Rapture in Rome [MultiFormat]
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eBook by Adam Carpenter
eBook Category: Erotica/Gay-Lesbian Erotica/Romance
eBook Description: Freddie Markson likes to have fun. He loves men, and knowing he's headed to Rome, Italy for the summer means only one thing: fling after fling after fling. But from the moment he meets the wealthy Patsy Abbott, Freddie realizes his priorities are about to change. She challenges him to pick up a guy on the flight, and while that goes well enough, it's what happens after they land that will change fun-loving Freddie. His name is Santo Mancusi, and he's among the most handsome men Freddie has ever seen. A chance encounter through Patsy has the two men hooking up. But Santo has a secret past, one he is reluctant to revisit. After a night of rapturous sex with Santo, Freddie realizes this may just be more than a fling. Could Cupid have pierced his cynical heart? Drenched in the heated passion of Rome, Freddie's adventure will take him from the ancient Colosseum to the rolling hills of Tuscany, all in pursuit of a passionate love he cannot deny. With secrets exposed, hearts opened, Freddie and Santo realize that anything is possible. Steamy, sexy, satisfying, Rapture in Rome will remind you that all roads lead to love.
eBook Publisher: Ravenous Romance/Ravenous Romance, Published: 2010
Fictionwise Release Date: November 2010
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3 Reader Ratings:
"Son of a bitch."
That was Freddie Markson's reaction to the delay flashing on the monitor. In his mind the word "fuck" echoed like twelve times; that's how pissed off he was. He wasn't alone in his grumbling. It seemed half of his fellow travelers were watching the changing screen like it was a porn movie, unable to look away but knowing what they were seeing was all a big lie. There was no passion, no truth, and certainly no fun. The Alitalia flight had already been delayed two hours, and now it looked like they'd be hanging around Terminal One at JFK another hour.
The airline was blaming the weather, but didn't they always point the blame somewhere else? Sure, it was raining outside, big deal. Freddie could see beads of water dripping down the plate glass windows of the terminal, as though the airport was shedding tears for them. Yeah, yeah, screw your sympathy. Get us our plane and get us out here. Didn't planes fly through thunderstorms all the time? What was a little drizzle? He'd had enough of New York and its summer humidity already. If he was going to sweat through his clothes every day he may as well do it in some place far more exotic. Like, well--Rome, Italy, would do. If they ever fricking boarded the plane.
Frederick Richard Markson was a man not known for his patience. At thirty-six, he was a tight coil of a man, his lithe body ready to spring into action the moment the gun went off. He was of average build, and had brown hair so thick people called it his thatch, worn in a modern, tousled style. His trim self was achieved by constantly staying in motion, which usually drew guys to him like a magnet. That, and his inviting, toothy smile. One of his former boyfriends had claimed Freddie never stopped moving, even when he was asleep. Couldn't fault him there; sleep annoyed him. He loved the race and the challenge of life, and if he didn't win at anything, well, at least he had fun along the way. You couldn't have much fun sleeping, could you?
Which is why he was so anxious to take to the skies. Sitting around had never been high on his list of activities. He'd done enough of that already while waiting at the gate for this flight, and the fact he would have to wait out another hour or so in addition to the nine-hour flight to Rome's Fiumicino Airport made for a case of antsy-pants. As he retook his chair at the crowded gate, just another dissatisfied flyer, his knees bounced with frustration. This was not how his trip was supposed to start, and it had better not be an indication of how things were going to go once he got there. Fall in love, my ass, Freddie thought. That was the supposed mission, wasn't it? While his friends Jake and Matt--Matt especially, hopeless romantic that he was--might think they were going to find their one true love during their fanciful summer sojourns, Freddie knew differently. He hadn't pretended with them, and he certainly wasn't fooling himself. His plan was to happily and lustily screw his way through Rome, and when he ran out of the Romans, maybe he'd conquer men in other cities. Isn't that what those feisty Romans did, conquer? And as the old saying goes: when in Rome. He thrilled at the idea of lots of bone-rattling sex.
He turned skeptically to his immediate left. A striking woman about his own age was sitting beside him. She was tastefully dressed in expensive clothes, her blond hair done all proper in a tight, constricting bun. She was pretty; ruby red lips highlighting her aquiline features. Not bad, but she wasn't his type. Main problem? She was a she.
"Excuse me?" he said.
"You look like you're about to leap out of your skin."
"Yeah, well, waiting sucks."
She nodded demurely. "That is does. I'm Patricia Abbott. Patsy to my friends."
"Oh, uh, hi. Freddie Markson."
"Freddie, hmm. Not Fred? Not Frederick."
He shook his head emphatically. "No way. Fred just sounds nerdy. Frederick like I have a stick permanently shoved up my butt. Freddie...he's more fun. Freddie's your pal. He's the kind of guy you invite for one drink but end up doing shots with. That's me. That's who I like to be."
"Sounds ideal. I'll buy the first."
"Well, you're awfully polite, you get credit there, Freddie. Your mother must have raised you right. Look, we've got an hour--or so that's what the airlines folks are telling us. So why not join me over at the terminal bar? Maybe you can convince me of the merits of doing shots. I prefer wine, red mostly, but on a hot summer day I'll settle for a crisp white. What do you say?"
"Really, it's just a harmless drink," she said, patting his knee into submission. "Trust me, Freddie, I'm not interested in anything romantic, and I know you're not."
Freddie crossed his arms, the coil tightening. Feeling a bit defensive about that remark, Freddie wondered if she'd just admitted to seeing through his macho facade and into the window of his well-appointed gay interior? "Come on, let's get that drink and then we can survey the rest of our fellow passengers, maybe pick out a cute boy for you to boink on the plane" she said. "From what I've seen, there's a couple of good candidates...oh, don't act so surprised, Freddie. Have I shocked you?"
"Yeah, but in a good way. First drink is on you, huh?"
Both fliers had checked their larger suitcases, so with only shoulder bags to trudge around, they wound their way down the corridor, taking up seats directly at Terminal One's bar. Two napkins were slapped down in front of them, the server asking what it'll be.
"Heineken," Freddie said. "Jack chaser."
"Merlot, please," Patsy said, then with a conniving smile said, "Jack chaser."
The bartender was obviously amused at the unusual order, and he went about his business preparing drinks. Once they were set before them, Freddie lifted his amber-colored shot, Patsy following suit. They clinked, they drank one quick gulp of the fiery amber. Freddie smacked the glass down and said, "Now that takes the edge off." Patsy's face hadn't yet recovered from her squashed look. A few of the men around her applauded her efforts. She merely nodded in their direction.
Matt and Patsy moved to a high table near the edge of the bar, giving them a decent view of the activity happening inside the quiet terminal. It was past ten o'clock at night, and most of the overnight flights had already departed. A few still remained, theirs included. Still delayed that additional hour. No other updates available.
"So, tell me Freddie, what's your type? Flamboyant or masculine?"
"I guess somewhere in between. He doesn't have to be draped in the gay flag per se, but he should be comfortable in his own skin Some of the straight-acting ones, sometimes I think they believe they are straight...or that they want to be for socially acceptable reasons. They're only gay when in a darkened bedroom. But the swishy ones...you can keep those as far as I'm concerned. Some of them think they're women, and if I wanted a woman..."
"You'd be straight."
"Right. So...yeah, a guy who knows who is he but doesn't have to show it all the time. But he's got to be hot. Call me shallow, but I work out and keep my body in great shape and I want to be with someone who shares the same healthy attitude. You're gonna indulge in energetic, mind-blowing sex, you want someone who can keep up, right?" Freddie paused, taking a large gulp of his beer. "Sorry, TMI?"
"Oh, no. It's fascinating. So let me guess, you're not the relationship type."
"So, you're not looking for love? For the ideal companion to share your life?"
"Nope. Not now, not for quite a while," Freddie said. "Though actually, that's what this trip is supposed to be about."
"How intriguing. Do tell."
So he did. He told this perfect stranger all about his friends Jake Westbury and Matthew Donovan, both of whom had already left for their trips to London and Paris respectively, and while he was sure Jake was acting like the dog he was, Matt "is probably already married and has his second child on the way. And he's only been there two weeks."
"Sounds like you don't think much of your friend, Matt."
"Oh, quite the opposite. I admire the fact he knows what he wants. He's the sensitive one. Me, I'm just not wired that way."
"Now you sound like my brother. Big-shot international lawyer. He's gay and he loves sex--I've heard more about his antics than I ever wanted to, which is probably why I'm the fag hag he insists I am, and hey, if I am it's because he made me that way, you know, nurture versus nature, ha, ha. But he's afraid of commitment, or so he thinks he is. Anyway," she went on, "we have this ongoing game. Since we both travel a lot, we meet a lot of people. How many men Colton has bought membership into the mile-high club I don't know---but it's a lot. Me, that sort of sordid sex doesn't interest me. That doesn't mean I can't help further the cause. So, Freddie, have you found any boys here to your liking? I saw some queen walk by with a pink carry-all and quickly dismissed him. Another guy had his baseball cap worn backwards, another no-no I'm guessing. Hey, what about that one?"
Freddie looked to where she was pointing, his eyes zeroing in a guy flipping through cyber pages on his iPad. He was blond, trim, tall, could have been straight except for the limp-wristed motion he used on his tech device. Patsy had picked up on it, raising an eyebrow as she sipped at her red wine.
"He's not even sitting near our gate."
"Doesn't matter. Few other flights remain tonight, could just be stretching out. Look at his legs, nice and long. Damn iPad is blocking his package. Still, he's got potential. Cute in a preppy way, but I don't think that's much of a problem for you. Once the Tommy Hilfiger clothes are off, men are men. Bodies are bodies, skin is skin."
"Yeah, okay. I'll keep him in mind," he said. " Hey, what about that guy?"
"That guy" proved to be one of their flight attendants, a dark-haired, dark-skinned man of thirty-something years waiting around for the arrival of their plane with a gaggle of coworkers. He was nattily dressed in tight dark-green slacks, a white shirt that hugged a fit, if short-ish, body. His blazer was draped over nearby luggage. He spoke excitedly with his fellow co-workers, arms flailing with passion. Ooh, a fiery personality, and no doubt annoyed as well at the delay. Probably had that much energy in bed, too, Freddie thought.
"Okay, I'll give you him."
"Please," Freddie pleaded.
"So, we've got our choices narrowed down. The tall blond tech guy, or the short, hunky African-American flyboy," Patsy said. "Let's see what happens when we board. Come on, kid, put on your best gay, let them know you're here. Freddie Markson is on board, and he wants to play."
"Damn, girl, you've known me thirty minutes, already you're a better wing man than either Jake or Matt. Plus, you don't represent any kind of competition, in case the guy likes star-crossed lovers like Matt, or sneaky whores like Jake. With me, it's fun in the sun, on your back in the sack, a cock and a suck, a lock and a fuck."
"My, my, dirty poetry. Freddie, I think you're going places."
He grimaced. "Not really. Look at the monitor."
Another delay. One more hour. Shit. The time was flashing at them, a tease, just like a stripper who never delivered on his promise of showing all his God-given goodies. They ordered another drink and waited out the latest delay. Freddie announced the second shot was on him, and when Patsy tried to protest he said he'd hear nothing of it.
"Let your hair down, hon," Freddie said. "There's no fun when you wear that bun."
She rolled her eyes. "More poetry, huh?"
Alitalia Airlines Flight 609 had been airborne for nearly four hours, with Freddie having subsequently eaten, watched a crappy movie, napped, had a couple of drinks, and now he was staring wide-eyed out the window at the passing clouds, the dawning of a new day dawning somewhere in the distance. Flying was way cool. It was like the Earth was some long-forgotten orb, leaving you lost among the stars. Was Rome really their next destination, or the moon?
Freddie hadn't seen Patsy since they'd parted ways when stepping onto the plane. A stylish lady like her, she was of course seated in first class and he was in economy, but she had promised to invite him up for breakfast once they'd broken through the morning's glare, telling him, "I want to hear every detail about your mile-high dalliance." Well, so far, no good. She'd have to wait for her next flight and her next gay pick-up to get off on someone else's sexual exploits. Because Freddie had struck out not just once but twice.
The cute preppy blond with the iPad was only five rows ahead of him, and Freddie had tried to grab his attention each time he went to use the bathroom. After the beers he'd consumed both at the terminal and on board the plane, he'd gotten up often. Thankfully he had his two-seat row all to himself, so he wasn't disturbing anyone with all that getting up. But Blondie wasn't interested. He barely looked at Freddie, and when one time he did meet his gaze, the blond guy shook his head in a disapproving way.
Okay, strike one.
The hot flight attendant was actually working Freddie's section of the plane. He'd served Freddie a beer, had asked him whether he preferred rubber chicken or soggy pasta--okay, those adjectives Freddie added, but they weren't far off--but other than a pleasant exchange of smiles with each collection of trash, their heat meter was about the same as the air temperature outside the window. Cold. He was as properly attentive to Freddie as he was to the fat guy across the aisle squeezing out his companion.
Okay, strike two.
Freddie liked baseball. It was really the only sport he could watch, and besides, a lot of the players were totally hot in those tight uniforms. Balls, bats, pitchers, catchers, watching a game was sometimes better than one of the movies from his porn collection. Call it Ball Me. But all that aside, it didn't mean he was interested in striking out, sexually speaking, on board his flight to Rome. If this summer was all about flings, flings, flings, he wasn't off to a very good start. Not even the airplane--the world's biggest phallic symbol going--seemed to want to fling itself into the air, so delayed were they on this rainy night. What chance did that give him?
Christ, he had to pee again.
He should have heeded Patsy's advice: wine didn't take up as much room in the bladder as did beer, so the body absorbed more of the fruity liquid than did its yeasty equivalent. Fewer calories, too, and given how long they would sitting on this journey across the Atlantic and halfway around the European continent, why not try and conserve where you could? Freddie stuffed the empty Heineken can inside his seat pocket, then unbuckled for this return journey to the cramped toilet.
Standing behind was Blondie, finally released from his iPad. Freddie's cock did a quick happy dance, mostly because it needed a urine release but also because as close now to the hot guy as he ever was, he was that much more attracted. He wore jeans, a red V-neck T-shirt, both of which highlighting the tight contours of his body. A frothy complement of blond hairs covered his forearms, growing thinner as they crawled up his muscular arms. Freddie felt like he wanted to lick this man's neck right now and see what kind of sensations it set off. And why not? The bulk of the passengers were passed out with long-deserved sleep seeing as though they'd crawled on board near two in the morning. No one was paying them any attention. Trouble was, hot guy barely acknowledged Freddie.
The bathroom door opened, in went hot guy. Two minutes later, he emerged, returning to his seat with nary a word. Bitch. Thinks he's so hot, can have anyone he wants, except on this plane when he sits alone, pees alone, jerks off alone, no doubt. Freddie suddenly lost interest and took his turn for the bathroom.
As he was about to lock the door behind him, another person appeared.
"Uh, one at a time," Freddie said on instinct.
But he didn't really mean that, not when he saw who had made an appearance: he hot black flight attendant. He looked frazzled, like he'd just run a marathon, sweat dripping down his brow. "Oh, hi, you're the guy in..."
"Right, yeah. Beer Guy."
"Beer Guy. Oh, sorry, my co-workers and I, we sometimes come up with nicknames for our travelers. Like that blond guy, we call him No Talk. He keeps to himself, always has, and he's on this same flight every month. Never seen him talk to any of his seatmates, much less us, and we attend to his requests all the time. Whatever, be an unfriendly bitch--just cause you're cute doesn't mean you have to be rude, right? For most of our regular fliers it's easier. We all know who we're talking about, but you...you're new, I've never seen you before, and all you kept asking for were beers. You had so many I was thinking...well, you don't want to know what I thought. But I also saw you at the terminal talking to Patsy. We all know her, and we all know she tends to attract...well, a certain type, and so..."
Christ. Guy talks a blue streak but never finishes a damn sentence. Freddie had to shut this one up, and fast. So, door slightly ajar, the two of them stuffed into the small space, Freddie did what had to be done. He shoved closed the door and locked it pronto, planting his lips on the hot flight attendant's mouth, his tongue finding an air pocket to explore, his actions all done in a matter of seconds. As for their kiss, that lasted almost longer than the boarding process, and finally when they parted they could at last assess the situation.
"You were smart to do that," the attendant said. "I get nervous, I talk. And when..."
"You want me to plant another one on you?"
"Actually, yeah. That kiss was amazing. Look, I'm on my break. I've got ten minutes."
"Usually I take longer..."
"Haha, ooh, you're a funny one in addition to a cute one. Look, I'm Len."
"Hey, Len. Freddie."
"I'm totally into you, but I can't risk anything stupid, not in the skies. I'm going to be in Rome for a couple of days...maybe we can get together..."
Freddie shut the guy up again, kissing him with deep, beer-drenched passion. His hand wandered down to Len's pants, grabbing at the growing erection Len was suffering. Freddie rubbed the cock hard through the material, kissing him still but reveling in how big Len's package seemed to be growing. Impressive, he thought, and who knew? Len was short, not more than five foot seven, and his trim body was wiry and thin. Probably ran daily. Okay, good for him. But if he was so devoid of body fat, what the hell was this thing in his pants? Keeping alive that myth about black men? Freddie knew from experience it wasn't true. But now, hell, Freddie decided he had to get a look at this thing. Couldn't go back into the main cabin right now anyway; thing would block the aisle. Unzipping the dress slacks and pushing them down fiercely around Len's ankles, he watched as a mighty, thick cock sprung loose from its hold. Its thick shaft was smoky dark in color, but the tip was blacker. And the whole thing was big--no other word for it, like one of those taller beer cans. Had to be ten inches, easy. Christ. Like out of a damn porno, right here on board flight 69...uh, 609. Big Cocks, Little Spaces could be title.
"Shit, what have we here?"
"Really...Freddie, not now, I can't ..."
Too late for protestations, pathetic as they were. Freddie had already taken half the cock deep into his hungry mouth. The tip pushed hard against the back of his throat, threatening to gag him. But he'd watched enough porno to know how to handle such a thick piece of meat. He slid the shaft out, keeping only the tip locked between his lips. He sucked, licked, sucked again. Len had long given up on telling him to stop, and no wonder, Freddie could feel him quickly readying an orgasm. Freddie took the cock into his mouth again, opening wide to feel the thick shaft stretch his jaw.
Freddie took hold of the big cock. He watched as the head expanded as it spurted its hot juices. Len's cock jerked once, twice, his come shooting up, only to land in the sink of the tiny bathroom. He was panting, drained, leaving Freddie smiling. He'd brought this guy to a pretty quick climax, and he was pleased to have been so found so attractive. He was good at blow jobs, especially with cocks you could really wrap your lips around. What Freddie wanted most was a reciprocal suck. But when a nervous guy like Len had already shot his load, there was little chance he'd follow through with his end of the bargain.
"Once we land," Len said, "like I said, I've got a layover. What you did to me, well, we can do that again, and a whole lot more. How does that sound?"
"As long as you suck me off eventually, I say it's a deal."
"Sucked. Fucked. You name it."
Len disappeared from the restroom, leaving Freddie to his own tortured desires. His cock was hard inside his own pants, and why shouldn't it be? It was starved, and had gone ignored, and damn if he was tired of delayed gratification: from the airlines, from uptight flight attendants. So he grabbed some soap and he unleashed his cock, and rubbed, rubbed, rubbed, his motions rocking along with the sudden turbulence they'd encountered. But that helped. Life was dangerous, full of excitement and surprises, and those were what truly electrified Freddie Markson. He shot his thick load into his hand, imagining the summer of sexual exploits awaiting him.
His hot flight attendant was just the start.
Next stop, Rome.
Look out, men, Freddie Markson was soon to arrive. Gentlemen, cock your engines.
* * * *
* * * *
Leonardo da Vinci Airport-Fiumicino International Airport was the official name, but it was too long and unwieldy so everyone just shortened it to Fiumicino. Freddie's flight landed at eleven thirty in the morning, three hours later than scheduled. They'd made up some time in the sky, but not a lot. Freddie decided not to complain. It was only the third of June third and he had the entire summer to look forward to, plenty of time to explore the Eternal City's ancient treasures, not to mention its modern marvels. And by marvels, he meant Italian men.
He'd already gotten horny like three times before he'd even left the airport.
There was that scruffy-faced bag handler he'd seen outside his window while they taxied.
There was that dark-bearded customs agent behind the desk.
There was his flight attendant from the airplane, who had given Freddie his number along with a morning croissant and a small bottle of bubbly for pre-landing mimosas. Patsy had been impressed, wanting details about what had occurred back in "steerage" while she slept the night and flight away in her luxurious first-class leather seat. Freddie had little to tell her. There was more to come--from both of them--so they exchanged numbers and agreed upon dinner in a couple of days' time, once he got settled.
A tired Freddie made his way into central Rome via the Fiumicino Express, arriving into the main train station called Termini at just after two o'clock in the afternoon. With his bags dragging behind him, people rushing and bustling all around him to catch their trains to all points throughout Italy, nearly knocking him down in the process, he followed the signs to the cabs, and at last settled into the back of one.
"Buongiorno. To para inglese?"
"Certo," said the cabbie pleasantly. He twitched his thick salt-and pepper mustache. The smell of cigars permeated the small vehicle.
Freddie thought a moment about what the old man had said, realizing his response was in the affirmative. "Ah, very good. Merci..." Shit, wrong language, God, don't try too hard, speak English; he said he understands. "Via Colosseo, per favore."
"D'accord," the cabbie said agreeably.
Hey, not bad with this language stuff, Freddie thought, as the cab took off into the midday Rome traffic. Those few pages at the back of his travel book he'd scanned on the plane had come in handy. The cars were certainly smaller than they were in New York, which he guessed had everything to do with the narrow streets that made up this ancient city. Still, the grizzled cabbie was experienced in their intricacies, and he spun his way around the busy traffic circles around Termini, down a few narrow streets until he settled onto the larger Via Cavour.
Having had more than four weeks' notice for his Rome adventure, Freddie had turned to his computer to do some online research. One of the first details he'd been able to secure was an apartment in which to live. He hated hotels--they were cold and impersonal. Though he wasn't adverse to hotel sex, which was always fun, fucking and grunting as urgently as you wanted. Banging that headboard as hard as you could, screwing your neighbors, getting off real good and loud. But the idea of living in a hotel for three months, forget about it. He wanted a home, an apartment, a kitchen to cook in, a refrigerator in which to store cheeses and wines and fresh fruits and all those other goodies that the markets of Rome afforded you. So he'd luckily found this charming--by the pictures, anyway--apartment along the via del Colosseo, within sight of the famed amphitheatre.