International Manwhore – Part 13

Everyone in this story is 18+

The Apollo towered over the St. Tropez anchorage like a Bond villain’s wet dream: six decks of white carbon and smoked glass, lights pulsing soft violet against the night sky, music bleeding into the water in low, expensive waves. A floating palace for people who thought “quiet luxury” meant only one helicopter.

Hunter led the boarding party like he owned the place (which, knowing him, he probably had a fractional share in). He was poured into a gold mesh tank that caught every light, Versace swim trunks slung low, the lion necklace swinging like a pendant of chaos. I followed in the midnight-blue linen suit Asher had bullied me into (jacket open, shirt unbuttoned just the right amount of reckless), trying not to fidget with the tiny earpiece Leona had insisted on. Asher brought up the rear in black linen so sharp it could have filed taxes, already checking his watch because his red-eye to New York left in four hours.

Hunter air-kissed the two security guys at the gangway, then spun on his heel, gold flashing.

Asher muttered, “Try not to drool on the target, Tucker,” and melted into the crowd with a final, unreadable glance. Gone before the first champagne flute reached my hand.

The deck was a fever dream: half the guests in couture, half in strategically nothing, bodies moving to a remix that cost more than most people’s rent. Hunter spotted Adrien first and let out a genuinely delighted squeal.

There he was. Photos hadn’t prepared me. The Adrien Laroque leaned against the rail of the upper deck, backlit by the moon and about three million dollars’ worth of LEDs. White linen shirt open to the sternum, skin sun-kissed and flawless, dark hair curling just enough to look accidental. He was laughing at something a model whispered in his ear, head tilted, and the sound carried over the music—warm, unguarded, nothing like the icy Bond-villain drawl I’d expected.

Hunter bounded up the stairs two at a time. “Mon ange!” Adrien’s whole face changed (genuine delight, arms open). They did that French double-cheek kiss thing, then Hunter spun him toward me like a game-show hostess unveiling the prize.

“Adrien, this is Bryson Tucker. The American I told you about. Fresh meat, very expensive, slightly traumatized by a recent sex tape.”

Adrien turned, and the full force of him hit me like summer air through an open car window. Gray-green eyes, amused, curious, not calculating at all. A crooked half-smile that felt like it had been waiting just for me.

“Bryson,” he said, tasting the name, accent curling around the syllables. “Hunter says you’re trouble.”

His hand slid into mine (warm, firm, thumb brushing my knuckles for half a second longer than polite). My brain short-circuited. I knew this man’s favorite lube, his childhood cat’s name (Croissant), the exact thread-count of the sheets on this boat), and yet standing in front of him I felt like a teenager meeting his celebrity crush.

“Only the fun kind,” I managed. Voice steadier than my pulse.

He laughed, soft. “Weirdly kind. “We’ll see.”

The next three hours passed in a blur of Negroni Sbagliatos (Sebastian had been right; Adrien lit up like a Christmas tree when I ordered one “with Prosecco, because I’m feeling chaotic”) and effortless conversation. He asked about New York, about growing up, about the leaked video (without a hint of judgment, just genuine curiosity). I found myself talking more than I ever do on dates, laughing at stories about his first cat stealing caviar at a Monaco gala, about the summer he worked on a fishing boat in Brittany to piss off his rich parents. He was sharp, self-deprecating, and kept touching my arm when he spoke (light, gentle brushes that felt accidental and absolutely weren’t).

At some point Hunter vanished into a knot of influencers doing body shots off a DJ, and Asher had already left, he mentioned business in New York. Suddenly it was just Adrien and me at the rail, the party noise muffled, the sea black and endless below us.

He leaned in, voice low enough that I felt it more than heard it. “It’s quieter upstairs. I have a private deck. Jacuzzi’s warm, stars are ridiculous tonight.” A small smile, almost shy. “If you’d like.”

My mouth went dry. Every carefully rehearsed line evaporated. I nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

He took my hand (no hesitation, fingers threading through mine like it was the most natural thing in the world) and led me toward the private elevator.

The doors slid shut, sealing us in mirrored gold and soft violet light. Adrien glanced sideways, eyes dancing. “Nervous?”

I laughed, shaky. “Little bit.”

“Good,” he smirked, stepping closer until his shoulder brushed mine. “Means you’re paying attention.”

The elevator doors parted with a whisper.

Warm air rolled over us, thick with jasmine and the faint mineral scent of heated water. The private suite stretched ahead: low couches in cream linen, glass walls open to the night, and beyond them the teak deck where the jacuzzi glowed turquoise, steam curling up into a sky so bright with stars it looked fake. The bass from the party six decks below was only a heartbeat now, distant and irrelevant.

Adrien released my hand just long enough to thumb a panel on the wall. Lights dropped to a sultry amber, the colour of good cognac. Then he turned to me, smile slow and devastating.

“After you, Bryson.”

My pulse was a war drum, the plug training suddenly feeling like the world’s most inadequate dress rehearsal.

Adrien didn’t wait for me to move. He simply reached for the hem of his white linen shirt and peeled it upward in one fluid motion. The fabric caught briefly on his shoulders before sliding free, revealing a torso that made the photos look like cheap knock-offs: smooth, sun-golden skin stretched over lean muscle, a faint trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the low waistband of his trousers. He let the shirt drop from his fingertips like it had personally offended him.

Next came the belt, then the button, the zipper. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband and briefs together and pushed everything down in a single, unhurried glide. The trousers pooled at his ankles; he stepped out, kicked them aside, and stood there completely naked, utterly unbothered, cock half-hard and thickening in the warm air like it had all the time in the world.

He didn’t pose. He just let me look. And I did. Honestly, couldn’t have stopped if the yacht had caught fire.

He was beautiful in the way expensive things are: not perfect, but perfectly balanced (broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips, the cut V that made my mouth go dry, and a dick that curved slightly upward, heavy even at half-mast, the head already glistening).

Adrien’s eyes never left mine while he descended the two shallow steps into the jacuzzi. Water lapped at his thighs, his waist, his chest as he sank in, bubbles swirling around him like champagne. He leaned back against the edge, arms spread along the rim, and the movement made his cock breach the surface for a second (thick, flushed, undeniably interested) before the water claimed it again.

“Your turn,” he said, voice velvet and smoke.

I swallowed. My fingers felt thick, clumsy. I started with the jacket (let it fall. Then the shirt, one button at a time, feeling his gaze like a physical touch on every new inch of skin. When it was open I shrugged it off my shoulders and let it drop. Belt next (the clink sounded too loud in the quiet). I toed off my loafers, pushed trousers and briefs down together, stepping out of them with less grace than he’d managed but trying anyway.

The night air kissed my skin, cool against the heat pooling low in my gut. My cock was already hard, curving up against my stomach, and there was no hiding it. Adrien’s eyes tracked the movement, lips curving into that crooked half-smile.

I walked to the edge of the jacuzzi. The steam rose around me like incense. One step down, water hot and perfect against my calves, then thighs, then higher. I sank until it lapped at my chest, mirroring his pose on the opposite side, arms along the rim, trying to look half as calm as he did.

For a long moment we just stared at each other across the swirling water, the only sounds the soft churn of jets and my own pulse in my ears.

Then Adrien shifted forward, slow, but inviting until his knees brushed mine under the surface. He reached down without breaking eye contact and palmed himself once, lazily, adjusting the heavy length now fully hard beneath the bubbles. The water distorted everything, but I could still see the outline, the way it flexed in his grip.

He smirked, low and filthy.

“So,” he said, voice husky with promise, “do you wanna have some real fun?”

My breath hitched. My dick, traitor that it was, thickened instantly against my stomach, bobbing to the surface like it was waving hello.

Shit. I was way too good at this.