All That Argentine Jazz

Wentworth fucked him on the foot of the bed in an old, exclusive hotel with large rooms and a shaded balcony. Open French doors led out onto the balcony and the unexpectedly comforting sound of the busy street noises below and let in a breeze to caress the steaming bodies of the fucking men. Neal was on his back, his legs being held raised and spread by Wentworth as, his forehead plastered to Neal’s and his eyes capturing Neal’s to catch every nuance of Neal’s response to the working of the cock inside Neal’s channel, Wentworth adjusted his stroking technique to cause Neal’s eyes to slit the most and his moans to deepen the farthest.

Wentworth had put a CD of Carlos Ferrari’s music on while they fucked, which both men found comforting and arousing. Always in tune with Carlos’ music, Wentworth harmonized the working of his cock with the texture of the tune playing on Carlos’ CD. This is the first time they’d done this to a recording, though. In times past, Carlos had controlled the fuck with his own singing live.

Afterward, the two lying in each other arms stretched out on the bed, turned slightly toward the French doors and the cooling breeze on their lightly sweating bodies, Wentworth murmured, “Did Carlos ever tell you how we picked you out—picked you up—in the first place?”