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“It means I’m hungry and you had better feed me first,” I lied.
“Ya khochu prazhit’ s toboy vsyu svoyu zhizn’,” he murmured.
Pulling away, I ducked my head and grabbed my wrap off the table. I didn’t want Nic to see how much I loved hearing him speak his native language. It was rough and lyrical. Dirty. He often cursed in it when we were having sex. Casually, I asked, “What did you say?”
“I’ll feed you later.”
Clearly a lie, but I let it go. Glass houses and all that. “Where should we—?” My phone buzzed in my hand.
“Do not answer it,” Nic groaned, but we both knew work came first. It was something we had in common.
I checked the display. A number I didn’t recognize, but it was from France. It could be about work. “I’m sorry,” I told him, then accepted the call. “Oiu, allô?”
A smooth Italian voice said, “Theo? I’m sorry to ask out of the blue, but I need a favor.”
It was my friend, Giulio. A former mafia prince, he has been on the run for years, convinced men were trying to kill him. I could hear the panic in every rushed syllable he spoke. I switched to Italian. “Of course, bello. Whatever you need.”
“Are you still on your boyfriend’s yacht right now?”
“Ma dai, not a boyfriend. But yes, I am. Why?”
“I need a place to hide out for a few days. Will he mind?”
I glanced up at Nic, who was watching me with a hungry, impatient expression. Risky to assume, but I was confident I could smooth over any of his concerns. I wouldn’t turn Giulio away, not when he needed help. “No, he won’t mind. How will you find us?”
“I will soon arrive in Nice.”
“Be safe, amico.”
“I will.” He disconnected.
“Who was that?” Nic asked, tilting his chin toward the phone.
Instead of answering directly, I took his hand and began leading him into the salon. This conversation was best had while we were both naked. “Come with me and I’ll explain.”
When our feet hit the carpet, he pulled me to a stop. “I’d rather hear it now, Theo.”
I closed the gap between us and pressed my front to his chest. Our hips met and I could feel him—thick and perfect and already semi-hard—through the thin fabric of his trousers. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I said near his ear, “A friend of mine is in a tight spot. He needs a safe place for a few days. Do you mind letting him stay on your yacht, mon grand?”
Nic stiffened, his muscles jerking against me. He tried to step back, but I didn’t let him go. “Please,” I breathed as I kissed his jaw. “You will like him, I promise.”
He didn’t soften. “This is dangerous. I do not like guests, especially when I have—”
He bit off what he was about to say. But I knew. The words were as plain as the crooked nose on his face.
Especially when I have a man aboard.
Yes, definitely closeted. It explained why we hadn’t left his hotel room in Paris, why we hadn’t seen anyone but the crew on the boat.
I never hid. Years ago, when I first moved to Paris, I dated a closeted French politician and our relationship remained a secret for more than a year. At first it was fun to sneak around, but over time I grew to hate how it made me feel, as if I were dirt under his shoe. Unworthy and unloved.
I would not make that mistake again.
Now I lived large and bright, unashamed of my sexuality. I existed in the spotlight, with parties and galas and premieres. I had over two million followers on Instagram, and my designs had been worn by Hollywood celebrities and famous musicians. I loved every minute of my life.
So, this would stay a short fling, nothing more. If Nic needed to remain in the closet, fine.
I bit the lobe of Nic’s ear, scraping my teeth against the sensitive flesh. “He’s very private. And gay. Whatever secrets you need to keep, he will not tell a soul.”
