Chapter 3 – Chapter 3

He was all Matt ever wanted—or could want. More than Peter was; more than Peter ever could be. Expert, forceful, controlling, yet solicitous. And long and hard and thick. Virile. Fast to recover; unrelenting. The young, blond musician had no idea how Enrique sensed that he melted to slight bondage, something Peter never wanted. Matt's wrists were tied behind his back with the Brazilian's—Enrique having told Matt that was his nationality—silk necktie. Not enough to actually incapacitate Matt if he wanted to break away, but enough to give the illusion of control having been relinquished.

Matt didn't mind the act with a stranger as long as there was the illusion that he wasn't complicit.

Enrique, solid and strong, heavily muscled, dusky-skinned, slightly hirsute with black, curly hair, sat on the side the bed, an arm encircling the slighter, nearly alabaster-white blond's waist, as Matt sat in his lap, facing him, knees bent and calves flat on the bed, encasing Enrique's meaty thighs, and arched back over the bedroom carpet, bound arms dangling toward the floor. Enrique's other arm moved from a hand cupping the back of Matt's neck to fisting and pumping the young musician's respectable—but put to shame by Enrique's—cock, while Matt raised and lowered his hips, ever more rapidly on the cock buried in his channel with the strength of his knees.

Starting with Matt fucking himself on the cock, at the Brazilian's command, both of the men wanting to establish that Matt wanted it but that Enrique, his cock moving inside Matt's channel, caressing every undulating wall, controlled it. Then the finish of Enrique turning Matt, shoulder blades on the surface of the bed and bound arms over Matt's head, while the muscular Brazilian crouched between the young musician's thighs, spread wide and raised with Enrique's hands fisting Matt's slim ankles, and, pulling the young blond's pelvis off the bed to meet his, the forceful, experienced older man pounded, pounded, pounded Matt's slowly opening channel. First Matt, and then Enrique, ejaculated in noisy, animated explosion, punctuated with Matt's tenor-baritone and Enrique's bass flood of dirty fuck words off the street—some of Enrique's in Portuguese—that would seem out of character for each man in more controlled circumstances.

Enrique's laughed, "That was good. That was very good."

Still buried deep inside Matt's channel, Enrique stood at the foot of the bed, bringing the younger man up with him into his arms. Matt hooked his knees on the muscular Brazilian's hips and, initially, nuzzled his face into the hollow of the Brazilian's dusky and slightly hair-matted chest as Enrique held the younger man close and rocked back and forth, the lubricated slipperiness of the sheathed cock giving off a sucking, slap-slap sound as, healthy, needy, and virile, his cock regained girth and length. He pushed Matt's shoulder blades back onto the surface of the bed with his head, his lips finding the young blond's nipples, as Matt threw his bound arms over his head again and moaned to the sound of the forceful Brazilian's suckling at the younger man's nipples and the moist slap-slap of his cock inside Matt's channel, pulling Matt's hips toward him with each deep—deeper, thicker than the previous time—thrust, thrust, thrust of the insistent, digging cock.

Matt arched his back and emitted a little cry of passion as the two came simultaneously. Too exhausted now to say anything dirty, knowing now that the Brazilian needed no egging on.

Afterward they sat at the table by the window of Enrique's junior suite, he in a hotel robe, Matt naked, as they feasted on what was either a very late supper or a very early breakfast the Brazilian had ordered from room service.

The two explored each other in discussion in a way Matt had never done with any other man who had brought him to a hotel room from the bar for a far tamer tryst than the two had just enjoyed—in fact in deeper and more intimate detail than Matt had ever conversed with Peter.

In what was refreshing to Matt in these encounters, Enrique showed no reticence in talking about himself, and, seeming to understand that Matt was a bit skittish about it, he talked first.

"No, I'm not married. I've never made it secret that I'm a man's man. And, yes, my heritage is Brazilian, but I'm an American citizen. Ties back to Brazil, of course—mostly financial ties; I'm in international banking. But I've lived and worked in New York for over twenty years."

None of this seemed to be put on. Enrique had given him a business card with his room number on it. It identified him as a New York banker, manager of a branch of a Brazilian bank, and it gave a full name and contact numbers. Unless he'd stolen the card from someone and was playing with a false identity, he was being open with Matt. He certainly seemed to be Brazilian. Matt even got him to speak a bit of Portuguese—the words Enrique had spoken in Portuguese during sex, words that made Matt blush upon hearing the translation—which were offered without hesitation or embarrassment and were quite fluent—certainly graphic— as far as Matt was concerned. And there was a banking conference going on at the hotel.

"I don't usually do this when I'm on the road. But, you know, it's Vegas, and you are such a delicious treat. Achingly luscious. Compliant and resilient at the same time—and what you can do with your channel muscles. I don't often find a young man like you. And I have a weakness for young blonds."

His brilliant smile and openness disarmed Matt completely. In truth, he'd already laid Matt completely open with his lovemaking. Matt had thought of it as that—lovemaking. Not just fucking. It was something that Peter and he had, briefly, attained at the beginning of their relationship. Now, though, they just fucked. And argued.

"Me?" Matt, in turn, asked. "Why am I in Las Vegas? To play the piano and sing. Not much money in it in Tennessee, where I came from. Certainly not what can be made here."

Then, in embarrassment, Matt went silent, his mind on that hundred-dollar bill that Enrique had dropped in his hat, confident that it would buy him what it had, indeed, bought him. Matt's thoughts went to what he had been denying to himself. He was just a whore. And Enrique had paid him generously for the lay. By talking about money just now, he'd sounded so mercenary.

"I'm not really money hungry," he blurted out, wanting to move to higher ground. "I'm making a change and need more than the piano playing pays to move on. It's just temporary . . . what I'm doing here."

"Temporary? I got the impression you enjoyed me fucking you."

"Yes, of course. That's not what I mean. I mean . . . that . . ."

"I understand. You aren't really a prostitute, not really. That's fine. You are an outstanding musician, and drop-dead gorgeous. That should be—"

"Now you're mocking me," Matt said, a bit distressed.

"And you're an outstanding lay," Enrique said, with a laugh. "And men who enjoying it shouldn't deny any opportunity they have to do it. I know I don't."

Matt, completely disarmed by Enrique's openness—and compliment—laughed as well. He felt the tension draining from his body.

"A bad relationship? Is that why you need to move on?"

Matt felt completely naked before the Brazilian. He was physically naked, yes, but Enrique was completely stripping away all of his reservations, everything he'd been keeping to himself—and he found himself relieved and exhilarated by it.

And he opened the floodgates of his reserve and told Enrique of it all. Of Peter, who had swept him off his feet soon after he'd arrived, straight from Julliard, in Las Vegas and had begun working on the Strip. Of how forceful Peter had been, taking full control and taking care of Matt's every need. Just as Matt liked it.

So open was Matt that he told Enrique exactly what he wanted from a man, and Enrique murmured an "I've gathered as much."

Matt told Enrique of how Peter had founded a company that rented out party and restaurant supplies and that had done well in Vegas, even with Peter micromanaging everything—and despite his volatile temper. It had done so well, in fact, that it had attracted the attention of a larger company, which had worked to put Peter's company in a financial corner, had acquired the company in a hostile takeover, and had booted Peter out to an early retirement while he was still in his mid-fifties.

Although the takeover had made him comfortably rich, Peter was too young to retire and too old to start over again and was railing at everyone and everything, including Matt. His violent temper extended to the physical. He hadn't put Matt in the hospital—yet. But it wasn't out of the realm of possibilities.

It was only a matter of time before he threw Matt out—his eyes were already roaming elsewhere—and Matt needed to find other arrangements before he was out on the street with no idea where to go. He'd always been taken care of. He wasn't a virgin when he'd come to Las Vegas. He'd had a forceful man to take care of him ever since he'd entered college. He'd still be back at Julliard if his mentor hadn't died. Matt had a "thing" for older, controlling men.

"So, you need an older, stronger man to take care of you," Enrique summarized. "And you enjoy the fuck—being fucked."

Matt wanted to object to the bald statement of it, but he couldn't say Enrique hadn't summed it up correctly. And Enrique already had another hundred-dollar bill out and was looking at him meaningfully.

"That's not necessary," Matt said. "I want it again as much as you could. I couldn't . . . now . . ."

"It will be here if you change your mind," Enrique said.

"Say those words again," Matt said. "Speak dirty to me in Portuguese again."

Enrique rose, smiling and letting his robe part, and moved around the table to pull Matt up close to him and whisper in his ear in a throaty voice. "Trepar, fodor, funicar, sexo, porra," he whispered. "Fazer sexo com alguém. Gostava de fazer sexo com Mateus."

"That last. What . . .?"

"I said I enjoyed fucking Matthew."

Matt shuddered and grabbed Enrique's buttocks under the robe, holding the Brazilian close to him and feeling Enrique's cock rise under his balls, penetrating between his thighs.

This time Enrique made slow, deep, quiet, total love to Matt, both of them stretched out on the bed, but changing positions so that Matt was on his belly with Enrique on his back and then Enrique side-splitting Matt, and, finally, Enrique on his back, with Matt, facing the ceiling, stretched over him, feet and elbows digging into the surface of the bed and his buttocks rising and falling on the ever-hard, thick, and long cock. Throughout the early-morning hours, they were plastered to each other with Enrique's cock deep inside Matt's channel.

They slept through what was left of the early morning. Embracing. Matt cuddled into Enrique's chest, Enrique's cock still possessing Matt's channel. When Matt awoke, Enrique was gone, a note had been left saying he had sessions to attend for his conference. The hundred-dollar bill was still on the table by the window. Matt was tempted, but he left it there.

Matt went back to Peter's apartment, just down the street from the hotel and two blocks off the Strip, wary that there would be a scene with Peter for staying out all night. No matter what tricks Matt took at the hotel—which Peter didn't know about anyway—Matt had always been back home by 3:00 a.m. Always before. Not this morning.

But when Matt got home, there was no evidence that Peter had been there in the night either. Matt quickly mussed up his side of their bed, finishing just as he heard the front door to the apartment close. He came out of the bedroom drinking coffee, as if he'd just gotten out of bed himself. Peter didn't bother to tell him where he'd been—and, more important, didn't ask where Matt had been. He just grumbled and jabbed at Matt about this and that not having gotten done around the apartment and went straight to the bathroom and turned on the water in the shower.

It was the first time that Matt was happy that Peter wasn't showing any interest in what Matt was doing.