Rainblow of Love
Frankie and Preston
“HEY, SEXY.” PRESTON WALKED into the kitchen, fresh from his workout at the gym.
Preston Legare, so posh. My downtown toyboy. In low-hanging shorts and a loose shirt he pulled up to wipe across his face. Baring carved abs, the thin trail of hair, and an indent of muscles that led to a cock I built frickin’ fantasies around.
He looked fucking fine in one of my natty tailored suits. Even better naked. But I had to admit, the sweaty, ruffled, flushed-face look he had workin’ for him right now reminded me of the way he looked after I’d fucked him hard and put him up wet.
Mmmm.
A man could
get used to that kind of thing.
“That’s Eye-talian sex god to you.” I leaned into him, drawing his lips to mine with enough wetness and suction to make Preston groan before I turned back to the stove.
The kitchen smelled divine, and I’d been cooking all afternoon for him. My mother’s famous cioppino, Caesar salad, crispy bread I’d made from scratch. Loved spoiling my man.
We lived in a restored carriage house in one of the finer spots of the French Quarter, Charleston, SC. A nice walk through scenic cobbled streets to my shop. Not that we couldn’t afford more. Being a mostly retired hit man and former Mafia enforcer, as well as a bespoke tailor . . . I was flush. And Preston, the executive assistant extraordinaire, wasn’t hurting for money, neither. But the place was private, quiet, and we had our own courtyard where I liked to fuck the holy hell out of him whenever the weather was warm enough, which was often.
“Why don’t you go take a shower then put your feet up? After you pour me a glass of wine.”
“You going to join me?” Preston turned me to him, pressing his fine body against me.
“Frisky?” Madon’. I loved it when he rubbed all over me.
Tight bod. Perfect hair. Nice cock. Great—fucking great—ass.
I was tempted to get all sudsy and wet with him, but I needed to finish cooking in the kitchen before I cooked somewhere else. Capisce?
“Gotta decline that offer, babe.”
“Why? Do we have plans tonight?” He kissed me, doing that crazy good thing with his tongue—which was pierced—that drove me absolutely up the wall.
“Nada,” my voice rumbled out, way huskier than before.
“Do you have plans tonight?” He stiffened, and not in the good way.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” My nerves were already a little on edge, and I stared at him.
“You’ve been acting sneaky lately.” His eyes turned brittle and hard.
“What’s gotten your jockstrap in a twist all of a sudden?”
Preston grunted—a sound of sheer annoyance—and pushed against my chest.
“Jesus fuggin’ Christ, amante. You accusin’ me of something here?” Crossing my arms over my chest, I stood my ground as he went all pit bull on me.
“I want to know who else you’re screwing!”
Complete and utter shock ranged through me. Quickly followed by a burst of anger. “You’re on my cock so much, when am I supposed to have time to find a random fuck buddy?”
“That’s all I am? A fuck buddy. Your flamer fag? Your backdoor boyfriend?”
My eyes widened with every word he said, insecurity oozing off him—Preston—the most self-confident man I knew.
“Will you shut those gorgeous blowjob lips for just one second? Madon’, and I’m the one who’s supposed to have a temper. M’I right?”
A Yankee transplant who has traveled the world, Rie started out a writer—causing her college professor to blush over her erotic poetry without one ounce of shame. Not much has changed. She swapped pen for paintbrushes and followed her other love during her twenties. From art school to marriage to children and many a wild and wonderful journey in between, Rie has come home to her calling. Her work has been called edgy, daring, and some of the sexiest smut around.
