From Morocco to Paris

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  From Morocco to Paris

  TOP SHELF

  An imprint of Torquere Press Publishers

  PO Box 2545

  Round Rock, TX 78680

  Copyright 2011 by Lydia Nyx

  Cover illustration by Alessia Brio

  Published with permission

  ISBN: 978-1-61040-198-2

  www.torquerepress.com

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Torquere Press. Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680.

  First Torquere Press Printing: April 2011

  Printed in the USA

  Dedicated to Jamie Edford for getting me here, Michelle Wallace for keeping me here, and Lauren Slone for being there.

  PART ONE

  Morocco: Desert Heat

  Zane Reed’s spacious room at a hotel older and grander than any he had ever stayed in before, located on the shore of the Mediterranean Sea in lovely Melilla, Morocco, also had the most spacious bed he’d ever slept in. At night the bed felt too big and made him paranoid, forcing him to sleep to one side with pillows piled around him; in the morning it proved his downfall, in conjunction with the connecting door to the next room.

  Davey Alexander was the sneakiest — and most beguiling — man Zane had ever met. He had come skulking with the sun barely on the horizon, which Zane expected — his new acquaintance enjoyed practical jokes and Zane had prepared himself. However, he hadn’t expected Davey to bring reinforcements. The bed could easily hold four, maybe five in a pinch, but somehow three men managed to take up all the extra space.

  “I thought we were practicing your lines!” Zane yelled over the commotion in the room, waving the pages of the script he held. “Isn’t that why you all raided my bed so early in the damn morning?”

  “No,” Davey said, and threw a pillow at him.

  “Son of a bitch!” Zane yelled, after the pillow hit him in the face. Laughter erupted.

  “Elliot!” Zane yelled at his employer. “You said you wanted to practice your lines so your coach wouldn’t be on your ass all day!”

  “That’s what I said,” Elliot replied. “I didn’t mean it.”

  Elliot Butler — multiple award-winning actor — had settled himself on the other side of the bed, propped up on a mountain of pillows like the Royal Prince of Morocco himself. He wore a white tank top and plaid pajama pants. His wispy, normally honey-colored hair had been dyed dark for his part and cut in a feathered style around his handsome, camera-friendly face. Zane worked as his assistant.

  Cristiano Rinaldi, world-renowned fashion designer and key costumer for this production, sat Indian-style near Elliot’s feet, dressed in a very nice pair of black silk pajamas with white trim, his short, midnight-black hair charmingly tousled. Davey worked as his assistant.

  “And you, Cristiano.” Zane shook his head at the willowy, dark-eyed man as he laughed with the others. “You’re supposed to be the professional one!”

  “Davey paid me,” Cristiano said in his thick-yet-refined Italian accent.

  “Of course he did.” Zane shot Davey a dour look. Davey smiled back, with mock-sweetness.

  Zane considered himself an average guy: dark haired, green eyed, handsome enough and healthy, but nothing so remarkable as most of the people in the industry he worked for. Davey, however, had a firm grasp on masculine beauty, subtly balanced with a soft allure, a quality even most actors Zane knew didn’t possess. Zane felt unnervingly changed having met him, even after only a couple of weeks. They might not have met, except only in passing on the vast, sprawling production, if not for their bosses’’ close friendship.

  “You’re a couple of traitors,” Zane informed Elliot and Cristiano, “conspiring with that little — “ He clenched his jaw and forced himself to be polite.

  Davey had brought a radio with him and found a station playing American pop music. He turned the radio up so loud Zane was grateful the walls were thick. Their director, the talented and highly esteemed Saul Brennan, would be pissed if they got kicked out of the fanciest hotel in Morocco. Davey danced on the bed. He wore only a pair of baggy, dark blue cotton pajama pants nearly falling off his slender hips, so much so Zane kept getting a peek of pubes as he turned. His chestnut brown hair, straight and thick and just past his shoulders, swung as he moved.

  “C’mon!” Davey reached down and tugged at Cristiano’s sleeve. “Get up here with me! Show me how they do it in Verona.”

  Cristiano chuckled and got to his feet. Despite the inappropriate music for someone of his immediately obvious skill, Cristiano moved as smooth as liquid, proving quickly which of them possessed more grace. Clearly, they taught things in design school not mentioned in the brochures. Zane couldn’t say he liked the sight more, though. Davey worked his hips in slow grinding circles, making his pants shift. The pull and stretch of his flat stomach with a whisper-thin treasure trail kept Zane in thrall. Cristiano moved better but his skin didn’t show.

  Elliot egged them on and offered lewd suggestions while Zane tried in vain to get him to focus on the script. To much encouraging laughter, Davey mounted the smooth wooden bedpost at the left foot of the bed like he’d found a stripper pole. He did a spin with his legs locked around the post and landed on the bed, flat on his back.

  “What have you been teaching him!” Elliot howled at Cristiano.

  Cristiano laughed. “Not that! He hardly needs that skill to dress an actor on set!”

  Zane didn’t miss the way Elliot beamed adoringly at Cristiano. Cristiano had been out for years. Elliot they only speculated about in the tabloids — not without reason.

  Davey got up and resumed dancing. Cristiano watched him and started mimicking his grinding movements while Zane pretended not to watch. Elliot sat up and began snapping his fingers, singing in a high-pitched, horribly off-key voice. Davey kept bumping his foot against Zane’s leg until Zane looked up at him, scowling, and Davey smiled back. Elliot reached over and turned down the radio when the song ended.

  “Dog pile!” Davey yelled. “Zane needs some more waking up!”

  Zane shouted and tried to save Elliot’s script from Davey’s incoming attack. Davey landed in a hot, sweaty heap on top of him. They wrestled, tangling in the blankets, Zane yowling and swearing. No one else jumped on, thankfully.

  Zane finally rolled Davey off with a great heave, and he flopped between Zane and Elliot with a triumphant sigh, hair all over his face.

  Elliot slid down on the pillows, drew Davey’s hair away from his face, and cooed, “Aw, did he hurt you, pretty boy?”

  “Him!” Zane said, aghast. “He attacked me!”

  Cristiano sat next to Elliot’s feet again, smiling. He wasn’t, perhaps, so accustomed to roughhousing as they, dirty American men they were. In fact, around him, Zane sometimes felt like a behemoth.

  Davey remained in his spot being doted upon by Elliot, so close his heat seeped through the blankets against Zane’s side. Davey smelled like soap and sweat, with an underlying trace of some musky cologne.

  “Here.” Zane waved the script in front of Elliot’s face. “You’re supposed to be practicing your lines.”

  Elliot rested his chin on top Davey’s head, though his gaze and a little smile were focused on Cristiano. Davey nearly purred.

  “I know all my lines.” Elliot batted the script away. “It was jus
t a ruse to come in here and mess with you.”

  “Oh really?” Zane flipped through the pages. “Let’s try out a few then, shall we?”

  Zane found the scene they would be filming next. The movie was about Napoleon Bonaparte. Elliot played Joseph Fourier, a noted physicist and scientific advisor during the conqueror’s campaign in Egypt. The scene marked Joseph’s first in-depth interaction with the great leader. Zane read Napoleon’s lines and then looked expectantly at Elliot.

  Elliot hesitated, and Davey snickered. Then Elliot rolled off his lines, complete with French accent, though not much emotion. If Zane were the director, he would have ridden Elliot’s ass for more spark.

  “Lucky guess,” Zane said. He turned a page, recited a few more lines, and waited.

  Usually, practicing scripts wasn’t part of Zane’s job — Zane made Elliot comfortable, not competent. Elliot had a coach for such things, but lately they’d been at each other’s throats as Elliot could be an incredibly contrary man.

  Elliot did well at first then tapered off. “Um…our many discoveries in Egypt have…uh…led to…something something something.”

  Davey cracked up.

  “Exactly.” Zane smacked the script. “Saul’s going to be down your throat today, and it’s not my fault.”

  Elliot grabbed the script, glanced at the pages, and then tossed the bundle over Zane and off the bed.

  Zane sighed, long-suffering. “You’re going to fail horribly as an actor, Elliot.”

  “I don’t care,” Elliot said. “I’ll just become a misunderstood painter.”

  Zane looked at Cristiano and demanded, “Tell him how important it is to study.”

  Cristiano opened his hands and smiled. “I don’t have to be in front of the camera. I only have to make sure his outfit is authentic,” he said.

  Davey cackled and opened his arms wide, bumping Zane. “God has spoken!”

  “You’re no help!” Zane said. “Encouraging laziness!”

  “Cristiano has to work harder than any of us!” Elliot said. “He has to make sure everyone looks good for the camera.”

  “He just supervises!” Davey said. “I do all the damn work!”

  Elliot ignored Davey and sat up and gasped. “Oh my God, I love this song,” Elliot said. He turned the radio up and then struggled to his feet on the mattress.

  “If you love it so much, why don’t you marry it?” Davey asked. Apparently, they had returned to third grade.

  Elliot wobbled on his feet. “Why don’t you two finish wrestling under the covers?” he said to Davey. “You know you want to.”

  Davey smirked and glanced sideways at Zane. Zane glanced back.

  Elliot leaned over Cristiano and grabbed his hand. “Dance with me?” he asked.

  Zane exchanged a knowing smile with Davey as Cristiano got up. The two began an unsteady slow dance on the end of the bed. Elliot suddenly looked like a terrified fifteen-year-old at a school dance who didn’t know where to put his hands.

  “Aren’t they cute?” Zane asked, looking over at Davey.

  Zane found himself staring into Davey’s eyes while a sappy pop song played in the background — completely absurd, in such a grand room in an ancient land steeped in thousands of years of history. Zane wanted to say something poetic, but nothing came to him.

  Davey had the most incredible, vivid blue eyes, and they made Zane forget everything — the room, the country, his job, his heterosexuality. Except for the one time in school, but what young guy didn’t experiment? And the one time in New York of course, but he’d been at a party and gotten drunk. And the time in Hollywood, at his friend’s club — well, he reasoned no one could call him gay if the male in question was prettier than any woman. Besides, Zane’s older brother Ian was gay. He filled the quota for their family.

  Davey finally broke the gaze and looked back at the other two. Zane looked as well. Elliot faced them, his chin resting on Cristiano’s shoulder. He made eyes at them as if to say what do I do now? Zane and Davey simultaneously grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.

  Still smiling, Davey rolled onto his side facing Zane. He rested atop the blankets and Zane below, but Zane felt his body through the perilously thin fabric.

  “Do you like Morocco?” Davey asked.

  They stared into each other’s eyes again, faces so close Davey’s breath caressed his chin. The bed shifted near Zane’s feet, where the other two were dancing.

  “It’s beautiful,” Zane said.

  “What do you like best about it?” Davey wiggled closer.

  “Um.” Zane tried to think. Morocco. Yes. What was that again? “The water.”

  Davey chuckled. “The beach here in Melilla?” he asked. His lips were an alluring shade of gentle pink and looked very soft.

  “Yeah. It’s pretty. It’s so — blue. The water.”

  Davey laughed again, his long eyelashes fluttering. In the background, the song had stopped.

  The bed shifted as Cristiano got down. “I’ll be right back,” he said with a smile as he headed toward the bathroom, bare feet slapping on the tile floor.

  Elliot clambered up to Davey and Zane and straddled their legs, clearly giddy.

  “Which one of you is Josephine?” Elliot asked. “Aw, kissy kissy! Come on!” He tried to smash their faces together.

  “Why don’t you quit projecting!” Zane pushed at him.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Elliot asked and crawled off, kicking Zane on the way.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Zane mocked. “It means quit living your wet dreams through us.” He pointed meaningfully at the bathroom door.

  Elliot actually blushed. Zane saw a spot to needle him and possibly defend his own masculinity.

  “You should go in there and see if he needs any help,” Zane said.

  “Yeah,” Davey said, thrusting his hips. “Get in there and bang him over the sink. Slam him hard!”

  “Shhh!” Elliot hissed. “God, you guys are fucking perverts!”

  “You know you want to,” Zane said. His voice had gone a bit squeaky from the hip-thrust thing, which, incidentally, had been right against his thigh. “Go ask him if he wants some American culture in him.”

  “Oh my God,” Elliot said as he crawled to the edge of the bed and slid off. He made a rude gesture at Davey and headed toward the bathroom door.

  “What are you doing!” Davey called. “Are you really going in there?”

  Elliot waved a hand distractedly and inclined his head toward the door. Zane laughed.

  “What’re you doing El?” Zane asked. “Listening to him piss? You got some scary fetishes.”

  “The water is running,” Elliot said, fixing them with a dark look and came back to the bed. “He’s washing his hands.”

  “Or maybe he needed a cold shower,” Davey said. “You could go in there and heat it up for him. Shower sex is hot. The water, the tile, the soap all slippery, everything all slick and lubricated…”

  Zane subtly shifted more of the blanket into his crotch area.

  Elliot stood at the foot of the bed, hands resting on the carved footboard, glowering at them. “You’re so funny,” Elliot said to Davey.

  The bathroom door opened, and they all attempted to look innocent. Elliot smiled at Cristiano as he joined him at the foot of the bed.

  “So, are we going to breakfast?” Cristiano asked. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes sparkling.

  “Yes!” Elliot slapped his hand on the footboard. “Come on, up out of bed! It’s time for food!”

  Zane panicked. He looked sideways at Davey.

  Davey chuckled and rolled toward Zane, half-burying his face in the pillow. He whispered, “Shit.”

  “What?” Zane asked and then swallowed, trying to think of non-sexy things. Kittens, green meadows, sandcastles, his grandmother in a thong eating peanut butter…

  “I can’t get up right now,” Davey murmured. “I need a moment.”

  Zane did too.

 
He looked anxiously at Elliot. “We’re coming,” Zane said. Or we need to be. “Go get dressed. We’ll meet you downstairs.”

  Elliot arched an eyebrow with a smirk. “You’ve got exactly fifteen minutes. Exactly.”

  Once they were gone, Zane looked hesitantly at Davey. Davey lifted his face from the pillow and smiled. He seemed unruffled, as always. Davey never got nervous.

  “Awkward,” Davey said.

  “A little,” Zane agreed.

  “Don’t feel awkward on my behalf,” Davey said and shrugged. “It’s flattering.”

  “It’s probably from the roughhousing and all that.”

  Davey chuckled softly. “It’s not because I’m sexy?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Zane looked at him, nervousness turning to anxiety.

  “So.” Davey glanced around the bed and then looked back at Zane. “Should we just get up? I mean, we both know the other is sporting wood, so does it really matter? Why don’t we just get up, and I’ll go to my room and get dressed, and you can get dressed, and it’ll go away and that’ll be that?”

  The plan sounded reasonable.

  “All right,” Zane said and sat up. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table, wondering how fast he could dress if he jerked off first.

  Davey sat up and crawled off the bed. Zane kept his gaze averted while he pushed the covers off himself and looked for his slippers over the side of the bed.

  Davey surprised him by stepping around in front of him. Zane’s gaze instantly went to the protrusion in the front of Davey’s pajama bottoms. Then he looked up at his face.

  Davey smiled faintly and leaned over. He plucked something from the bedside table.

  “Took my necklace off when I came in,” Davey said. “Didn’t want it broken.”

  Davey turned and walked to the door connecting their rooms, not at all moving like a man sporting an impressive erection. He tossed Zane a glance over his shoulder before slipping through the door.

  Zane got off in under three minutes. He had plenty of time to dress.

  Chapter 2

  Several hours later, Zane sat in Elliot’s chair, sipping from a water bottle and watching his charge get chewed out by the director, as expected. Even under the tent for the actors, the temperature soared, and Zane wished the water were a nice cold beer. Being a personal assistant involved a lot of waiting around, but a good bit of his idle time he spent studying Saul, so he considered the hardship fair trade — Zane wanted to direct, eventually.