International Manwhore – Part 11

Everyone in this story is 18+

The Côte d’Azur sun beat down like it had a personal grudge, turning the St. Tropez marina into a mirror maze of white yachts and even whiter teeth. I stood on the private helipad jutting off the back of our borrowed training boat, mirrored aviators reflecting the glare, linen shirt unbuttoned to the sternum because the humidity was trying to murder me. Asher lounged beside me in crisp white linen that somehow stayed immaculate, looking like he’d been pressed by a valet robot. He was already tired—jet-lag from New York, or maybe just existential dread at what was incoming.

A distant thwop-thwop-thwop sliced the air. The chopper crested the hills, matte black with gold pinstripes, rotors kicking up salt spray. It hovered, dipped, then kissed the pad. The door slid open. And then—

Hunter strutted out like he’d choreographed the wind itself. Versace baroque-print shorts so short they were basically a belt, gold lion necklace swinging heavy against a bare, oiled chest, luggage shaped like a magnum of Dom Pérignon rolling behind him on diamond-encrusted wheels. He yanked off his neon aviators, smacked Asher square on the ass with a palm that echoed like a gunshot, and grinned like the devil on payday.

“Hey boo!” Hunter crowed. “I got your bat-signal, but Adrien’s not the type to let randos on The Apollo without a known quantity. He’s sus of new meat—paranoid. Lucky for you, I’m the known quantity.”

Asher went statue-still, deadpan as a tax audit. “Bloody hell.”

I couldn’t help it—my jaw dropped, then split into a grin. “Hunter, BRO! I love the drip!”

He spun, gold lion flashing, and air-kissed both my cheeks like we were old Monaco money. “Thanks, Bry-Bry! It’s a gold lion. Got it in Dubai. Probably cursed—last guy who wore it lost a yacht in a poker game. Worth it.”

Asher muttered under his breath, “I am officially in brohell.”

I had met Hunter once. I’d honestly liked him instantly: unhinged, loud, impossible to ignore. Like if Elon and Zuck had a love child raised by drag queens and venture capital.

He slung the champagne-bottle luggage onto the deck with a clank, popped it open, and pulled out a bottle of actual Dom chilled in dry ice. “Hydrate, bitches. We’ve got strategy.”

◆◆◆

Below deck, the saloon smelled of teak and Hunter’s cologne—oud and ozone, like a thunderstorm in a boutique. He sprawled across the leather banquette, legs akimbo, gold lion pendant nestled in the V of his pecs. Asher took the opposite seat, posture perfect, green eyes narrowed to slits. I hovered between them, aviators still on because the tension was brighter than the sun.

Hunter cracked the champagne, foam erupting like his personality. “So, Adrien. We matched on Grindr in the Maldives—post-Bangkok, pre-Paris. One night, overwater bungalow, infinity pool, poppers that tasted like cotton candy. Ten-out-of-ten fuck. Dude’s vers like a goddamn Rubik’s Cube—started bottoming for me, then flipped midway and railed me into next week. I saw nirvana, lost three IQ points, gained a soulmate in lube.”

I choked on champagne. “Vers? What the hell is—”

Asher cut in, dry as gin on ice. “Versatile, Tucker. Tops and bottoms. Like a light switch with commitment issues.”

My stomach flipped. “Wait—hold up. I don’t have to get fucked too, right?”

Hunter’s laugh was a glitter explosion. “Oh honey. Adrien’s dossier should come with a toggle switch. If he wants to drive, you ride shotgun—or reverse cowgirl, depending on the vibe.”

Asher’s smirk could slice diamonds. “Well…”

“Are you fucking serious?”

Hunter leaned forward, gold lion swinging. “Dead. But relax—Adrien’s picky about new tops. I’ll vouch, say you’re my plus-one. He trusts me, mostly. We’ll say you’re bi-curious money, fresh off a breakup with some influencer. He loves a redemption arc.”

I rubbed my temples. “I just graduated topping Marcus raw on a rocking boat. Now I need a PhD in bottoming too?”

Asher sipped his champagne, voice silk over steel. “Congratulations, manwhore. You’re officially bilingual. Hunter will get us on The Apollo. Then we drill the flip.”

Hunter winked, pulling a rose-gold butt plug from his luggage like it was a party favor. It vibrated to the beat of Daft Punk’s “Get Lucky.” “Training aid. Start small, graduate to medium, save large for the finale. I call it the Uranus Collection—Brady designed the app. Tracks dilation, syncs to Spotify, sends motivational memes.”

I stared at the gleaming toy, pulse thudding in my ears. “You’re all insane.”

Hunter grinned, popping the cork on a second bottle. “Welcome to the big leagues, Bry-Bry. Tonight we dock, tomorrow we shop for thongs that match your panic, and the day after? You bend for king and country.”

Asher raised his glass, deadpan. “To reciprocity.”

I clinked, champagne sloshing, and tried not to picture Adrien’s rumored dick—thick, veined, and apparently flexible. The plug pulsed on the table like a tiny, expensive heartbeat.

Somewhere over the marina, a yacht horn blared. The Apollo was waiting, and my ass apparently had a deadline too.