I slid the door open to a cozy bedroom big enough for a queen-sized bed.
Currently occupied by Romolo Moretti.
I threw myself at him. It had only been four days since I last saw him, a short span of time compared to the week and a half that we’d gone in the past. I crashed into him, dropping my body in his lap as he sat at the edge of the bed with a stupid, silly grin on his face. Our lips pressed together fiercely, my body tingling and cock growing stiff as I gave into my baser lust. With his long legs, he booted the door closed for privacy and leaned back as I pressed atop him.
“Are you crazy?” I said as I did a push up to hover overhim. “That had to have been a five-hour flight. You have a game tonight.”
“Four hours,” he corrected. “But five heading back. And yes, I am aware I have a game tonight.”
“You said it was so important. You should be resting.”
He pushed his head up to kiss me. I sucked at his lower lip and dropped my chest onto his. He rolled, hitched my thigh in one of his hands. My legs naturally tightened around his waist and I pressed our hardened cocks together.
“I slept on the way here and I’ll sleep on the way back out.” I started kissing him again but he pulled away and smiled. “But first, we need to take our seats so this thing can actually take off.”
I groaned and rolled off of Rome, who sprung to his feet. The bed smelled like him and I wanted to sink deeper into it, to let the sheets envelope me. I had begun associating that smell with safety. Something to protect me from harm.
Together we left the bedroom and took our seats. I dropped down into a chair that hugged my body just right as the flight attendant provided me and Rome with a bottle of water. I took a better gander now that I sat down and didn’t wonder about my circumstance. There were gold-tinted chrome finishes everywhere. If you sat in it, it was leather. If you put your hands on it, it was mahogany. I wondered how much a charter like this cost—twenty, maybe thirty thousand? A drop in the bucket for Rome’s fabulous wealth, but months and months of salary for me.
As the jet taxied, Rome reached over and placed a delicate kiss on my cheek. I turned my face to give him a better kiss, then dimmed my brow. “Aren’t you worried about…” I gestured vaguely toward the front of the craft where the flight attendant sat in her own seat.
He shrugged. “Trust me, she’s seen a lot more than a semi-closeted pro athlete lovin’ up on his boyfriend.”
That word. “Loving.”
Rome realized it, too. His eyes went wide in shock, then came the hands to placate me.
“It’s okay,” I said and rubbed his leg. “I know what you meant.” The gesture didn’t appear to alleviate the bewilderment on his face, so I deftly changed the subject. “So, explain to me why this game is such a big deal. Didn’t you guys always know this one would be how you make the playoffs? Uh, I mean, postseason?”
Relief played across his face as he settled into a more comfortable conversation topic. “Okay, there’s this special math that they do called ‘magic numbers’…”
My boyfriend regaled me with his recitation of how statisticians and mathematicians unlocked the secrets of the game to determine how and when a team would make postseason. Thankfully, he didn’t quite understand the numbers involved and so talked around how the math worked rather than explain it directly. I learned that they had a good idea of the importance of this upcoming game when they started the four-game series with Austin a few days ago. He had wanted to invite me out earlier, but they needed to make extra sure. Regardless, he still had the charter flight booked and waited to tell me about it.
He prattled on while I stewed over the fact that he had planned on flying me out but only told me the night before. It did feel presumptuous and yes, I understood the importance of the game. But would that ever end? I peered into the future as if I could divine it, allowing my mind to unfurl and give way to the fantasy of a long-term relationship with this man. Would every postseason clinch require my presence? Would I be expected to put my life and career on hold to be there for him?
And was I willing to do that?
I want to be there for him. That much I could assure myself.Irrespective of my career, of the money, of where I watched, yes, Iwantedto be there for him during his most important moments.
But was that all I could bring to this relationship? Simplybeingthere for him? Would I sit back and let his incredible wealth subsume what meager earnings I made by comparison? I couldn’t shower him with material things, objects of monetary value as, clearly, he could do for me. So what did I bring to him?
What does he see in me? I absently wondered, as if, suddenly, I had no self-worth.
I was nothing more than a receptacle for Ricky. A thing to be used for his pleasure at his designated time and discretion. We never went out, never vacationed together. In reality, we were merely fuck-buddies for years who occasionally confessed our love that never withstood the war-torn battlefield of our relationship.
“Alex?” Rome said and, I suspected, not for the first time. I broke from my reverie. I had been staring out the window as Boston fell away. “I lost you. I know, the math is weird to me, too, sometimes. If it makes you feel any better, I usually—”
“Why didn’t you tell me when you flew out to Austin?” I interrupted.
He looked confused, but only for a moment. “We weren’t one hundred percent on thinking this would be our clincher,” he told me. “There were a couple other factors. Other teams in the division that—”
“You could have told me anyway,” I said. “I could have booked my own ticket. This is nice, Rome, it is,” I told him and gestured toward the plane. “This is the first time I’ve ever been on something like this. Hell, I’ve never even flown first class before. But… this… I mean,this is a lot. A lot, a lot.”
I watched as the color slowly drained from his face.
“I wanted to spoil you,” he said carefully in a voice close toa whisper. “This isn’t meant to impress you, if that’s what you think it is. I know I don’t need to impress you. But Idowant to make you comfortable.” He glowered and bit his lower lip.
Here comes Mr. Nice Guy. Mr. Perfect with the perfect thing to say.
