Page 9 of His Cruelest Moves

“Having a swimming pool doesn’t make you rich.” But even as he said it, he felt like a prat. “Besides, it isn’t a swimming pool; it’s a spa.”

“That makes it so much better.”

“Doesn’t it!” Isard said sarcastically.

“Hey, I’m just playing with you.” And Alex had turned toward him on the seat. “I dream of the day I’ll get my own swimming pool installed. It’ll mean I’ve made it.”

Isard wanted to say that installing a swimming pool wasn’t that expensive, but was scared he’d come in for more flack from Alex. So he just said:

“What about you then? No swimming pool obviously. But do you have a mansion or live in a hovel on Barceloneta Beach?”

“I already told you I live in Sagrada Familía. It’s a typical middle-class apartment. Just Mom, Dad, and me.”

“And what’s your greatest ambition? Aside from having a pool?”

Alex chuckled at the dig, but ignored it. “I want to have my own school, teach martial arts.”

“Well, that’s doable.”

“Yeah, but I don’t just want a typical neighborhood school. I want to have the best school in Europe, where people come for retreats and things, with the best teachers.”

“You’re a pretty good teacher already. You’ve been able to teach me,” Isard said, flicking him a glance, “which can’t be easy.”

“You’re a fast learner. You’ve also got….” And now they had their eyes locked on each other, bodies half-turned toward the other on the seat. “You’ve got… an old soul. You understand it naturally.”

Isard didn’t know what to say to that. He wanted to say something, but he’d become aware of his hand, resting on the seat. It was lightly grazing Alex’s, just the knuckles, and Alex wasn’t pulling away. At the same moment, Alex seemed to sense the contact too, and they both gazed down at their barely touching hands, before Alex moved, softly covering Isard’s hand with his own, just gently stroking it. Isard realized he had an erection, pushing against his tracksuit pants, and hoped it wasn’t noticeable. He also became aware of Alex’s breath, a warm sweet smell with a touch of eucalyptus. They were both breathing shallow and fast. He looked up to meet Alex’s eyes, which were wide and deep, looking a little surprised, as he was. He hadn’t expected this. What did this mean? His urge was to kiss Alex, but with the driver there, that was impossible. Neither could they really talk about it. He also wanted to adjust his crotch, but bringing his hand there would call attention to it.

So they continued to stare at each other for long minutes, unable to move closer, but neither to move away. Finally, with a laugh, Alex pulled away his hand, turned forward on the seat, and looked out the window.

“Wow! Us old souls, when we connect, we really connect!”

Isard turned forward as well, away from Alex, though he didn’t want to. But he used the movement to adjust himself, so that his erection was no longer sticking out, tenting his tracksuit.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That was intense.”

They rode in silence for a while, each trying to gather his thoughts, understand what was happening. Then, after several minutes, the driver called out:

“I’m going to make a pit stop. I need a coffee and the toilet. There’s a service area up ahead. Are you guys OK with that, if we take twenty?”

They both agreed with relief.

six

Alex got out of the taxi as soon as it rolled to a stop. As he stepped out, he also adjusted his erection, which had been pressing painfully against his pants for the last ten minutes. What was it about Isard that set him off? He seemed to be drunk on the guy. This wasn’t his plan at all. Isard was a client, the sort of client Alex wanted to attract—the rich kind. He didn’t want to get involved emotionally, sexually, or in any other way with him that wasn’t a strict coach-client relationship. It wasn’t part of his plan.

He strode toward the restrooms, desperate to be away from the taxi’s asphyxiating atmosphere. How would they cope? Hours still lay ahead of them on this journey, plus another three weeks of close contact, where Alex was supposed to be teaching Isard martial arts. He needed to cool things down fast. In less than a day he’d virtually jumped on his client. Entering the restroom, his bladder bursting, he walked to the far urinal and began to pee. As he was staring at the wall in front of him, someone else entered and began to pee a few places over. He knew, out of the corner of his eye, it was Isard, but ignored him. This couldn’t go on like it was. What had possessed him to start stroking Isard’s hand, as if they were a couple of virgins on their first date? Then another figure entered the restroom and began to use one of the urinals separating them. The driver. For that he was thankful. It meant he could resist the temptation to look over at Isard, which might have sparked off who knows what?

He finished pissing and went to wash his hands. And there in the mirror, he came face to face with him, his large soulful eyes seeking out his own. They held their gaze until the driver turned from the urinals and came to wash his hands. Then they kept themselves occupied with washing and drying their hands, until the driver, leaving, said:

“OK, time for a coffee. See you back at the car in twenty minutes.”

If he noticed anything strange about their laborious and fastidious hand-washing, he didn’t let on. When they were alone, Alex said:

“We can’t do this. You’re a client—”

But Isard had already stepped close, and sealed off his objection with a kiss. His lips were soft and warm. Both their tongues almost immediately found each other, and his hands slid around Isard’s slim body, holding his delicate physique as if his body might crumple between his arms. Isard’s hands were on his shoulders, pulling him close, so their cocks, straining through the thin nylon of their tracksuits, mashed together. As they kissed, Alex’s hands explored Isard’s body, his shoulder blades so thin they felt almost sculptural. His slim back, long graceful arms, and the soft curve of his ass felt like the limbs of some skittish wild creature, a gazelle or antelope, he’d trapped in his snare. Isard’s hands wandered over his body too, marveling at the rounded mounds of his gym-worked muscles, his stomach’s firm tightness, the heavy bulk of thighs and buttocks. Alex’s hands found Isard’s face, and his fingers explored the almost invisible stubble on his throat and jaw, that blue shadow that smelt of pine and damp earth, before sinking into the short dark locks of his wavy hair, and tracing the fine line of his eyebrows.

Footsteps approached, and they sprang apart, panting.