Chapter Text
It was in the spring semester of his senior year that Eduardo decided he no longer liked boys. Specifically, blue-eyed boys with unruly hair who you love and you love and who fucking cut you to the bone with their manipulative horseshit.
Not that there was ever more than the one, not really. Not ever.
So Eduardo has spent the last half of a decade doing precisely the opposite of what most guys his age would do. Most guys who are in their mid-twenties would be chasing them younger and younger, going to all-ages nights at bars, looking for the lone boy standing by the bar waiting to be bought a beer and told, for the first time, that he is beautiful.
He could do that, beyond easily enough, if he lived back in the States. Miami is full of it, hot blond boys in flip-flops and board shorts, roomfuls of them, stacked three and four deep at the bar while horrible house music plays.
Eduardo does not want to live in Miami, though, ever, ever, ever fucking again.
Nor does he want anything to do with the East Coast. Not after college. He wants to get as far away from the tristate area as possible, because New York is ruined for him, and New York is the epicenter of the financial industry in the US.
Chicago is too cold. And Boston is just piddly.
He could do Houston, but he has never felt comfortable in the south.
And he could find a scene like that in Los Angeles, or possibly San Diego, and definitely in the Bay Area.
Like fuck if he's going to go there.
He won't even go back for the shareholders meetings, which he is now legally entitled to attend. He sends a proxy named Janice who reports back to him and a legal team, which he now keeps on retainer, just in case.
Eduardo Saverin is for fucking sure never, ever, ever going to get the rug yanked out from underneath of him again.
So he does not try to hang on to his own youth by chasing after someone else's, because Edaurdo is only twenty-six, but he feels like he has already lived several lifetimes, like he is old and weary in his bones.
He refuses to get sucked in by the way the light glints off someone's hair, the awkward stance of the newly legal drinker, out at a club for the first time, the way they need to be taken care of written so clearly in every line of their posture.
But that is fine, because that is not at all what Eduardo wants, anyways.
He has traveled all over, flown from Dallas to Dubai, Tokyo to Toronto, Berlin to Bali.
That was what he did after he graduated, finally. He pulled his shit together and graduated, because he had to.
He took his quarter of a million dollars, his fucking money no matter what his father said, and he flew around the world and partied with drug dealers and heiresses on boats and in clubs. Beach parties in Phuket, circuit parties in Amsterdam.
It was all right for a year or so.
And then he got tired of being rootless, tired of feeling so shallow, and he called his father who phoned in a favor and they got him a job doing entry-level financial futures trading.
Singapore is a flesh-pot. Not as bad as Thailand, of course, but anything you want, you can find, pretty much. Except for chewing gum, which is illegal.
Eduardo does not mind. He has never been very fond of gum.
Nor is he fond of the scores of smooth-skinned boys, Chinese and Malay and Thai, who haunt the bars, dark-eyed and handsy.
Eduardo does not want boys, is the thing. Not since that one.
Men, however. Those are rather a different story.
For the first six months there was no one to speak of. He put in sixteen hour days and went out with the other junior associates to bars. They ordered bottles of premium vodka for the table, went to steak houses and charged vintages from the Rhône Valley to the firm.
Eduardo did not care for the shady things that he knew went on, because it was one thing to be debased and immature during a bacchanal on the beaches of Southeast Asia, and quite another to be grinding on a trio of Cambodian prostitutes at a late-night club with your colleagues.
So Eduardo has never been very much into that whole scene.
He would rather be in his apartment, on the 37th floor with windows that do not open, sealed shut from the inside. He has not got anything there, really. It does not feel like home, because he has no things besides his suits and books and laptop.
He likes to think it is minimalist, but that is not precisely true.
He keeps it like that because he thinks almost every morning that he will get up, in the cold light of dawn and go to put on a starched shirt and pick out a tie that maybe this will be the day that he just runs.
His father would be disappointed all over again, if that was the case. He will barely look at him even now, even after he won back 600 million dollars that he never should have let go of in the first place.
Eduardo is not living a 600 million dollar lifestyle. He has an expense account and his suits are made twice a year to measure and he does not have any expensive habits like hookers or cocaine or yachts.
He goes home late at night and he suffers from insomnia, so he reads on the couch, or in bed.
He likes popular science books. Those are his favorites.
He always wishes that he had studied geology or something.
But when people pass through, important clients who want to be entertained in the debauched ways of overgrown frat boys, then there will be older men there with them, from Spain or Germany or Canada or England or South Africa or America. And the vast majority of them are excited by the hookers, they want to go to massage parlors, clubs.
Some do not.
Sometimes there will be a quartet of them, who have been stuffed with crab and porterhouse and then want to go to the live shows.
Those nights Eduardo has to play like he wants to be there, because it is still, technically, a work function.
But when the others whoop and grope, sometimes one of them will look bored, and they will say something vague like, "Not really your scene, then?" and they will smile at him, with white-capped teeth, their hairlines close and perfect, their shaves professional, their cuffs French and flawless, and their eyes crinkle up at the corners and they say, "Is it yours?"
Because they are expensive, and experienced, and they don't dole out shit chat-up lines, they don't stumble over words -- the kind of men who command attention in board rooms, in shareholder meetings.
Eduardo does not know, some of the time, whether he wants to fuck them, or be them.
It's quite possibly a combination of the two.
The first time it happened was with an American with a voice like the grate of sandstone and graying temples. His stubble was growing back by the time they finished with dinner.
They were sitting next to each other in one of the many, many clubs and this other man, a Washington D.C. native, said, his eyes on Eduardo's neck, "Does everyone like this scene?"
"Mostly," Eduardo had said, rolling his glass between his palms and looking across to the dance floor.
"Do you?" he asked.
"It's all right," he answered, and then added, "it's loud, though."
He glanced over. The man was staring at him, his gaze determined and frightening.
"It's quiet at the hotel," he said, not looking away.
"Okay," Eduardo said, answering almost immediately.
They got a taxi back.
It was all very civilized. No one touched anyone in public. Nothing could be monitored, overheard. None of the other associates saw them leaving together, it being assumed that by that point in the evening, they would all go their separate ways once they found a suitable companion for the next few hours or the night.
There was nothing said in the taxi that could be construed as anything other than innocent or business-related.
Nothing in the lobby, nothing in the elevator, nothing for a long time in the room, even.
There was more scotch drunk standing up rather than sitting down, and then there was the other man taking the glasses away and pulling out Eduardo's tie and wrapping it around his hand and tugging on it.
And kissing that was deep and furious but somehow still slow (so different from boys) because with men, you see, with men there is this thing called
certainty.
Being undressed by someone who knew what the fuck they were doing was another.
Someone who did not fumble and accidentally yank off buttons, someone who knew that you can't just leave crêpe de chine trousers pooled up on the floor.
With the first one it was like that -- the dark haired Washingtonian with the cough of an ex-smoker who took off both their shirts and draped them over a chair and then sat on the edge of his California King bed with 600-thread count sheets made from Egyptian flax and mouthed at Eduardo's crotch.
He pinned Eduardo to the bed with his hands and scraped his teeth over every inch of his bare chest and then down further, with his tongue.
That was also different, because with boys it is all about getting your dick in someone's mouth or vice versa and getting off, quickly, impatient.
Not slowly licking between their legs and then raising themselves up to hover over with your legs hooked around their outer arms while they fuck you.
Eduardo liked that he was patient, that he cradled his head in his hands and smelled like expensive cologne.
Those are the things Eduardo likes. He likes surety, and confidence, and long silences where he does not have to talk and feel like a child.
Eduardo likes this certainty. He likes being handled in this way, like he is a beautiful object to treat with reverence.
Well, sometimes he does.
Not always.
Not with all of them.
There are dry spells and a the inevitable run of bad lays, because that is how these things work, no matter what age bracket one is dealing with. The drinks are better quality, the small talk is less stupid, but there are plenty of times Eduardo is less interested than he should be. Contact details that he's been given that he deletes from his inbox, business cards that he burns with the matchbooks left in the ashtrays of expensive hotels.
Because Eduardo has this other rule now, in his life, that he will no longer settle for mediocrity in anything. He wants nothing average, nothing below par. Everything has to be perfect, and if he goes home with someone who is a lousy kisser, or who comes too fast, or suffers from performance anxiety, he will stay the night, out of politeness, but he will not call them back when they pass through town the next time, two months into the future.
But some he does call back.
And with some of them it becomes a routine.
They are always there on business, though they will extend a trip a day on either end for pleasurable pursuits. Golf, perhaps, if they like such things, or deep-sea fishing, or gambling.
And there are some that he sees, every six to eight weeks, or once a fiscal quarter, and they treat him very nicely, indeed.
They take him to restaurants with red leather booths and off-white tablecloths and silver that sits heavy in your hands, and they talk in quiet murmurs and the menus don't even have prices and they drink wine and then coffee and then cognac and then they take a taxi somewhere and Eduardo is fussed over, like a table setting.
The sex is practiced and it is always incredible. Everything is done in sequence, one step leading inevitably to the next. Eduardo is usually on the bottom, usually with his eyes closed, while someone ten or twenty or sometimes thirty years older uses those extra years of experience on him.
It's all technically perfect.
The ones he looks forward to the most, though, it does not go that way.
*
There is an Afrikaner based in Johannesburg named Jan who has deep-set parentheses on the sides of his mouth and who Eduardo could feel mentally undressing him even when they were still at the office. The stiff collar of his shirt started to feel too tight, chafing against his flushed skin.
He unbuttoned two buttons and loosened his tie en route to the restaurant, because he was so hot, because every time he looked over there were eyes narrowed in his direction and Eduardo has been with enough men to know that look.
It is the look of the predatory deep-sea fish. The shark, or the marlin.
So when they are at dinner that first time, a huge group of them, the deafening noise of sure-footed masculinity all around them, Eduardo is stabbing at a deconstructed Caesar salad and Jan leans over across the table and says, "I don't have any interest in remaining with the group after we finish here, do you?"
Eduardo looks up and Jan tilts his head and he somehow manages to form the words, "Not really."
Jan nods and goes back to his own diver scallop sashimi.
Over entrees he leans in again, so quiet, and says, "I want to see where you live."
Eduardo is startled by this, very much so, but he nods his assent and they skip dessert. Jan leaves first, pleading off with jet lag. He makes his way outside ten minutes later, having made similar excuses.
"To your place?" he says, stubbing out a cigarette as the doorman hails them a taxi.
He lets Eduardo get in first.
The taxi is air conditioned, but Eduardo feels more unkempt than he has in months, his hair starting to poof up from the humidity, sweat stains forming under the arms of his jacket, soaking through his undershirt.
Jan accepts a whiskey with ice and looks through the stacks of books scattered about the place. There are not any bookshelves.
"Shall we sit?" he asks, and Eduardo has not had anyone in his space in so long that he completely forgets his manners.
"Please," he says, gesturing to the sofa. "Should I turn on the air conditioning?" he asks, "it's pretty hot."
"No," Jan says, putting his glass in front of him and reaching out a hand, "I want to know what you smell like."
Eduardo does not know what to say in response to that.
"Take your jacket off," he says, and Eduardo does so.
Eduardo's mouth is dry and he is standing a few feet away and he feels young, suddenly, differently.
It has been a while since he felt like his knees might give out in the presence of someone else.
He is sweaty because it is May in Singapore. When he thinks about it everywhere he has ever lived has been hot and humid. Muggy. Tropical.
Rio and Miami and now here, at the tip of the Malay Peninsula.
Boston was only hot in the summer, just like New York was.
And Jan is beckoning Eduardo over with his fingers and he walks over and is about to sit down. The older man stills him with a hand on his thigh. And he moves Eduardo in front of him, firm hands on his hips and Eduardo has been hard in his pants the whole taxi ride over, sweat building between his ass cheeks and beading on his top lip.
He runs his thumbs up Eduardo's thighs, deliberate, dragging, and under the hem of his shirt. The only sounds in the room are breaths and the quiet flip of the ceiling fan, barely stirring the thick air.
Jan undoes his belt, his gaze fixed on Eduardo's stomach, so very slowly. He draws down the zipper of his trousers and he lets them fall onto the floor, holding his hands out to the sides as they swish down his legs. And then he leans in and noses against his crotch, deeply inhaling the smell of him from his black briefs, the same style he's been sporting since college. He rubs his face against Eduardo's balls and mouths damply at his cock, which is so hard, trapped underneath this layer of fabric steeped through with sweat and spit.
He traces a finger up and down the shaft as Eduardo clenches his hands up into fists, until he can feel himself leaking through the fabric, getting wet like a girl. Jan swipes his thumb over the head and draws up another pulse of precome. Eduardo genuinely thinks he might come in his pants from those touches, even more so when Jan says, in his clipped voice, "God, you've just
soaked these through, haven't you, Eduardo?" and he does not know if he is supposed to answer.
Jan leans back and spreads his legs and pats his knee. "Come sit," he says, and Eduardo hesitates for a second, but the raised eyebrows of the man across from him are all it takes for him to be tottering into his lap, drunk with arousal more than anything.
He walks his hands up Eduardo's tie and then undoes it, pulling it off in one slow motion. So now he is sitting, wearing only his shirt and his underwear, sitting on the lap of a fully clothed man God knows how many years his senior, who is looking at the label on the tie with curiosity.
"Are you particularly attached to this?" he asks, holding it out for inspection. Eduardo coughs trying to make the words.
"Not especially, no," he says.
And Jan asks in this cold way that makes Eduardo's tongue go numb.
"May I use it on you?"
Fuck, he thinks, visions of blindfolds and makeshift restraints flooding his mind, making his spine buzz with anticipation.
He has always enjoyed a bit of restraint.
Eduardo really, really likes bottoming.
And he likes to be taken is the thing.
The thought of that makes him so insanely hard.
Of being ravaged.
Used, even, sometimes.
So he is nodding, nodding as Jan is laying him down on his sofa that has never seen this sort of action and drawing down his underwear until they are around his knees.
Eduardo puts his hands over his head, expectantly.
Nothing happens.
Not to his hands.
Because Jan is looping his tie (a nice tie, of course, Prada, probably, always Prada these days) around his balls, over his erection and trailing it across his stomach, tying it in a tight bow like Eduardo is a present.
There is a swish of expensive silk and then everything goes tight and he feels feverish, rancid with want.
"Oh, God," he says, feeling slick fingers tracing over his erection, down to his ass, moving inside. His legs are parted but held together by his underwear, acting like another restraint, and he can feel his cock leaking against his stomach.
He cannot let his legs fall open like he wants to but his mouth is open and he is moaning, moaning even harder when Jan slips his mouth around him and swallows him down, hot, two fingers crooked against his prostate.
Every inch of him is screaming for release. To get off, to relieve the pressure threatening to choke him.
He gasps when Jan adds a third finger, pressing forward.
"You are gorgeous," he says, rising up to suck a bruise into Eduardo's collarbone.
Eduardo practically sobs when he pulls his fingers out.
"Turn over," he says. "I want to fuck you from behind."
And he is scrabbling to listen, to obey, even, crossing his arms at the wrist and offering himself up.
Jan is still fully dressed.
He must be rummaging around in his pants and pulling himself out, because Eduardo can feel him, hard against his ass.
He is naked from the waist down, trussed like a chicken and his hair is wet with sweat.
Eduardo has never felt more like a whore.
Even though they are in his apartment, and everything is perfectly consensual. Something feels different. Something inside makes him feel like this whole encounter will end with postcoital cigarettes and a stack of fifties on the countertop.
And Eduardo feels a little frightened, as Jan is pressing inside of him, hands wrapping around to pull him in by his inner thighs, as he is fucking him so slow and sliding and balls-deep on every stroke, he feels a little frightened by just how much he likes this.
How there have been no words. No words and no doubts and no feelings other than want.
And he feels so wanted, like this, splayed on the couch with his ass in the air, being fucked by a rich man in the never-darkness of a May Malay night, he feels so fucking good.
Good enough to cry out when Jan runs a finger up from his thigh and pushes it in alongside his dick. "Jesus," he says, "you have the most amazing ass."
Eduardo is seeing spots behind his eyes, his need to come so acute, the loop of sodden silk keeping him from doing so, and he hears Jan groan and grunt and say, "Fuck," bottoming out inside of him and shuddering through his orgasm.
Eduardo shakes as he pulls out.
"Can I smoke?" he says, after a moment, Eduardo still on his hands and knees. He manages to rasp out, "If you have to," but really he wants to say get me off, you asshole.
But this other part of him loves not being allowed, yet.
Jan pulls him back onto his lap and unties the tie, gently. His underwear are dangling from one ankle and he kicks them off onto the floor.
Jan takes out a cigarette pack and lights one. Eduardo is trembling, the smell of smoke making the room feel even more close and hot.
"Put your arms around my neck," Jan says, and Eduardo does so. He smokes, grinning, ashing into an empty soda can. When he has finished he leans in to kiss Eduardo. He says, "Spread your legs for me, Eduardo," and he does as he's instructed.
And then the taunting stops, as he slides his fingers back in, Eduardo's ass still loose and wet from before, and he moans and says, almost immediately, the relief so great, "Shit, shit, I'm gonna--" and Jan says, "That's good, come for me, Eduardo" and he grabs his hands tighter and the room spins and his eyes snap shut and he is coming so hard that the world goes white.
He shakes as he comes, shakes as a hand finds the small of his back and lowers him down to the couch, legs still splayed out.
The room feels even hotter than before, but, like anyone who lives a degree away from the equator, he knows that sweat actually cools you down.
And Eduardo is very, very sweaty.
He is not hot anymore, but Jesus, he is really quite sweaty.
And that was good.
It was really good.
He lies there for what feels like a long time, drained from socializing and boozing, schmoozing, fucking, and maybe falls asleep for a little while.
He wakes up on his side, a hand under his ear and an arm flung over his eyes. Someone is softly stroking his ankle, and he jolts awake, thinking he needs to leave and go back to his own apartment before he realizes that they are already at his apartment.
The light pollution makes it hard to figure out the time. He grunts.
Jan has been reading a book, Brian Cox on physics, and he puts his forefinger in to mark the place and says, "you're awake!" Eduardo nods, glances around. He is still butt naked, his skin itching. His scratches at his stomach. Jan's eyes dart down to follow his fingers and he says, "we should get you to bed." Eduardo yawns. He has work in the morning.
Fuck.
Jan puts the book down and turns Eduardo so that his feet are on the floor, and then he helps him up. Eduardo follows him into the bedroom, exhausted. Jan lays him in the bed -- really just a mattress and a box spring stacked on the floor-- and arranges a pillow under his head.
He snuggles down into it and drifts in and out of consciousness as a cool cloth wipes him clean. It leaves damp traces on his skin, making the hairs on his arms and thighs and stomach prickle up.
He yawns again, and then sinks down with a happy sigh, drawing up a little chuckle from the other man. He touches Eduardo's forehead, lightly and then he says, to his still-hot cheek, "I'll be back in a few weeks. May I see you again, then, Eduardo?"
Eduardo grins sleepily and shakes his head yes.
"Excellent," Jan says, pushing himself up. "I'll see myself out."
That night he sleeps more soundly than he has ages.
He goes to work like usual, the next day, and all the following week, for two weeks.
After two weeks he is bored on a Saturday and goes to the movies and then to a bookstore.
And when he gets back to his apartment someone has been there, moving men, from the furniture store.
They have lifted the bed up into a proper bedframe, with slats of dark-polished wood and knobs on each corner. There is an email, as well, from a .za address, that reads simply.
Hoping this will come in handy during my next visit. I'll reserve a table at Fifty-Three for eight.
Eduardo puts his Blackberry back in his pocket and touches the wood gingerly, like it might shock him.
A week passes and he does not sleep as well as he did the few before. He tries to jerk off into the sticky circle of his own hand, but it is too muggy and unpleasant, and he can't quite get there, in his head.
In his head it is hard to replay these brief encounters with expensive men, who make his synapses sing and his brain go melty.
He wishes that was what he saw when he touched himself, but that has never been the case.
Edaurdo knows that he is gorgeous. He goes to the gym and gets massages twice a week and he looks flawless, usually, despite all of the heat.
So it is very easy for him to meet people, when he decides that going out would be easier than taking another freezing shower, easier than channel surfing until three in the morning, easier than pretending to read articles online about particle physics or changes in mortgage-backed securities trading. Of course, he wants to know what people are doing, back in America, people like his sister, or his cousins, some of whom are getting married to men he has never met and having babies he has yet to see.
He does not go back, because he works too hard and does not take any vacation time. He pleads off when his mother calls, telling her he can't spare the lost days to cross the ocean, when that is not, strictly speaking, true.
Eduardo has never been a lurker, a prowler. Not like the jaguar. He is certainly not a piranha.
So three weeks of waiting and it is the start of June and raining all the time, and he goes out. To the Sofitel bar, with its spectacular viewing balcony and its high ceilings and single malts, and he sits at the bar and sips, looking.
It doesn't take long for a girl to swoop down, a lovely girl, but he shakes his head. Another time he might buy her a drink, not to seal the deal, or anything. Just to talk. Paying for a hooker without the hooking is exactly the kind of mushy-hearted bullshit his father would hate.
Eduardo doesn't even care. He's tired of trying to seem callous. He makes his money and reads his books and takes care of himself.
There is someone after forty minutes.
He is English, the north all but bred out of his accent by public school, and he gets a whiskey soda and sits two seats over, swizzling his straw.
"Local?" he asks, after a moment, and Eduardo nods.
"East Asia. Saverin, Eduardo Saverin," he says, extending a hand. The other man has a dry palm.
"HSBC," he says, in return. "Peter Andrews."
"Pleasure." Eduardo drains his glass.
"Another?" Peter asks, already gesturing with a twitch of his forefinger.
Eduardo stares at his hands for a full beat before realizing he is doing it.
"Sure," he says, "Thanks."
He moves over to the adjacent seat.
The other man, Peter, is very nice looking. He seems average in the face but his eyes are full of deviance and laughter.
Eduardo decides right away that he likes Peter.
He likes how he drums his fingertips on the bar, rhythmic like the rainstorms outside, and he tells Eduardo stories about growing up in Lancashire, about his ex, who he lived with in Switzerland for a while, getting fat off chocolate, he laughed and who was utterly mad, but so charming, really.
Eduardo has never been able to fathom how someone could talk so easily about someone who was once in their life.
He is a blank slate. The blue screen before the credits of a film begin.
By day he deals in digital numbers and watching the markets -- APX up, NASDAQ down -- watching for patterns, blips, indices.
Alone he tries to seek solace in the magnitude of the universe, the wild uncertainty of numerical principles.
And with others he is trying to find the right calculus to make something stick again.
He is not looking for love. He is looking, simply, for the right way to balance the equation.
Eduardo knows that it is a numbers game. It is just a question of numbers. Because he is very attractive, and he looks good, and when he goes out, statistically, there will be at least one man out of every dozen who looks at him a little longer.
Not all of them approach him.
Some are not, of course, attractive.
They are jowly, or fat, or just plain ugly.
Those men can find solace with someone else, someone they have to pay for.
Back in America or England or Russia or China they no doubt get laid all the time.
Because it remains a truism, even in 2010, that there is no such thing as an ugly rich man.
But Eduardo is quite rich.
His numbers are always in the black.
And he is a sure thing. Every night, every time. From the time the first drink is placed on a cocktail napkin in front of him, Eduardo leans against the bar, his hips jutting out to the front, his silhouette as perfect as a picture in Italian Vogue, and he says, with the drape of his posture, that he is a sure thing.
Eduardo knows how to play the numbers.
With the Englishman, Peter, it is not hurried. They drink and they talk and Eduardo can feel himself grow loose and warm, not just from alcohol or heat, but from company. Laughter.
It's pretty nice.
It's just as nice when they do leave, eventually, when Peter does not act afraid to touch him, when he places his hand on the small of Eduardo's exquisitely suited back and steers him into the elevators. He keeps it there on the ride up to the twentieth floor, through the walk to the room his hand lingers there with just a touch of pressure, and that makes Eduardo feel very nice, indeed.
The room is lovely, capacious, furnished in shades of dove gray and camel, nods to the Asian locale with hints of red.
Eduardo feels at home in these rich hotels, devoid of personality, the detritus of the everyday, more than he ever does at his apartment.
People are always leaving hotels, checking in, checking out, coming, going.
He is drifting, thinking about this and Peter is saying his name, several times, and Eduardo blinks, rapidly and says, "Sorry?" and Peter chuckles.
His brown eyes crinkle up and the corners and he leans over and touches Eduardo's face and cups his cheek and says, "You were off in your head there for a minute." He starts to apologize, make excuses, because even here he needs to be polite, remember himself, who he is.
Eduardo knows that manners, like appearances, matter.
But the words are not coming because Peter is scratching the back of his neck and kissing him and it is fantastic. He tastes like whiskey and his fingers are long. He kisses Eduardo for a long time, like he is trying to learn the shape of his mouth, and breaks away every few moments to press his forehead to Edaurdo's own. He rakes his hands through Eduardo's hair and then they kiss their way over to the bed.
And Peter takes his own clothes off, he takes Eduardo's clothes off until they are both in just their underwear, rubbing their bodies together and never stopping kissing. Eduardo is gasping for air by the time Peter pulls his briefs down, because he has been kissed so much that his lungs cannot get enough oxygen.
He is naked and Peter's brown eyes glint and he kisses his way down Eduardo's front, asking with his expression and Eduardo nods, eagerly. He spreads his legs so willingly for that. When someone wants to tongue his ass, he is so eager. No better than a whore, really, he thinks, momentarily.
He cannot think, though, now, with Peter eating him out.
For a long time.
Until he comes from it, once, seeing stars.
And then he is open and wet enough to fuck with just a condom.
Peter pushes Eduardo's left knee to his chest so that he can seat himself fully inside of him, and then he uses his shin for leverage, barely thrusting at all. Letting gravity do the work. Letting Eduardo's ass -- which is "so fucking tight, pet, God," he says, half a dozen times as he fucks him -- letting his ass milk him until Eduardo is hard again, until he looks down and says, firmly, "bring yourself off," and he shudders to touch himself, squirms when Peter hits his prostate and says, teasing, "You're a quiet one, aren't you?" and Eduardo cannot say anything.
He angles his hips, pushes down hard on Eduardo's knee, and then it is a shower of rain and the sparks of metal on asphalt and the sound of breaking glass and the infinite night of a metropolitan cityscape and the perfection of geometry and he can feel Peter move, all the way inside and then he does cry out, because it really is incredible.
"There it is," Peter says, breathless, "There, there you go, baby."
"There," he rasps, "there, come, good boy, good, such a good good boy."
He does.
He not only feels good, he is good.
God, he's so good.
He can feel Peter come, even as he is spinning in darkness.
They lie there for a while and then he starts to say something about showers and leaving and Peter shakes his head. He pulls out and ties up the condom and throws it away, in the toilet.
And then he gets them both tiny bottles of Evian from the minibar and he lies back down, puts Eduardo's head on his chest and kisses the top of his head and says, "stay, we'll watch MSNBC."
Eduardo's silence is enough of a yes. He falls asleep on Peter's chest listening to the forecasts for Tokyo.
He wakes up because he can smell coffee. It smells incredible.
You can't find Cuban roast in Singapore, so his mother sends it to him in the mail.
"Good morning," Peter says, as Eduardo sits straight up and reaches out his hand, eyes still closed. He grunts and Peter chuckles.
"Here," he says, guiding Eduardo's hand to a coffee cup.
It takes a few sips before his brain starts to register the details. Not that he was drunk last night, far from it. He just slept well. Hard.
"It's good," he says, motioning to the cup.
"I'm glad," Peter says. "Can't stand the stuff, myself. Consummately English."
Eduardo looks around the room as Peter sits down next to him. He is drinking tea, from a teacup. It's -- well, it's cute. Peter is wearing wire-framed glasses and a bathrobe. His laptop is open, as is his suitcase.
"Are you leaving?" Eduardo says, drinking his coffee.
Peter grins, and then puts down his cup on the trolley. He puts his free hand on Eduardo's thigh and rubs his thumb against the muscle. Eduardo's leg twitches when he does that.
"I've got a bit of time," he says, moving his hand up to Eduardo's face and kissing him. Eduardo is not self-conscious of his morning breath too badly, but he does gulp another swig of coffee before putting his cup down. He burns his tongue a little bit, so each time Peter licks into his mouth it stings at the back.
Edaurdo is wearing just his underwear and all the hairs on his arms prickle when Peter runs the backs of his fingers over them. He kisses Eduardo for a long time, laying him back down on the bed and touching him all over. His bathrobe is falling open and he is completely naked underneath. Eduardo wants to touch his cock but he doesn't want to make any space between them, doesn't want Peter to stop moving across his jaw, left side to right, biting slack-mouthed along his face.
He sighs when Peter pulls his briefs down and tugs on his feet until he is at the edge of the bed. His legs fall open of their own accord as Peter tongues him, and he fucking
looks at him, while he does it, from between his knees on the floor and Eduardo whimpers.
Peter grabs lube and starts fingering him, two fingers right away since he's already relaxed, and he stretches his arms overhead, the tingle in his belly reverberating up to his armpits.
Peter is more focused this morning, circling his fingers around Eduardo's prostate until he is leaking and panting, "Please, God, I'm good, please."
He gulps in air as Peter stands up, tears open a condom packet with his teeth, spitting the wrapper aside with a cocked eyebrow.
He bends his knees and pulls Eduardo onto him, which is almost too much, too good, right away, all at once.
"Ohmygod" he blurts out. Peter laughs and holds Eduardo by the thighs as he wraps his feet behind him. They don't last very long. Eduardo comes first, a full two minutes sooner, coming onto his stomach and feeling contentedly full until Peter follows him, fingers digging deep into his ass muscles, pulling him off the bed.
"Fuck," Peter says, when he comes, "fuck, pet, that's nice."
Eduardo likes that very much.
He also likes watching Peter take a shower (a very quick shower), and get dressed. Eduardo likes clothes, he likes the transformation. Under the right circumstances, Eduardo thinks, getting dressed can be the sexiest thing of all. In the right context, the buttoning of a shirt is better than the removal of a pair of pants, fastening cufflinks better than any loosened tie.
Perhaps he has been dragged to too many strip clubs.
But watching Peter get dressed, in medium weight charcoal gray, like a proper Englishman, is, as the English would say, dead sexy.
He watches the whole ritual intently, his lower half tangled in the sheets, another cup of coffee warming his palm. His hair is a wreck, but he is well-fucked and well-rested, and it's Saturday, still.
Peter zips up his suitcase, and then hands Eduardo his card.
"How are you fixed for dinner, three weeks from today?"
Eduardo looks at the card. It is embossed. Peter is based in Hong Kong, with a secondary contact given in Scotland.
He looks back up and smiles, a genuine smile.
"I'll put it in my calendar," he says, going for his Blackberry.
Peter ducks in and kisses him on the mouth, and then the top of the head.
"See you then," he says, "I hope you like Chinese."
And then he is gone, and Eduardo is naked in a hotel bed with a business card. He does not burn this one in the ashtray. He sniffs it -- as if paper had a smell -- and then he puts the details in his address book.