Finding His Fantasy

Forty-eight year old art gallery owner Paul Strait loves the nightlife—wild parties, stiff cocktails, and even stiffer men! But his decadent lifestyle has grown lonely and now he’s looking for love. Some days it seems the perfect guy must be a fantasy, so he enlists the help of Madame Eve. After all, a fantasy service like 1Night Stand should be able to deliver his fantasy man, right?
Josef Debrossé runs an exotic gay bar in the Caribbean known only to locals and select tourists. The many patrons coming in and out of his bar ensure he never has a shortage of lovers, but he’s grown tired of being just a vacation fling. He wants to be another man’s lover and partner, not a mere souvenir from the islands.

Lost in a dance of lust and allure, both men are thrilled with Madame Eve’s choice for them and have an instant, intense connection. Flirting over drinks quickly leads to the bedroom. But after their fiery lust has been quenched, the night goes from fantasy to reality without warning. Secrets and frightening pasts threaten to shatter the magical illusion of their perfect date.

Will this budding romance survive in the face of reality?

EXCERPT

Paul needed a cigarette.

A real one, not those damned smokeless ones.

Permanently in the process of quitting, he entered his suite and beelined it for his suitcase, grateful Castillo Resort catered to a European clientele and offered smoking rooms. His own self-righteous countrymen bitched anytime somebody lit up. It was his fucking body. If he wanted to poison it with nicotine and tar, why should anyone care?

He took out a second pack of Marlboros from the carton he’d bought at the duty free. At the rate he was sucking on these things, he’d have to get another to take home. So much for quitting this month.

The moment he took that first drag, the nerves over his upcoming date lessened.

Goddamn, that’s delicious.

The morning had been successful, spent with the hotel manager, Jagger, touring a small gallery where local artists displayed their wares. But one thing this Milwaukee boy loved more than finding a new artist to promote was hot weather in February. After a refreshing dip in the glorious pool, he’d taken a little cocktail time flirting with the bartender and a honeymooning couple at the tiki bar—hence the demise of his first pack of smokes.

Now he had to get ready for his 1Night Stand.

“Fuck, Paulie,” he said aloud to his reflection. “What were you thinking, doing this?”

Cigarette between his lips, he examined his reflection.

Smooshing his face with his hands, he pulled back his cheeks until his newly forming jowls disappeared. Hmm, maybe he should rethink his belief that fifty-five was the perfect age for a facelift.

Shit, when had he gotten so old?

When he sighed, a puff of smoke wafted in front of him. He took another drag, well aware of the irony of whining about wrinkles while sucking on an aging stick.

Not that he had time to critique his appearance. There were barely enough minutes on the clock to shower and style his hair. Thank God it was just as thick as when he’d been a seventeen-year-old preppy sauntering into his first gay bar, wearing acid washed jeans—French-rolled, of course—deck shoes, and a baby-pink Izod, circa 1985. He’d been cute back then, tall, skinny, and highly marketable. Weight had never been a problem for Paul and maybe that was why people mistook him for younger. These days, he was desperately trying to stay young. But, like it or not, time was getting away from him and all the Botox and Crème de la Mer in the world wouldn’t stop it.

He gave himself a wink before turning on the shower. “The clock’s ticking, ol’ Paulie boy.”

God, he hoped tonight wasn’t a mistake, some absurd midlife crisis gone awry. But he hadn’t bought a Corvette or taken a nineteen-year-old Pilipino boy toy as a lover. He’d merely paid for a fantasy sexual encounter in the Caribbean.

That wasn’t crazy…was it?

After a quick shower, he dried and coiffed his hair. A little pomade, some hairspray, and a grateful smile he’d had the forethought to get highlights before he left Chicago, and he thought he looked good. He brushed his teeth before dressing because this Josef guy might not like smoking. What if he was one of those uptight health-conscious gays?

Ugh! Paul didn’t have the time or patience for that. You only got one go-round in this life, and he intended to savor each day to its fullest, to the devil with the surgeon generals and their fucking warnings. He liked bacon with his breakfast, real cream in his coffee, and a cocktail or five after dinner. A few tokes on a joint every now and then or a pinch of blow at an extravagant party in North Halstead with his rich clients… well, who was keeping count anyways?

But his party-boy attitude and decadent lifestyle had grown hollow and superficial of late. After all but losing Emmy’s sympathetic ear, loneliness consumed him, keeping him up at night and making him rather crabby. It sure would be nice to attend the gallery parties with someone on his arm—someone who loved him.

Damn, he wanted that more than he cared to admit.

Would this mystery man named Josef be the answer?

Well, if he wanted to find out, he’d better get his bony ass up to the Cabaña Lounge.

Stepping off the elevator to the rooftop lounge, he smiled at the small sign stating black tie optional. But like Oscar Wilde said, “You can never be overdressed or overeducated.” Dressing down was never an option either, in Paul’s opinion. Sort of like when a guy invites you to his birthday party and the invite says “no gifts.” Yeah, he knew better than that. Though he wore his favorite tux, he had foregone the tuxedo shirt and bow tie, opting for a simple white silk shirt that accentuated his spray tan and whitened teeth.

Overdressed casual, he liked to call it.

The lounge patrons ranged from gray-haired seniors and over-forty, soft-in-the-middle types to pie-eyed honeymooners. A pair of old ladies in the corner might be lesbians, but Paul based that assumption solely on their horrible footwear. Really? Clarks with a cocktail dress? Unbe-lee-vable!

Waiters walked around the open-air lounge with champagne, and he snagged one before making his way over to the bar—the designated location to meet his date. Soft tunes of a steel drum band playing in the corner filled the warm night with a delightful tinny sound. The sky had begun its transition from blue to pink as sunset approached—making the lighting perfect for his complexion. The scenic view of the sea would be mind-blowing in a few moments.

How fantastically romantic, watching the sunset together.

Excitement and nervous energy itched at his toes. Scanning the bar area, his eyes fell on a lone figure, his back to Paul, attention fixed on the vast ocean view.

Oh no, it couldn’t be….

Holding his breath as his stomach leapt into his throat, Paul approached. After another sweep of the lounge, this guy was the only single man in the entire place.

It had to be him, right?

Thick and muscular, he stood shorter than Paul’s own six three, but more solid. He painted the picture of a fantasy, a perfect silhouette gazing out at the sea. If Paul let his mind wander, he could almost imagine the man morphing into swaths of paint, thick and sultry on the canvas. His hands were tucked into tailored white linen pants, stretching the fabric across the roundest and most delectable backside he’d ever laid eyes on. The deep cocoa of his skin highlighted the seams of the woven fabric. Fuck, did the man even have on underwear?

Please God, don’t let his pretty wife join him and shatter the illusion….

“Josef?” He tried to keep the hopefulness from his voice.

The man turned and Paul sucked in his breath.

Light hazel eyes met his and a sideways smile cut through a gorgeous face. “Oui, I am Josef.”

Oh, double fuck, he has an accent. Paul nearly swooned right there, but he managed to extended a hand. “I’m Paul.”

The man’s questioning smile widened into one of genuine delight, and a warm smooth hand wrapped around his. “Ah, bonjour, Paul.”

Before he saw it coming, Josef swept in, drawing him into a brief embrace before kissing each of his cheeks. He shivered from the warmth of a beautiful male body pressed against him. While everyone knew cheek kissing was the norm in many cultures, the brush of the man’s lips made him stifle a giggle.

Josef stepped back, not letting go of his hand.

A warm, tropical breeze teased the faint wetness those kisses had left on his cheeks, a whisper of an imagined memory—one he never wanted to forget. Josef had thin, well-cared-for dreadlocks that landed just below his collar. Paul wanted to reach out and touch them, make sure he was real. Or, better yet, hold them tight like reins while he plowed the man from behind….

Jesus!

His skin flushed and his groin stirred, more than pleased at Madame Eve’s choice for him this evening.

“I am Josef Debrossé.” He had yet to release Paul’s hand—not that he had any complaints—and his blood warmed from touching a total stranger he’d paid to meet.

He let out a breathless chuckle, not surprised he’d been holding his breath. “Paul Strait,” he replied, caught up in something…giddiness? Excitement? Sexual tension? He wasn’t sure, but he felt like a silly girl swooning on her first date. Almost as an afterthought, he added his signature tagline, “And I’m anything but.”

A rich resonant laughter danced around them, weaving a spell and capturing Paul inside it until he didn’t even know which way was up or down.

“C’est bon, Paul Strait,” he said, those hypnotic eyes sparkling.

When Josef released him, he had to resist the urge to take the man’s hand back and never let go, fearing he might disappear. Instead, he downed the rest of his champagne, scolding himself for being so ridiculous. He nodded toward the bar where plenty of stools sat open. “Can I buy you a drink?”

At the resort, everything was included, but it seemed like the most logical thing to say. Much classier than, “Are you wearing underwear?”

The bartender wore the nametag Carlos. Definitely Paul’s type when in the mood for Latin cuisine. Ordinarily he would have flirted with him, date or not, but Josef held his attention captive, a prisoner of the man’s charms, though they’d barely spoken.

Setting his empty flute on the bar, Paul faced his date, intrigued by the way he’d dressed so causally, yet somehow managed to look put together. From his leather slip-ons—he could tell they were expensive—to his linen suit and the pale-blue silk shirt beneath it, his very demeanor screamed sexy. The colors he wore highlighted his dark skin, enhancing his eyes and the whiteness of his teeth, too. Paul stared at Josef’s enticing mouth and longed to kiss those sumptuous lips, feel them on his—

“Can I get you something else, sir?” Carlos said, interrupting his fantasy.

“What?” Paul shook his head. So busy staring, he’d almost missed the question. Josef’s presence was so distracting, he wasn’t even perturbed at being called “sir” like an old man. “Oh, yes, vodka gimlet. Belvedere, please.”

“Laphroaig, neat,” Josef ordered, giving Paul a slow, seductive once-over.

He stood a little straighter, recognizing approval in those eyes. Well, he liked what he saw, too.

They stood there, staring and smiling at each other as two drinks appeared before them. Paul didn’t know if the bartender said anything else or not; everything around him had become white noise. The breeze, the soft chatter of voices, and the music all created a backdrop for the main act before him.

He raised his glass in a toast, and Josef did the same with his scotch. “To new friends,” he said, shocked at how badly he wanted so much more from this man.

Since when was he the love-at-first-sight type?

FINDING HIS FANTASY