When it comes to emotional entanglements, Hunter Dixon is a runner. Someone would be out the door the minute the ‘LOVE’ word was spoken. ‘Don’t go building a dream castle for the two of us, and don’t go putting me on a pedestal; I’m not that much of a paragon of virtue,’ he would say. A killer in the world of high dollar real estate, his looks and personality keep his bank account full and his bed frequently populated. When he meets billionaire entrepreneur, Beauregard Medar, and his gorgeous limo driver, Patrick, Hunter’s world is turned upside down. Never before has he been the object of a loving male, and he rather enjoys the attention, but the truth is stranger than fiction, or so they say, and Hunter’s truth may prove to be his biggest obstacle.
Thursdays were Hunter’s night at the gym. That was where he met Jimmy, the picture of pure eroticism with short blond hair, blue eyes, unblemished complexion, untied white sneaks, white socks, white chest protector properly fastened to protect the heart area but leaving the young man’s right nipple exposed, and pants and jock on the floor by his feet. Hunter was the only one in the locker room drying off from his after-workout shower when Jimmy entered. “One strange thing about sneakers. They feel so good on the feet when you first put them on and tie them up tight and they feel so good when you sit down and untie them later,” he said as he straddled the bench removing them.
Not one to be rude, Hunter replied, “That’s for sure.”
“Yep, and the same thing can be said for the jock. Feels real good when you first put it on and snug things up. Feels even better to me, though, when I take it off and let things hang loose.”
Hunter again agreed. “You can say that again.” He quickly wrapped the towel around his waist.
Jimmy noticed the effect he was having on Hunter and decided to play the cruising game to the hilt. He picked up his epee and began stroking it. “The one thing about fencing,” he continued, “is you have to be sure your weapon is protected with a good rubber tip. Don’t you agree?”
Hunter said “yes” wondering if this was leading somewhere or just idle bantering.
“Always got to protect the tips of weapons or you could kill someone or have someone kill you unwittingly. Me – I always protect my tip.” He licked his lips. “What about you? You protect your weapon?”
“Always, when I’m using it.”
“How about right now? It looks to me like you want to use it.”
Jimmy was right. Hunter did want to use it, and at the right time he would worship the man in his own erotic way, but for now he was following Jimmy’s lead, even though he was secretly managing his own seduction.
As Hunter sat in his cubicle tweaking sales descriptions for the umpteenth time, the door to the office opened, letting in the muggy August heat. “Anybody here gay,” bellowed a voice from a tall, white-goateed man with a balding head and a walking stick.
“I am,” said Hunter rising from his desk. “My name is Hunter Dixon. How may I help you?”
“You’re man enough to admit it. Glad to see it. No one in any other agency I’ve visited today would openly admit it. My name is Beauregard Medar. My friends call me Beau. You may call me Mr. Medar.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Medar. How can I be of assistance?”
“I need a new home in the area.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Something fashionable, with well-landscaped gardens, fifteen to twenty rooms for overnight business guests and parties, an indoor pool, perhaps a ballroom or a huge dining room, maybe a portico, lots of parking, and under two million.”
“Only one property comes to mind. There’s a circular driveway, a former carriage house with an upstairs apartment, a pond, a stone gazebo, and a barn. The place has eighteen rooms, including a garden room, nearly all glass on three sides, and there are three separate fireplaces for cozy winter nights.”
On the way to the property, Hunter immediately noticed the limo driver. There was something about the man in his uniform that he found alluring. He had no exact idea why. He had made it before with people in uniforms – servicemen, medics, school crossing guards, dollar store clerks, a nurse in the hospital supply closet, and a rent-a-cop. But Patrick in his uniform excited Hunter unlike the others. Patrick looked hot, and Hunter, trying to imagine the two of them together, was coming up with numerous scenarios. He had found that closeted men were often the hottest of bedfellows. They really got into it because it happened so rarely. Scanning Patrick more closely, Hunter detected underneath the taut white shirt a well-muscled chest and abdomen, and biceps that stretched the material to the utmost. It was so form-fitting that he could see through the material that the main vein in each upper arm was popped. That vein, for some unknown reason, was a major turn-on for Hunter. He was willing to bet that Patrick had grown up on a farm doing chores.