Dirty Dining Read Free Page B

chest and the muscular upper body of someone who played sports regularly, not one who sculpted muscles in the gym. As he came around the table, Brice noticed the gold braid laced up around shapely calves and thick thighs, and he forced himself to move his gaze from the barely-there loincloth to the green boy’s face.
    “Hi, I’m J—Remy. Call me Remy.”
    “Hi, Remy, I’m—”
    “Mr. Green,” Thomas said from behind. Apparently the boys weren’t supposed to know the gentlemen’s names.
    “Hi, Mr. Green.” Remy sat down next to Brice, close but not so their thighs touched. He turned and smiled. He looked like he was in his twenties, with clear skin, smooth and just-shaven. He had silky hair the color of wheat and even, white teeth. He looked sober and healthy. Brice wasn’t sure what he’d imagined, but it wasn’t this farm-boy look. Was this better or worse?
    Both, he decided. He certainly wouldn’t mind touching this guy, but the downside was how much he might want to by the end of the evening.
    “Another drink, sir?” Remy motioned toward Brice’s martini glass.
    “No thanks.”
    “Do you want wine with dinner?” Thomas addressed Brice.
    “Just a glass, not a bottle.”
    “Come on, Green ,” Watkins shouted from across the table, smirking as he emphasized the pseudonym. “Look, it’s on my expense account, so let’s have a bottle of something good.” Watkins leaned down, and before he could grab the wine list, his boy had handed it to him and opened it up. Watkins snaked his arm around the boy and they murmured, cheeks together, as he made his choice of wine. Thomas nodded.
    “Boys, the first course is ready!” Thomas announced, and Remy hopped off the bench and lined up to leave the room. He moved gracefully but swiftly, as if he couldn’t wait to leave. Brice wondered if he should have done or said something differently.
    A few moments later the boys paraded back in, each holding a plate, again circling the table and most of them doing their best to show off their physiques. Remy came around toward Brice and bowed low, then placed the plate—a salad—in front of him.
    Around him Brice noticed the other men, including Watkins, were removing clothing items from their servers. Watkins had pulled his boy’s tunic off so the young man sat shirtless, dark nipples budding in the chilly room.
    “What should I remove, Mr. Green?” Remy asked.
    “Uh, your armband?”
    “Do you w—”
    Suddenly it seemed creepy to want to watch this guy peel off his clothes for Brice—even worse to do it for him.
    “No, you do it.” Brice watched Remy’s face, saw his eyes flaring as he took in Brice’s choice. The armband had to come off at some point.
    Remy couldn’t unsnap the green band on his own, and Brice had to help him. His fingertips brushed against the firm, smooth bicep muscles, and he felt the warmth of Remy’s skin. The jolt of sensation traveling from his fingers into his core surprised him. He took his time at the task and noticed Remy’s eyes flutter as he looked away. How did he manage to look so innocent and naïve?
    Remy sat down next to Brice and poured him wine and another glass of water, clearly waiting for Brice to ask him to perform a task. The other men seemed to enjoy having their serving boys feed them or sit on their laps, the gentlemen stroking a thigh or pinching a nipple in between bites of salad. One man had removed his boy’s shorts and was stroking the boy’s firm cock while being fed. Brice wondered what would be left for later if the guy started off there.
    Across from him, Watkins’ boy sat on his lap, with Watkins’ hand under the filmy cloth. It was hardly subtle, but somehow preferable to what the other guy was doing.
     
     
    J EREMY WASN ’ T at all sure what to expect from Mr. Green. He was good-looking in a polished, Richard Gere way, a few strands of silver sprinkled at his temples. It looked good on him. He was somewhere in his thirties, no older,