A night for fucking. The air was crisp yet still mild for the latter part of May, filled with the floral aroma of cherry blossoms, lilacs...roses. But the other odor he scented -- the hint of cigarette smoke that lingered in the air -- that was the one that brought to mind skin filmed in sweat, sheets tangled. More in line with the afterglow of an extremely satisfying sexual encounter.
It wasn’t the suffocating, stale scent of a smoke-filled party -- it was the whiff of a solitary cigarette. It was fresh; it was arousing. Just enough to invoke the image of a hard naked body propped up next to him; it was the fragrance of a freshly lit cigarette. A rush of rosy color lingering on his lover’s skin. Cigarette smoke mixed with the muskiness of passion was an even more arousing aroma. Smoky, ravenous kisses that said, “let’s do it again.” It was enough to half harden his cock in anticipation as it associated the scent like a Pavlov-trained dog. Or a lion on the hunt, smelling quarry close by. It was that memory that had him turning now to pursue the source of the odor.
Frankie had exceptional night vision and phenomenal hearing, odd gifts he found most valuable. His instincts and heightened sense of smell had once saved his life in a back alley in Chile. Now, he searched the darkened terrace. It wasn’t long before he spotted a lone figure standing deep in the shadows, at an angle from where Frankie stood, watching him. He leaned again the pale building at the other side of the lighted fountain that jetted water in high plumes wetting the immediate vicinity. The doors to the terrace were now closed, muffling the sounds from inside, the musicians silenced, a murmur of voices lightly dusting the night air. Frankie circled the perimeter of the fountain and moved in the direction of the orange glow that zigzagged in the shadow of the building.
“You’re looking for a little privacy as well?” He directed his question to the man in the corner. A camera bag was strapped across his shoulder; he leaned heavily on a cane as he limped forward out of the shadow.
“Just a little bit of quiet, I guess. You’re the choreographer, Francesco Raphael, aren’t you?” The man dropped the cigarette and stubbed it out. “I’ve admired your work.”
Frankie inclined his head. “Thank you. Not many people make a point of familiarizing themselves with the mechanics behind a performance.”
The man’s eyes gleamed in the darkness like green fire. Frankie’s cock responded with interest, intrigued by the mysterious young man. There was something so remote about him and yet that fire Frankie saw in his eyes spoke of something deep and wild burning inside the man. Frankie turned to fully face the stranger.
“May I ask your name?” He stepped closer.
There was a moment of hesitation before the man spoke. “Tad. You can call me Tad.”
“Tad.” Instinct told Frankie it wasn’t his real name, but in Washington there was a lot of subterfuge and few people were who they appeared to be on the surface, so Frankie shouldn’t be surprised. “A nice name.”
The smile Tad offered was almost whimsical or otherworldly. It was unsure, an unspoken question, a hint of curiosity. Frankie moved closer, drawn to the ethereal quality of the man. Not his usual type, not so muscular or obviously athletic. He inhaled, smelling the lingering smoke -- and a sense of the man. Frankie could smell danger; he could scent fear. He could discern interest. His attention was drawn to the cane. “A recent accident?”
He saw Tad’s long fingers tighten on the cane. Nice fingers though it looked like he bit his nails. Nervous type perhaps? An artist consumed by his art? Photographer. Professional? His stance, his features spoke of poetic Shelley beauty.
“No, ancient,” he answered in response to Frankie’s question. “A football injury from back in high school.”
“Sorry.” Frankie almost felt the man’s pain -- not just physical but psychological. He wanted to put his arms around him and draw him close. He wanted to comfort him. He wanted to fuck him. He wanted him naked in his bed; he wanted to stroke his body, to learn every nuance. And, surprisingly, he wanted to take his time doing it. This...emotion...caught Frankie by surprise. He was usually more like the bee flitting from flower to flower sipping from each, then moving on. But he sensed in Tad a golden nectar that was more addicting than any flower he’d dipped into before.
“It’s better than it was,” Tad said. “Early on it got infected, and I thought I’d lose the leg altogether. But that didn’t happen. So I guess you could say I’m lucky.”
“Bet it was tough.” Frankie couldn’t help himself and he stepped closer. Now he could smell the tobacco smoke mingled with a faint scent of expensive, spicy aftershave. He didn’t overdo it, and Frankie liked that. He reached out to cup the side of Tad’s face, unable to help himself. Tad’s flesh was smooth, recently shaved. His jaw locked, and Frankie could feel the set of fine bone beneath the pale flesh. Frankie stroked his thumbs over the dark soul patch at his chin. Tad stiffened and then slowly relaxed into the caress. Frankie soothed him carefully, as he might do to any wild creature he encountered. Frankie had a knack with wild things. As a young boy he had always been drawn to wild animals, much to his mother’s dismay. They seemed to understand each other -- the wild creature and the dancer. And Tad relaxed into the touch. Frankie saw confusion in Tad’s expression, and then something akin to surprised trust settled there.
“Yeah. It took a while for it to heal, and then there was physical therapy.” His voice was deep and quiet, like a still pool shimmering in moonlight, the whisper of night sounds surrounding him.
“Takes a strong man to come back from something like that. So you’re a photographer?” Frankie dipped his head.
“Hobby,” Tad said. Frankie tasted his breathless words as moist heat clung to his lips. His hand slid around to the nape of Tad’s neck, beneath the long silky ponytail as he sealed the kiss. Tad tasted sweet and tentative. Frankie firmed the kiss, stroked his tongue across Tad’s teeth, encouraging him to open his mouth. His hand expertly kneaded the warm flesh of Tad’s neck.
Tad’s jaw relaxed, his mouth opened, and Frankie deepened the kiss, thrusting his tongue into the depths of Tad’s mouth. He heard the soft, startled moan. The kiss went on; breaths quickened, as did Frankie’s body. His cock thickened with intense arousal.
Then suddenly Tad pulled away, almost stumbling, but Frankie reached for his arm to steady him.
“I have to go,” Tad said breathlessly.
“I don’t want you to. We could go somewhere,” Frankie offered, wanting to learn more about this man. He wanted to fuck him, to learn him inside and out. If he let him go now, he knew he’d never see Tad again. But something in Tad’s eyes stopped him.
“You’re not out are you? No one knows. And you’re afraid someone will see us.”
Something flickered in the beautiful green eyes. “I have to go. People are waiting for me.” He licked his lips. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too. I must have misread the signals.” Frankie felt an odd longing and sadness as he watched the young man limp away.
Tad stopped, his fingers curled around the door handle. He turned his head to look at Frankie. Something tightened inside Frankie’s chest at the almost tangible yearning and regret in Tad’s expression. “Don’t be sorry. Don’t ever be sorry.” And then he was through the doors, once again a shadow, and then gone from sight.
Frankie turned back to the view of the city. He could still taste Tad. He slowly licked his lips. He wanted to remember that taste. More than anything he wanted to remember. Instinct told him that they would meet again. A comet shot across the sky, leaving a blazing trail behind it. He smiled. Oh yes, they would certainly meet again.