Pianoman

Farther down the hall, the elevator door opened, and there he was. The hunk. A well-dressed, extremely well-put-together South American. Walking out of the elevator, his progress arrested as he saw the other man and Matt, close together, kissing, at the door of a room down the hall.

It was only a brief moment, but it had embarrassed Matt. The man at the elevator was so much more than the man who had pulled him close and surprised him with a kiss at the door to his room. Matt was still in the process of tucking his tux shirt into his trousers, so there wasn’t much for the man at the elevator to misconstrue.

Maybe if the man hadn’t smiled before he turned and walked the other way down the hall. Maybe then his image wouldn’t have emblazoned itself in Matt’s mind. Maybe also if the man hadn’t been such a hunk—so much more so than the guy who paid fifty dollars to blow Matt and was angling for more later—at his convenience. Not bothering to ask Matt what would be convenient for him.