smiled sweetly. Radiohead’s Everything In It’s Right Place reverberated through the living room at a reasonable volume, and the backdrop of the city below them twinkled through massive living room windows. If Jean didn’t know any better, he would think he died and went to heaven. Being surrounded by wealth and luxury was something Jean was vicariously used to. He never owned nice rich things himself, but he always seemed to be in situations and circumstances that permitted it. This life style suited him, and he was tough enough to deal with the dickwad jerks who usually provided it for him. But this guy was different. Very different.
“All right,” Jean stated suddenly, “what’s your deal. Getting into your pad shouldn’t be this easy, and I’m 80% sure were gonna fuck soon, so spill it.”
“Only 80%?” Marco tilted his head coyly, and Jean nearly turned into a beet from blushing so hard. “I thought I was being pretty inviting.”
“I—well, you are. You’ve been super inviting! And nice, and awesome. And that’s the problem. Usually you rich assholes are really… I dunno… protective. You don’t let people in so fast. You don’t want dead beats like me touching your shit, and you don’t sleep with us until we’re properly groomed.” Jean rolled his eyes at that last part. He was recalling a few unsavory memories he’s had with past sugar-daddies. One guy wouldn’t sleep him until Jean had a full spa day complete with a manicure and hair-cut to really clean him up. Jean loved being spoiled, but he didn’t like being made to feel like he was some filthy low-life in need of grooming.
“I take it you do this a lot?”
“Do what?” Jean asked, nervous.
“Sleep with rich assholes.”
Fuck.
“….you see right through me, don’t you.” It was more of a statement than a question on Jean’s part. Thankfully, Marco wasn’t being condescending or snarky. He just smiled graciously and continued sipping his drink. His posture was relaxed and stoic, and he seemed entirely unfazed by the whole situation.
“I can piece a puzzle together. I’m attractive, I know that, but people aren’t lining up to get in my bed from just my looks. It just something you get used to when you’re…well.” Marco gestured to their surroundings, and Jean felt a pang of guilt in his gut. He didn’t speak for a while. He held his tongue in awkward silence, but Marco didn’t seem to be affected at all. He just listened gleefully to the electronic tones from his record, smiling with his eyes closed.
“Marco, I don’t want to—“ Jean started, but he didn’t really know what he was trying to say.
“Don’t worry about it, Jean. I wasn’t trying to guilt trip you. You’re not taking advantage of me, if that’s what you were going to say.”
Jean shook his head in a “no” gesture.
“And I really hope I’m not taking advantage of you by bringing you here and filling you with more alcohol,” Marco furrowed an eyebrow.
Jean shook his head again.
“Wonderful. Then just relax and enjoy yourself, hon. This is the good life after all, isn’t it?” Marco raised his glass for a toast, and Jean obliged. They toasted, and afterward rested their glasses on the coffee table.
“Marco, you’re the nicest rich asshole I’ve ever tried to get in bed with.” Jean admitted, and Marco chuckled.
“You haven’t seen what I’m like in bed yet,” Marco warned, and his voice suddenly switched from being lighthearted and cheerful to dark and seductive, and Jean had to hold back a whimper. He swallowed hard, and began to chew at his lip some more, which seemed to be his new favorite past time.
“Hey, don’t chew those lips off before I get some,” Marco said, still using that dark, velvety voice that just rolled into Jean’s ears, down his spine and into his groin where he felt a growing desperation. Marco slid a little closer, eyeing Jean’s lips. “I’ve never kissed someone with lip piercings. Do they get in the way?”
Jean wanted to ask “why don’t you find out,” but he instead just sort of squeaked and gave a breathy sigh, and Marco chuckled, bringing a hand up to caress Jean’s cheek and eye his lips once more.
“I guess I’ll have to find out,” Marco said, and thank god he said it for him because Jean wasn’t going to last another second without crashing into Marco’s lips. The older man brought Jean close to his mouth and lingered for just half a second too long, really drawing out the anticipation. Then, finally, with most self-contained stoicism on his part, Marco unified their lips, and Jean had to catch his breath.
Jean’s met some fantastic kissers in his day, but Marco? He was untouchable on the scoreboard.
Jean was tentative about getting his hands involved too soon, but Marco was already leading the way, pulling Jean closer and mapping out his shoulders and collarbone with his hands. Jean followed suit, touching him back and trying his absolute damnedest not to be too grabby. The restraint didn’t last long on either part, and soon enough they were gasping and moaning into each other’s mouths, writhing against each other. Jean was mentally cursing the tightness of his pants, because frankly they were the only things really ruining this moment for him, but Marco made that irritation of thing of the past. After teasing him and palming at him through the fabric, Marco unbuttoned Jean’s pants. Just before he could grab him and start properly doting on his dick with the attention it desperately needed, Marco pulled away, unbuttoning his shirt.
“Do you mind?” Marco asked, almost out of breath.
“Mind what?”
Marco nodded towards the giant, open windows of the living room. Marco’s closest neighbor was still quite a distance away, but their proclivities certainly wouldn’t go unnoticed if anyone were taking a gander off their balcony.
“No,” Jean grinned, and his fingers quickly got to work unbuttoning Marco’s suit jacket.
Without any further hindrances, Jean soon learned a lot more about the ever-surprising Marco Bodt. By now Jean had enough respect for the guy to know that if he himself didn’t kiss and tell, well then he was going to do the same for him.
But he’ll give you these hints;
- Marco was wrong about implying he was anything but nice in bed. (This guy gave new meaning to the term “body worship.”)
- He was loud.
- He had a lot of stamina
- He was well enough endowed to make Jean reconsider saying yes to anal, (that was before hand, though. During and after the fact, Jean’s standards for good cock were substantially raised.)
- He was a post-coital cuddler.
They eventually migrated to the bedroom, and Jean was entirely fucked-out and was dozing off in Marco’s arms, feeling entirely satisfied. Marco kissed his hairline, which was a little too tender for Jean’s taste, but he let it slide. He liked this guy a lot, and if cuddling and tender loving was his forte, who was Jean to deny it.
“You going to stick around?” Marco asked, his voice quiet.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Even if I wanted to leave, I don’t think I could move,” Jean held on tighter, and Marco returned the gesture.
“Good. I’m not done spoiling you yet, and if you don’t have anything planned for tomorrow, I was hoping you’d spend the day with me?”
Jean was too tired to physically express his excitement and enthusiasm, but he was internally screaming.
“You are too good to be true, do you know that,” was Jean’s only response. He couldn’t even open his eyes. Marco chuckled and planted another kiss on Jean, this time on his lips.
“I know,” he mused softly. With that, he turned off the light by the switch next to the bed, and they were out.