Christmas Cole E-Book

B.G. Thomas

• Herausgeber: Dreamspinner Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 95

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

Javier Torres was a sweet, plump, and very unpopular child. But over the years, he turned himself into a gorgeous gym god. The problem is he's also become an egotistical snob. But one day his arrogance pisses off the wrong little old lady, and he wakes up to find that, like the Prince in Beauty and the Beast, he's been transformed into something from his personal nightmares. Javier has nowhere to go but back home, where to his surprise, he is greeted with open arms, not just by the family he remembers, but by his new brother-in-law, Cole. Cole suspects there might be a pretty heart to go with the pretty face locked inside that new body, but has Javier learned enough to earn Cole—instead of coal—for Christmas?

Leseprobe

Special thanks to Tony Medina for a crucial conversation and a very nice lunch; C.L. Miles, who transcribed this whole furshlugginer thing; and for Sally Davis, who unbeknownst to her, gave me the critical plot point for this story!

Chapter One

The sex had been good. Great, even—if not rushed. But that was the way Javier Torres had wanted it. Hot and wild and wet and hard and fast. Something to revel in, lose himself in, like drugs. But sex was not something he could overdose on—although he had tried many a time. What a way to go.

He had never seen the man before that evening, and the minute he’d laid eyes on him, Javier knew he had to have him. He was exactly what Javier had needed. The man was gorgeous—tall, hugely muscled, with dark smooth skin, long dark hair, a slight beard, and chocolate-brown eyes. Steamy eyes.

What was his name?

Gary? No, but that was close.

Harvey? No… (who cares?).

Harry. Yes! It had been a little joke between them. Funny because he, Javier, was hairy. And Harry was as smooth as that statue Mark had in his study, his chest like sculpted marble.

Mary, Mother of God, Harry had been good too. Javier couldn’t remember the last time a trick had nailed him so good and hard. A year or more. Since he and Mark had gone to the baths in San Francisco for Javier’s thirty-fifth birthday? Even Mark had gotten into it, and hadn’t that been a shock?

Shit.

Javier looked down at his Rolex. How long was this elevator going to take? The dude’s apartment was only on the fourth floor. He could have walked down faster. He was going to be late. He’d told Mark he’d be home after the Liddle Awful Annie Show at The Male Box. That he wouldn’t even stay for that “one more drink.” Wasn’t that why he’d dragged Gary… Harry (and since when did names stop mattering to you, Javier?) off the stage and into the night? So they’d have time for a quickie? If the guy was new in town, Javier wanted him first. Needed him first. What a coup that would be with his friends.

(“Oh, him? Yeah, I already had him….”)

It had been hot when Annie, the hostess of the Sunday-night show, had pulled Harry up on the stage and made him take off his shirt and—damn!—the dude’s chest had been better than Mark’s statue!

Why couldn’t he get his body to look like that, dammit? Javier had worked out for years—five days a week, at least two hours a day—and while he was proud of what he had done with his (fat) body, the guy on the stage was a god. He actually had an eight-pack! And his chest. Huge!

When Annie had asked the guy who he’d like to meet, who had he said?

Why, me! Javier felt himself glow at the memory.

Of course, he had played “fuck-me-eyes” with the guy the minute he’d seen him. Been thrilled when the muscleman had sat down right in front of him for the show. Oh yes, and the guy had kept looking, turning his head and looking. Thank God Javier was the master of seduction. He’d turned the sex on without thinking, returning the guy’s looks without a single blink.

Carpe diem!

So then Annie had called him up on the stage, and he and Harry (who wasn’t hairy) had practically done it right there in front of everybody. Hell! Shirtless and with their tight pants, the crowd could see their arousal four or five rows back. Oh, and damn, Harry’s had looked huge.

Looked?

Not just looked. It had been giant. And uncut. And that cock had felt so good inside him. Javier felt so truly alive when he was being topped. Why wouldn’t Mark top him? He used to. Everybody else wanted to. Dedicated bottoms would top him. Javier had been offered money for his ass.

(Wasn’t that basically how he and Mark had gotten together in the first place, for all intents and purposes? Not so much the offer of actual cash. But it had been the offer of a gay cruise.)

The only thing that had put a damper on the whole thing was when Harry had asked him to spend the night.

What the hell?

That had almost ruined it.

Hot, sweaty, nasty, on-the-hardwood-floor sex, and the dude brought up breakfast?

The only thing that saved it was the guy saying something about fucking until the sun came up.

That could have been hot.

There was a “ping” and the elevator doors finally opened, and Javier sprang through them like a jack-in-the-box…

… and slammed right into someone.

Jesus! It was a little old lady! She went flying back, arms pinwheeling, and for a horrible second, Javier thought she would hit the floor and then….

Then it was like time just stopped.

She seemed to float for a second, and then she was okay. A little old lady dressed in bright red….

God!

“You!” he shouted.

Her eyes narrowed behind small round glasses, her brows becoming one gray slash. “You,” she whispered. Her voice was like ice. Cracking ice.

Javier’s blood went cold.

Had it only been the night before that Javier had seen her for the first time? Waiting there in line to get her picture taken with him? It seemed forever ago.

Oh, he’d been on top of the world. Center of attention. In the spotlight.

He liked it.

A lot.

When Reva, the manager of The Male Box, had asked him to be this year’s Santa, he’d agreed without hesitation. Only the hottest men got a chance to play that role. And that meant that Javier was finally on his way.

There were people who would have laughed at the thought, would have considered playing Santa for charity at a bar to be small potatoes. But those people wouldn’t have lived here in Kansas City.

The Male Box was really the only hot bar in town ever since its main rival had closed down. Now you had to go to St. Louis to get better, and that was a good four hours away.

The weekend before Christmas was one of the biggest of the year for The Male Box. Cheap drinks (for a half hour, they were free), fantastic prizes (including a gay cruise), and a chance to sit in Santa’s lap. The men lined up for that opportunity because The Male Box’s Santa wasn’t some fat old man in red. Oh, no! He was a leatherman in classic leather gear. Black boots (because that was the first thing a leatherman bought: his boots), a small leather bar vest, harness, and chaps (assless if you were daring, and wasn’t Javier daring?). He’d chosen to up the ante by wearing only a red jock strap beneath his chaps, and let those out of the loop think the color was for Christmas. Hell. The stripes down the side of his vest and chaps were red as well, and how funny that there were those who didn’t know its significance. The sexual kink they advertised for those in the know.

The thought made Javier grin.

Yes, a New Yorker or someone from San Francisco would laugh at how thrilled Javier was to play “Naughty Santa,” but what they wouldn’t realize was that the ladder wasn’t as high in Kansas City. It took a while to get onto the first rung, but then in no time you could be on your way to the top.

Javier had been selling Jell-O shots for AIDS charities for nearly a year now. That had helped get him the Santa gig. Let people pay ten bucks to sit on his lap, play them up good and nasty (they might buy another picture), and you could very well wind up being next year’s Mr. Kansas City Leather. That meant you went on to International Mr. Leather. Had it been only a couple of years ago one of KC’s own had placed second? That guy had gone on to do porn.

Javier wasn’t sure if he wanted to do that. It sounded fun, but porn could follow you forever. Of course, it wasn’t like he was planning on running for president or anything. Or that his mother or anyone from that old life would ever see one of his movies. So if it was one of the big studios—Zeus, Falcon, Raging Stallion, Titan—he’d think about it. Some of those guys were rich. If they could stay away from the meth. And that was one thing he could surely do. He’d seen what drugs could do. Ruined lives and destroyed bodies. And Javier’s looks and body were who he was. They brought him attention. Hell, they brought him downright adoration.

So when Javier had sprawled back in that “Santa throne,” crotch thrust forward, men standing in line for their chance with him, he had been in heaven. It was thrilling to see the looks on their faces as they waited their turn for a moment in his lap.

All he had to do was pretend he was turned on to them as well. And in a way he was. He was turned on to them being turned on to him.

Javier had come a long, long way since the old neighborhood, since school, since Mr. Schultz.

Oh, if they could see me now, he thought, and the faces of cousins and high school classmates (and one teacher) flashed through his mind.

They’d called him fat. Panzón. Gordo. Sissy. Maricón. Faggot.

Now what would they think? Now that his belly and chubby cheeks were gone. Hell, he actually had cheekbones now.

Now his looks opened doors for him. While he was lucky genetics had given him his face, it was his own hard work that had given him his body. It had given him Mark, hadn’t it?

And if he was a “trophy wife,” so what? He lived in a big beautiful home, he had a BMW Z4, he wore the best clothes, and he had traveled the world. He didn’t even have to work. His job was to host parties and to be at Mark’s side. Javier had played his role well. He’d been on cruise ships, visited the underwater museum off the coast of Cancun, ridden a gondola in Venice, walked the cobblestoned streets of Tuscany, and partied in Amsterdam. And everywhere, there were men. Beautiful, hot, sexy men!

He didn’t even have to be monogamous.

Could there be a better life?

Maybe if there were romance…. But Javier got a bit of that here and there, and he supposed Mark did love him. As much as Mark loved anybody but himself. He told Javier that he loved him.

Mark certainly loved the looks of envy from his friends whenever and wherever he took Javier. It was a competition who had the hottest boy.

Of course, Javier had passed boyhood at least a decade before, but wasn’t Mark at least two decades Javier’s senior? Good-looking to be sure, but older. What did the man have to complain about?

Javier certainly didn’t complain. He had more than he could have dreamed of, and now soon there would be more.