The cocktail incident
The sun was a flat white disc overhead, leaching color from the sky, pressing down on the terracotta tiles and the turquoise pool and the rows of loungers arranged with geometric precision. It was three in the afternoon on a Tuesday, and the heat had reached that particular intensity where the air itself seemed to thicken, syrup-slow in the lungs.
Jules turned a page.
The book in his hands was a battered paperback edition of The Complete Robot, spine cracked in seven places, the cover art faded to a suggestion of metallic faces and geometric stars. He’d read it before. Twice, actually. But Isaac Asimov on a Spanish pool deck felt like a private ritual, a small anchor of familiarity in the blaze of unfamiliar sunlight.
A bead of sweat traced a path from his hairline to his temple. He pushed his brown hair back with one hand, fingers dragging through the damp strands, and let his gaze lift from the page.
The pool glittered.
Two kids were splashing in the shallow end, supervised by a mother whose enormous sunhat wobbled every time she turned her head. A German couple sat at the pool bar, speaking in low, earnest tones. And there—cutting through the water with long, easy strokes—was Antoine.
Jules watched his boyfriend reach the edge, execute a neat turn, and push off again. The water seemed to welcome him. Antoine was taller than Jules by a solid margin, 1.85 meters against Jules’s 1.75, and the swimming had given him a long, smooth musculature that showed in the clean line of his back whenever he surfaced. Blonde hair, darkened by water, plastered to his skull. Shoulders that were just broad enough to carry his frame with a casual elegance. Brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, which was often.
Three years.
Three years of shared apartments, shared friends, shared dreams about names for children who didn’t exist. Three years of finding the same movies funny and the same political opinions infuriating and the same flavor of gelato inexplicably superior to all others. It was uncanny, sometimes, the way they aligned. Jules’s mother called it meant to be, and for the most part, Jules agreed.
Except.
The word sat in his mind like a stone in a shoe. Small. Persistent. Impossible to ignore forever.
Antoine’s libido was a ghost—something Jules had learned to stop expecting to encounter. In the beginning, it hadn’t registered. Jules himself had never been driven by overwhelming need; his desires were modest, manageable. But modest and nonexistent were different territories entirely, and somewhere in the second year of their relationship, Jules had realized he’d crossed the border into a landscape of quiet frustration. Antoine could go weeks without touching him. Months, once. And when they did have sex, it was tender and sweet and brief, and Antoine seemed to approach it the way one might approach a civic duty—something to be performed with good grace and then set aside.
Jules didn’t want civic duty.
Sometimes, lying awake at night with Antoine’s breathing steady beside him, Jules would let his mind wander into scenarios he didn’t permit himself during daylight. A hand on his hip that wasn’t hesitant. A mouth that wanted to devour rather than peck. A cock—thick and insistent and present—pressing into him with something like hunger.
His ass clenched involuntarily at the thought. He shifted on the lounger, the plastic slats creaking beneath him.
Stop it.
He looked back at the pool. Antoine had paused at the edge, exchanging words with the German couple. He laughed at something—probably a joke about the heat—and his face did that thing where it transformed from handsome into radiant. Jules’s chest tightened.
God, he loved him.
That was the truth that made everything else bearable. Jules had never met another person who fit so seamlessly into the spaces of his life. Antoine understood him. Antoine saw him. The sex, or lack thereof, was a small tax to pay for that kind of harmony.
Wasn’t it?
Susan Calvin was interrogating a robot about the First Law when the shadow fell across Jules’s legs.
He blinked, disoriented, pulled from the cool logic of Asimov’s prose into the sudden awareness that his sun had been partially eclipsed. The shadow was broad. Substantial. It carried a scent of citrus and something muskier beneath.
“¿Te apetece algo de beber?”
The Spanish accent was so pronounced that the vowels seemed to curl at the edges. Jules looked up.
And up.
The first thing his brain registered was thighs. Massive, tree-trunk thighs, sheathed in dark swim-shorts that clung with almost obscene fidelity to the contours beneath. The quads were so developed they seemed to strain the fabric, each muscle a distinct geography of ridges and valleys. Above them, a torso that belonged in a museum—or a fever dream. Eight distinct abdominal muscles laddered up to a chest that defied propriety. The pectorals were broad and dense, carved with the kind of definition that came from either divine genetics or a religious commitment to the weight room. Dark hair, neatly maintained, covered the sternum and trailed downward in a line that disappeared beneath the waistband of the shorts.
The skin was bronze. Not the orange-bronze of a spray tan, but the deep, lived-in bronze of someone who spent his life under this particular sun. It made the dark hair stand out in sharp relief, a chiaroscuro effect that Jules’s brain struggled to process.
Jules’s gaze continued upward. A jawline sharp enough to cut glass. A beard, short and meticulously trimmed, framing a mouth that was currently curved into a smirk. Cheekbones. Brow eyes so dark they seemed to absorb the light around them.
The waiter.
Jules had noticed him three days ago, their first morning, browsing the hotel’s internal market for sunscreen. Noticed was an understatement. Jules had stopped mid-aisle, hand frozen over a bottle of SPF 50, as the man walked past. The waiter had been wearing a hotel polo then, and it had done absolutely nothing to hide the architecture underneath. Jules had filed the image away in the private folder of his mind—the one he didn’t open when Antoine was in the room.
And now he was here. Standing over Jules’s lounger. Blocking the sun. Asking about drinks.
The smirk widened.
Jules realized he’d been staring.
“Yes—yes, please. A drink would be great.” He cleared his throat, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around flustered. “I’ll trust the bartender’s judgment. Whatever you recommend.”
The waiter’s dark eyes flickered with something that might have been amusement. Might have been something else. “My specialty, then. You will not be disappointed.”
He turned without waiting for a response.
Jules watched him walk away. The shoulders were even more impressive from behind—broad and tapering to a narrow waist. The swim-shorts clung to an ass that was round and high and muscular, the kind of ass that looked like it could crack walnuts.
Jesus Christ.
Jules dragged his gaze back to his book. Susan Calvin was waiting, impassive and forensic. But the words blurred. His pulse was doing something irregular in his throat.
A splash. Footsteps on wet tile.
“Hey, you.” Antoine dropped onto the lounger beside him, water sheeting off his body in rivulets that followed the lean geography of his chest. He grabbed a towel and scrubbed at his hair. “Who was that?”
“Waiter. I ordered a drink.” Jules closed his book, grateful for the excuse to stop pretending he was reading. “He said he’d bring his specialty.”
“Good. I’m parched.” Antoine finished with the towel and draped it around his neck. “Can you order one for me too? When he comes back? Whatever you’re having.”
“Of course.”
Antoine smiled, leaned over, and pressed a quick kiss to Jules’s shoulder. “You’re the best. I’m going back in—the water’s perfect. You should join.”
“Maybe later.”
Another splash, and Antoine was gone, cutting through the turquoise with those long, easy strokes. Jules watched him for a moment, then let his head fall back against the lounger. The sun pressed against his closed eyelids, turning his vision red.
Don’t think about the waiter.
He thought about the waiter.
The way the dark hair had curled slightly at the edges of the swim-shorts. The way the smirk had suggested a private joke that Jules was not yet in on but might be, soon, if he played his cards right. The sheer unholy size of the man—not just tall, but dense, packed with mass in a way that made Antoine’s swimmer’s build seem almost delicate by comparison.
Jules’s hand drifted to his stomach, fingers tracing the faint ridges of his own abdomen. He was in good shape. Running and tennis kept him lean, defined. But he was suddenly, acutely aware that his body was a watercolor sketch next to the waiter’s oil painting.
The minutes stretched. Jules tried to read, failed, tried again. The robot was lying, or not lying, or lying about not lying—he couldn’t keep it straight. His attention kept sliding to the pool bar, to the entrance of the kitchen, to any sign of dark hair and bronze skin.
Then the shadow returned.
“Your drink, señor.”
Jules looked up. The waiter was holding a tall glass filled with something amber-pink, garnished with a wedge of orange and a sprig of rosemary. Condensation beaded on the glass, tiny droplets that caught the light like liquid diamonds.
“Thank you.” Jules took the drink, careful not to let their fingers touch. The glass was cold. Good. Cold was grounding. “What’s in it?”
“A secret. But I can tell you it has gin, and grapefruit, and a little rosemary syrup I make myself.” The waiter didn’t leave. He stood there, blocking the sun, his shadow pooling over Jules’s legs. “You are French?”
“What gave it away?”
“The accent. And the way you read.” A nod toward the Asimov. “French people always read at the pool. It’s charming.”
Jules took a sip of the drink. It was good—bitter and sweet and herbal, with a clean finish that made him want another sip immediately. “This is excellent.”
“I know.” The smirk again. “I am Mateo. What is your name?”
“Jules.”
“Jules,” Mateo repeated, and something about the way his Spanish accent wrapped around the single syllable made Jules’s stomach tighten. “You are here for vacation?”
“Two weeks.” Jules took another sip, longer this time. “We just finished our studies. This is our first real trip together.”
“We?”
The question was casual, but Jules saw the way Mateo’s eyes flicked toward the pool. Toward Antoine.
“My boyfriend. He’s the one swimming.”
Mateo nodded slowly. His gaze returned to Jules, and it traveled—deliberately, unmistakably—down the length of Jules’s body. The lean chest. The flat stomach. The legs stretched out on the lounger. The wet patch on the swim-shorts where condensation from the glass had dripped.
“I noticed you,” Mateo said. “Both of you. When you arrived. Three days ago.”
Jules’s throat went dry. The drink was not helping. “You did?”
“It’s my job to notice guests. But some guests are more noticeable than others.”
The implication hung in the air between them. Jules felt heat rise to his cheeks—and not from the sun. He took another sip. Longer. The gin was beginning to hum at the back of his skull.
“What do you do, Jules? When you’re not on vacation?”
“Financial officer. For a pharmaceutical company. I just started.”
Mateo nodded. His arms crossed over his chest—a gesture that should have been casual but instead served to accentuate the massive swells of his biceps and the breadth of his pectorals. “And me, I study kinesiotherapy. Two more years. I work here every summer since I was sixteen.”
“That’s a long time.”
“The tips are good, and I get to meet interesting people.” The smirk curved into something warmer. “This week is quiet. The real season doesn’t start until next month. So I have time to talk to guests. To make sure they are… hydrated.”
Jules laughed. It came out thinner than he intended.
Mateo’s eyes didn’t leave his face. “You tan well. Your skin. Is it olive naturally, or is that the Spanish sun?”
“A little of both, I think.”
“And the book? You like science fiction?”
“Isaac Asimov. He’s my favorite.” Jules was grateful for the subject change, even as he was acutely aware that Mateo’s attention had not shifted. “This is a collection of robot stories. They’re about ethics, mostly. Logic puzzles dressed up as fiction.”
“You are very smart, then.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Modest, too.” Mateo’s tongue touched his lower lip. “A dangerous combination.”
Before Jules could formulate a response, he remembered. “Oh—my boyfriend. He wanted a drink too. The same, if that’s possible.”
Something flickered in Mateo’s dark eyes. Amusement? Disappointment? It was there and gone before Jules could catalogue it.
“Of course. I will be back in a few minutes.”
He walked away. Jules watched him go. This time, he didn’t pretend not to.
—
Antoine emerged from the pool as Mateo was returning, the drink balanced on a small tray. Jules saw the sequence of events unfold with the curious clarity of a dream: the waiter’s confident stride, Antoine’s dripping frame pulling onto the deck, the subtle shift in weight as a foot found a wet patch of tile—
Mateo stumbled.
The glass tilted.
A cascade of amber-pink liquid arced through the air and hit Jules square in the chest.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. The drink was cold. Really cold. It soaked through Jules’s swim-shorts, spread across his stomach, dripped down his thighs. The orange wedge had landed in his lap like a comic prop.
“¡Dios mío!” Mateo’s face transformed—the smirk vanished, replaced by wide-eyed horror. “Señor, I am so sorry! I am so clumsy—I did not see the water on the tile—”
“It’s fine.” Jules was already sitting up, brushing at the mess. The sticky gin-and-grapefruit mixture was everywhere. “Really. Accidents happen.”
Antoine had reached them, towel still draped around his neck, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Well, Jules, I asked for a drink, not a bath. Looks like you got both.”
“Very funny.”
“I insist on making this right,” Mateo said. He had grabbed a cloth napkin from his tray and was dabbing ineffectually at Jules’s shoulder, his brow furrowed with genuine distress. “We have spare towels. And a shower. There is a cabina for employees—I can take you there, you can clean up, and we will find you something dry to wear.”
Jules looked down at himself. The swim-shorts were a disaster—white fabric now tie-dyed in shades of pink and orange. “That’s probably a good idea.”
“I am so sorry,” Mateo said again. “Please, follow me.”
Jules stood. Antoine had already settled onto his lounger, still grinning.
“Take your time,” Antoine called. “I’ll guard your book.”
Mateo led Jules away from the pool deck, through a gate marked only with a discreet Solo Empleados sign, and into a narrow path bordered by bougainvillea. The flowers were magenta against the white stucco walls, and the air was thick with the scent of them—sweet and slightly peppery. Jules’s feet were sticky inside his sandals. The drying drink was beginning to feel tacky on his skin.
“I really am sorry,” Mateo said over his shoulder. “I am not usually clumsy.”
“I believe you.”
They reached a small building, whitewashed like the rest of the hotel, tucked behind a row of palm trees. Mateo produced a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Inside, the air was cooler—there was a fan turning lazily overhead—and the space was clean and utilitarian. A row of lockers. A bench. A shower stall in the corner, tiled in sea-glass blue.
“The shower works,” Mateo said. “Please. Clean yourself. I will find towels and something dry for you to wear.”
Jules hesitated. The door swung shut behind them with a soft click.
“I can wait outside,” Mateo added, and there was something in his voice—a slight rasp, a lower register—that made Jules’s stomach do the same thing it had done by the pool. Flip and tighten. A fish on a line.
“No, it’s fine. You don’t have to.”
Jules stepped to the shower. The controls were simple—one knob for temperature, one for pressure. He turned both, and water cascaded from the rain-style head, shockingly cold before it warmed to pleasant. Without overthinking, he stepped under the stream.
The swim-shorts were already ruined. He peeled them off, the wet fabric clinging to his thighs, and dropped them on the tile. The water hit his skin—his chest, his stomach, the curve of his ass—and he felt the sticky residue of the cocktail dissolve and swirl down the drain. He tilted his head back, letting the water run through his hair, and closed his eyes.
A whistle.
Low and appreciative.
Jules’s eyes snapped open.
Mateo was standing at the edge of the shower stall, his shoulder propped against the tile wall, a towel draped over one arm. His gaze was fixed on Jules’s body—not with the apologetic solicitude of a waiter who had spilled a drink, but with the unabashed assessment of someone who liked what he saw and saw no reason to hide it.
“I knew it,” Mateo said in Spanish, and then, switching to English: “I knew you would look like this.”
Jules’s brain stuttered. “Like what?”
“Perfect.” The word was a purr. “Your ass, Jules. From the first day I saw you, even with your shorts, I knew it would be beautiful. But now—” He made a gesture, hand sweeping through the air as if to indicate something beyond words. “Better than I imagined.”
The water was still running. Jules was still naked. His body, without consulting his brain, had begun to respond—not fully, not yet, but the first stirrings of arousal were unmistakable. Warmth pooling low in his belly. A tightening in his groin.
“You’re staring,” Jules managed.
“Yes.” Mateo’s hand, the one not holding the towel, had drifted to the front of his swim-shorts. The fabric was dark, but Jules could see the shape beneath it now—a thickening, a lengthening, the unmistakable outline of something that was far, far larger than anything Jules had expected. “You stared at me, too. By the pool. I saw you.”
Jules opened his mouth. Closed it. There was no point in denying it.
“I was just—”
“You were just looking.” Mateo’s voice was low, intimate, the Spanish accent softening the edges of the English words. “It’s okay to look. And it’s okay to like what you see.” His hand pressed more firmly against the front of his shorts, outlining the shape beneath. “Do you like what you see?”
The question hung in the steamy air between them. Jules’s heart was pounding now—a hard, insistent rhythm that he could feel in his throat, his temples, the base of his cock.
“Yes,” he whispered.
The word was barely audible over the water. But Mateo heard it.
His smile spread wide and slow. “Good.”
In a single motion, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his swim-shorts and pushed them down. The fabric caught for a moment on the thickest part of his thighs before giving way, and then there was nothing between Jules’s eyes and the reality of Mateo’s body.
The cock was enormous.
Jules’s mind, usually so good at words, went entirely blank. Statues. Pornography. Anatomy textbooks. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for the sheer physics of what he was looking at. It was thick—so thick that Jules’s fingers would not meet around it, he was certain—and long, curving slightly upward, with a head that was proportionally immense, flushed dark and glistening already at the tip. Below it hung testicles that looked heavy, substantial, the kind of weight that would slap against skin during sex with an audible sound.
Jules made a sound. It wasn’t a word.
“You have never seen one like this.” It wasn’t a question.
“No,” Jules breathed. “Never.”
Mateo took a step forward. The shower spray was drifting slightly, mist beading on his bronze skin, catching in the dark hair of his chest, making his abdominal muscles gleam like polished stone. He was so close now that Jules could feel the heat radiating from him—a different heat from the sun, denser, more intimate.
Two hands landed on Jules’s shoulders.
They were warm. Solid. The fingers wrapped over his collarbones with a gentle pressure that left no room for misinterpretation. Mateo pushed down.
Jules’s knees folded.
He was on the tile floor of the shower, water still cascading from above, and his face was level with the most beautiful cock he had ever seen. The scent of it hit him—clean skin and salt and an undercurrent of musk that made his mouth water involuntarily. The heat. He could feel the heat of it, inches from his lips, radiating like a small sun.
“I have a boyfriend,” Jules said.
The words came out weaker than he intended. A paper shield against a battering ram.
Mateo looked down at him. The expression on his face was not cruel, not triumphant. It was… knowing. As if he had heard these exact words before, in this exact situation, and knew how the script would unfold.
“Your boyfriend does not have to know,” he said. “And this is just a touch, yes? Just a hand. You have already seen it. What is the difference between seeing and touching?”
Everything, Jules’s conscience whispered. Everything is the difference.
But his hand was already lifting.
The moment his fingers made contact with the shaft—warm, impossibly warm, the skin soft over the rigid core—Jules’s conscience went quiet. His right hand couldn’t close around it. Couldn’t even come close. The girth was too much; his fingertips and thumb formed a C that left a visible gap. His left hand, moving of its own accord, dropped lower and cupped the testicles. They were heavy. Full. The weight of them was shocking, as if Mateo were carrying something dense and vital inside his body.
Mateo exhaled through his nose. “Yes. Like that.”
Jules’s hands moved. Exploring. Measuring. The shaft was so thick that it seemed to occupy all the space around him, all the air in his lungs. He traced the vein that ran along the underside, felt the pulse thrumming beneath the skin. The head was smooth and broad and wet now—a bead of clear fluid had gathered at the tip, and as Jules watched, it grew, began to stretch downward in a slow, silver thread.
“Your boyfriend,” Mateo said. “Is he like this?”
Jules shook his head. The motion was jerky, uncoordinated. “No. He’s—not even half. Not like this.”
“So you have never had a real man’s cock in your hands.”
The phrase landed like a slap. And yet—it was true. Antoine was beautiful, and Antoine was gentle, and Antoine’s cock, when Jules was permitted to interact with it, was a modest, manageable thing. It had never made Jules’s mouth water. It had never made his mind go blank with wanting.
Jules didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
Mateo took his own cock in his hand. The movement was casual, practiced—he held it at the base, hefting it like a weapon, and then he slapped it. Lightly. Against Jules’s left cheek.
The contact was warm and wet and shocking.
Jules’s hips bucked. Involuntarily. His own cock, forgotten until this moment, was fully erect now, curving up toward his belly with a desperation that embarrassed him. Precum was already beading at its tip, dripping onto the wet tile.
“You want to try it,” Mateo said. “A real cock. For the first time.”
It wasn’t a question, but Jules nodded anyway.
Mateo’s hand moved from his own shaft to Jules’s hair. His fingers threaded through the wet brown strands, gripped firmly at the back of Jules’s skull. Not painfully. But with an authority that left no doubt about who was in control.
“Open,” Mateo said.
Jules opened his mouth.
The head of Mateo’s cock pressed against his lower lip. For a moment, it just rested there—wet and hot and enormous—and then it pushed forward. The taste was salt and skin and something faintly bitter. Jules’s jaw stretched to accommodate the width, and he felt the corners of his mouth strain. His tongue, flattened beneath the intrusion, mapped the shape of it—the ridge of the corona, the smooth expanse of the head, the pulse still beating against the underside.
“Good,” Mateo murmured. “Good boy.”
The praise sent a jolt of electricity down Jules’s spine. His cock twitched, drooling precum onto his thigh.
Mateo’s hips began to move. Slowly at first—small, shallow thrusts that pushed the head deeper and then pulled back, never fully withdrawing. The hand in Jules’s hair tightened. The water from the shower was still falling, slicking Mateo’s chest hair into dark whorls, running down the channels of his abdominal muscles, dripping from his chin onto Jules’s upturned face.
“You are a natural,” Mateo said. “You have done this before, I think. But never with someone like me. Never with a cock that actually fills you.”
The words were humiliating. Jules felt them land somewhere deep in his gut, somewhere that made heat bloom behind his navel. His hand, unbidden, wrapped around his own cock. He began to stroke himself in time with Mateo’s thrusts.
“Look at you. So eager. Your boyfriend is sitting by the pool waiting for you, and you are here on your knees, jerking off while a stranger fucks your face.” Mateo’s voice was velvet and gravel, amusement and arousal tangled together. “What does that make you, Jules?”
Jules couldn’t answer. His mouth was full.
Mateo thrust deeper.
The head of his cock hit the back of Jules’s throat, and Jules gagged—a full-body spasm that made his eyes water and his throat constrict. Mateo paused, pulling back an inch, giving him room to breathe.
“You can take it,” he said. “I know you can.”
It wasn’t a demand. It was a statement of faith, and Jules wanted—with a desperation that surprised him—to prove it true. He breathed through his nose. Relaxed his jaw. Relaxed the muscles at the back of his throat the way he had read about, the way he had tried, once, with Antoine, before Antoine had made a face and said it wasn’t really his thing.
Mateo thrust again.
This time, the head slid past the barrier. Jules’s throat opened around it, and suddenly there was cock in him—all the way in him—and his nose was pressed against the dark hair of Mateo’s groin, and he couldn’t breathe, and he couldn’t think, and the world had shrunk to the single, overwhelming sensation of being completely, utterly filled.
Mateo held himself there. The hand in Jules’s hair was a fist now, gripping tight, and Mateo’s thighs—those massive, beautiful thighs—were trembling slightly with the effort of staying still. Above Jules, somewhere in the misty distance, Mateo made a sound—a low, guttural groan that vibrated through his cock and into Jules’s throat.
“Perfect,” Mateo breathed. “You take it so perfect. Little slut.”
The word should have offended him. Instead, it made Jules’s cock pulse in his hand. He was still stroking himself—had never stopped—and he was close, so dangerously close that every nerve in his body was singing with it.
Mateo’s free hand came down. A gentle slap against Jules’s cheek. Once. Twice. Not pain, exactly, but pressure—a reminder of who was in charge.
Then Mateo pulled his hips back, and his cock slid out of Jules’s throat. Jules gasped. Air flooded his lungs, sweet and sharp. His vision, which had begun to tunnel, cleared. He looked up.
Mateo was gazing down at him with an expression of pure, predatory satisfaction.
“You are beautiful when you are choking on my cock,” he said. “Do you know that?”
Jules shook his head. His voice, when he found it, was hoarse. “I can’t—”
“You can. And you will.”
Mateo’s hips snapped forward.
The rhythm began in earnest now—a proper facefuck, no longer exploratory but confident, knowing, demanding. Mateo’s hands were on both sides of Jules’s head, holding him steady, and his hips were driving forward in a pattern that was brutal and precise. Each thrust buried his cock in Jules’s throat. Each withdrawal let Jules gasp a half-breath before the next impact. The sounds were obscene—wet, choking, the slap of skin against skin, the splash of water on tile.
Jules could feel drool running down his chin. Tears were streaming from his eyes, mixing with the shower spray. His throat was raw and his jaw ached and he was the hardest he had ever been in his life.
He didn’t want it to stop.
Mateo was talking—a low stream of words in Spanish and broken English, praising and mocking and claiming. “So easy. You were so easy. All it took was one look. One spilled drink. And here you are, on your knees for me, with your boyfriend waiting outside.” He laughed, breathless. “You begged for this without even saying a word. I saw it in your eyes the first moment. You wanted to be used. You wanted a cock that could actually satisfy you.”
Jules couldn’t argue. His hand was flying over his own erection, slick with precum and shower water, and his orgasm was building—a pressure at the base of his spine, a tightening in his balls, a white-hot urgency that was blotting out everything except the rhythm of Mateo’s hips and the weight of Mateo’s cock in his throat.
Mateo’s pace changed.
It became erratic. Frenzied. His thrusts shortened, sharpened, and the grip on Jules’s head became almost painfully tight.
“Now,” Mateo said. “Now you take it. All of it.”
He shoved forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and held there.
The first pulse of his orgasm hit the back of Jules’s throat directly. Warm and thick and bitter-salt, flooding across his tongue, triggering his gag reflex and then overwhelming it. Jules swallowed—had to swallow, had no choice—and then there was more, pulsing again, and again, filling his mouth, leaking from the corners where his lips couldn’t form a proper seal.
The taste. The pressure. The sheer overwhelming fullness of it.
Jules’s own orgasm detonated.
His cock jerked in his hand, and his vision went white. The pleasure was so intense it was almost pain—a full-body convulsion that made his spine arch and his toes curl against the wet tile. He heard himself make a sound—a muffled, desperate whimper, swallowed by the cock still lodged in his throat—and then he was coming, coming harder than he had in years, shooting rope after rope of semen onto the shower floor, onto his thighs, onto Mateo’s feet.
It went on for a long time. Or what felt like a long time. When it was over, Jules was limp, boneless, slumped against Mateo’s legs with semen cooling on his skin and Mateo’s softening cock still resting on his tongue.
Above him, Mateo let out a long, satisfied breath.
“Good boy.”
He withdrew. His cock slid from Jules’s mouth with a wet, obscene sound, still half-hard, glistening with saliva and semen. A thread of fluid connected the tip to Jules’s lower lip for a moment before breaking.
Jules stayed on his knees. The water was still running. The fan was still turning overhead. The world, impossibly, had continued.
“We should get you cleaned up,” Mateo said, his voice now matter-of-fact, as if they had simply finished a game of tennis and needed to towel off. He reached for the shower controls and turned off the water. “Your boyfriend will wonder what took so long.”
The word hit Jules like a bucket of ice water.
Antoine.
He scrambled to his feet. His legs were shaky, uncooperative, and Mateo had to steady him with a hand on his elbow.
“Easy,” Mateo said. “There is no rush.”
“I have to—he’s waiting. The towel. You said you had a towel.”
Mateo handed him one—thick, white, hotel-grade. Jules scrubbed at his body with mechanical efficiency, trying not to think about what he was wiping off his skin. Trying not to think about the taste still flooding his mouth. Trying not to think about how his throat would be raw for days and how he would have to lie to Antoine about why his voice was hoarse.
Mateo had found a spare pair of shorts—not swim-shorts, but cotton, presumably from his locker. They were too big. Jules cinched the drawstring tight and tried not to notice that they smelled faintly of the same citrus-and-musk as Mateo’s skin.
“I’ll walk you back,” Mateo said. “I’ll tell your boyfriend I’m very sorry for the accident. I’ll offer him a free cocktails in compensation. And he will believe me, because he has no reason not to.”
Jules looked at him. Mateo’s smirk had returned—but it was not the satisfied, sated expression of a man who had just gotten what he wanted. It was the smirk of a predator who had tasted blood and found it exquisite. The hunger was still there, banked but not extinguished, a low-burning ember that could flare into flame at any moment. His dark eyes moved over Jules’s body with the same deliberate assessment as before, as if he were cataloguing every inch of skin, every tremor of muscle, every shallow breath.
And Jules felt it.
A stirring deep in his belly, warm and unwanted and undeniable. His cock, which had just spent itself so completely, gave a weak, traitorous twitch inside the borrowed shorts. The sight of Mateo’s unfulfilled gaze, the knowledge that this man could take him again, right now, right here—that he wanted to—sent a thrill through Jules that was half terror and half something else entirely.
Something that felt disturbingly like hope.
The shame was there too, a cold counterpoint to the heat. It coiled in his chest, whispered Antoine in a voice that sounded like his mother’s disappointment. But the shame was distant, muffled, as if it were happening to someone else. Here, in this moment, with Mateo’s hungry eyes still devouring him, the shame was just the price of admission.
And Jules was already inside.
“It was an accident,” Jules said. “Wasn’t it?”
The waiter shrugged. The motion made his pectorals shift in a way that Jules’s exhausted brain registered with the last flicker of arousal it could muster.
“I wanted an excuse to talk to you,” Mateo said, his voice dropping to something darker, more intimate. “The spilled drink gave me one. But the rest—” He paused, and his hand came up, fingers trailing slowly along Jules’s jawline. The touch was featherlight, almost tender, but there was steel beneath it. A claim. A reminder. “The rest, I took for myself.”
Jules’s breath caught. He couldn’t look away from Mateo’s body—the way the water still glistened on his chest, the way his pectorals rose and fell with each slow breath, the way his cock, still half-hard, hung heavy and undeniable between those massive thighs. Even now, even after everything, Jules’s eyes kept drifting downward, pulled by a gravity he couldn’t resist.
Mateo’s thumb brushed across Jules’s lower lip, pressing gently, as if testing whether the seal would hold. “You gave it to me,” he said, and the possessiveness in his voice made Jules’s stomach tighten. “And you did beautifully. But there is more to take.”
—
The walk back to the pool was surreal. The sun was exactly where it had been. The German couple was exactly where they had been. Antoine was exactly where Jules had left him—still sprawled on the lounger, still reading something on his phone, still utterly unaware.
When he saw them approaching, he sat up.
“There you are! I was starting to wonder if you’d drowned.”
“I am so sorry,” Mateo said, his Spanish accent somehow more pronounced now, more servile almost mocking. “The shower took longer than expected. And I could not find shorts that fit.” He gestured at Jules’s borrowed garment. “Please accept my deepest apologies. The next drinks are on me."
Antoine waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it. Accidents happen. Jules, you okay?”
Jules nodded. His throat was sore. “Fine. Just needed a quick rinse.”
“You look tired.”
“Sun. And the gin.”
Antoine bought it. Of course he bought it. Jules was a good boyfriend—attentive, honest, loving—and Antoine had no framework for suspecting otherwise. The idea that Jules might have spent the last twenty minutes on his knees in a shower stall, choking on a stranger’s enormous cock, was simply not a possibility that existed in Antoine’s universe.
“Well,” Mateo said, “I should return to work. Please enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”
He caught Jules’s eye as he turned to leave. Held it for exactly one beat too long.
Then he was gone, walking away with those impossible thighs and those impossible shoulders, and Jules watched him disappear through the gate marked Solo Empleados.
“Nice guy,” Antoine said. “Clumsy, but nice.”
“Yeah,” Jules said. “Nice.”
He lay back on the lounger. Picked up his Asimov. Opened it to a random page. Susan Calvin was still there, impassive, solving problems of logic and ethics.
Jules read the same sentence seven times without comprehending a single word.
Mateo’s taste was still in the back of his throat.
And somewhere deep in his chest, beneath the guilt that was already beginning to curdle, a small, secret voice was asking a question he didn’t want to answer: What happens when he spills another drink?
