International Manwhore – Part 3

Everyone in this story is 18+

I slouched in a velvet armchair in a suite at The Echelon, Canary Wharf. The Thames sparkled outside, all smug and romantic, like it knew something I didn’t. The room smelled like citrus polish and coffee.

My tie hung loose, half-untied from pacing, and Adrien Laroque’s dossier lay sprawled on the coffee table, his smirk taunting me from a glossy photo. Those footnotes—Likes big genitals, drawn to bold confidence, strictly a bottom—hit like a punch to the gut. I was used to charming women, not playing spy games with a billionaire who collected lovers like rare coins. My stomach twisted. This wasn’t just a mission; it was a tightrope, and I was already wobbling.

Leona Briggs stood by the windows, her silhouette slicing through the city skyline like a blade. She clutched a tablet that probably held my entire life in encrypted files.

And then he walked in.

The last person I expected, though I should’ve known the universe hated me.

Asher Milford. Tall, precise, perfect. Green eyes that looked like they’d been carved out of a gemstone and polished by private-school smugness. He moved with aristocratic grace, his Burberry jacket sitting just so on his shoulders. Sebastian’s across-the-hall neighbor. The one who had sneered at me like I was an unwelcome house pet back in the States.

“Oh, fuck me,” I muttered.

He smirked. “Not likely.”

Leona closed her folder. “Good. You know each other. Saves us the introductions.”

I blinked. “Wait. You knew?”

“Of course,” she said flatly. “Connections matter. Familiarity can breed trust. Or contempt. Either way, it’s useful.”

I threw myself into a chair, folding my arms. “This day just keeps getting better.”

Leona leaned forward. “You asked about training. Here’s how it works. Nothing will take place inside CIA or MI6 facilities. Officially, you are still a trainee at the embassy. That cover needs to remain intact. Therefore, your preparation will happen at the U.S. Embassy, in secured hotel rooms like this, or—” she let the word stretch “—in international waters, if legally necessary.”

My jaw dropped. “International waters?”

“Correct,” she said coolly. “Officially, honey pots are a thing of the past. Off the record? They still happen. And off the record, so does this.”

I groaned, dropping my head against the chair. “Great. I get to learn how to deep-throat on a yacht off St-Tropez.”

Leona didn’t blink. “Cute. But off the record? Maybe.”

I snapped my gaze toward Asher. “And is Asher here going to—?”

“NO,” Asher cut in immediately, voice sharp. “Absolutely not. You wish. But no. I’m here for one thing: to fix your poor attitude.”

My face burned, but I couldn’t deny the jab stung. “Poor attitude? What do you mean?”

Leona closed the distance with her words, clipped and deliberate. “It means while Adrien appreciates a certain swagger — arrogance, even — he also likes those who are themselves. So you need to appear as a confident bisexual man, not just some spoiled diplomat’s son playing at rebellion.”

Asher leaned against the coffee table, slinging a sleek leather manpurse—probably Gucci or some shit—onto the floor beside him. “Yes, not a straight manwhore.”

I shot him a glare, nodding at the bag. “Hey, at least I don’t carry a purse like I’m auditioning for a Bond villain’s sidekick.”

Asher’s eyes narrowed, his smirk turning icy. “It’s a satchel, Tucker. And it holds more than your ego.”

Asher cleared his throat, cutting the tension. “I’m here because apparently I know a little about this world—etiquette, social navigation, how to carry yourself in queer spaces without looking like a tourist. I was their first choice for the seduction role, actually. But I refused, even when MI6 offered to bury my parents’ dodgy dealings in Dubai.”

Leona’s jaw tightened, his green eyes flashing. “You weren’t supposed to tell him that. He obviously struggles with self-esteem or some childhood trauma. He doesn’t have to know he was our fifth choice!”

“Fifth??” I sputtered, sitting up. “Also, I am right here!”

Asher chuckled, low and throaty, the sound curling in my chest like smoke. “Point is, Laroque’s not some frat boy you can charm with a wink and a beer pong win. He’s a predator—socially, sexually. You need to match him, move for move, without looking like you’re trying too hard.” He flipped open the dossier, landing on a photo of Adrien on a yacht, shirt unbuttoned, rosé in hand. “This man eats insecurity for breakfast,” Asher said. “You need to walk into his world like you own it.”

I swallowed, my throat dry as sandpaper. “Easy for you to say. You look like you were born in a Gucci ad. I’m just the guy who got screwed by a sex tape.”

Asher’s gaze slid over me, sharp and sizing, like he was judging a knockoff Rolex. “Oh, I know. But you’ve got the raw material. Just need polish.” He circled me like a coach eyeing a hopeless rookie. “First lesson: posture. You slouch like you’re dodging paparazzi. Stand up.” He tapped my shoulder, firm but not rough, and I shot to my feet, more reflex than obedience.

“Better,” he said, stepping close—too close. His fingers adjusted my tie, tugging it tight with a precision that felt weirdly personal. His hands lingered, smoothing my shirt across my chest, each brush deliberate, testing my nerve. “You need to move like you belong,” he said. “Shoulders back, chin up.”

I tried to laugh it off, but it came out shaky. “What, like I’m strutting into a yacht party?”

“Exactly.” Asher’s lips curved, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the room shrink. “Adrien’s crowd thrives on confidence,” he said. “You’re not just a guest—you’re the one they’re all watching. Act like it.” He stepped back, but his gaze didn’t let go, and I felt naked, like he could see every crack in my bravado.

Leona tapped her tablet, her voice cutting through. “Next: conversational finesse. Adrien’s drawn to wit, not crude charm. Practice banter, Tucker. Asher, play the target.”

Asher slipped into character like he’d been born for it, leaning against the coffee table with a French lilt. “Mon cher, you look like trouble. Tell me, what brings a man like you to my little soirée?” His voice was smooth as silk, his eyes daring me to keep up. My palms went clammy, my usual charm failing me.

“Uh… just, you know, here to… have a good time?” I cringed. Fucking pathetic.

Asher’s laugh was sharp, slicing through my ego. “Oh, darling, that won’t do. Try again. Make me want to keep you around.” He stepped closer, his fingers brushing my wrist, light but deliberate. The touch sent a shiver up my spine, my body reacting before my brain could catch up. “Sell it,” he said. “Make me believe you’re here for me.”

My heart pounded, my mind scrambling for something—anything—to say. I leaned in, mimicking his ease, forcing a smirk. “I’m here because I heard you throw the best parties… and I’m betting I can make them better.” My voice wavered, but Asher’s grin widened, like I’d passed some invisible test.

“Better,” he said, stepping back. “But you’re still playing frat boy. Dig deeper. Adrien wants someone who can match his game—sharp, bold, a little dangerous.” He tilted his head, studying me like I was a project he wasn’t sure he could fix. “You’ve got the raw material. Just need polish.”

Leona nodded, her face unreadable. “Keep at it, Tucker. You’ll practice daily with Asher until you can walk into Adrien’s world and own it. We’ll move to more physical training later, possibly offshore if needed.” She glanced at Asher. “You’re dismissed for now. I need a word with Tucker.”

Asher scooped up his manpurse, tossing me a look—half challenge, half amusement. “Work on that swagger, manwhore. You’ll need it.” He sauntered out, leaving a trail of sandalwood and smugness behind.

I sank back into the armchair. Leona’s voice sliced through my thoughts. “Focus, Tucker. Adrien Laroque isn’t just a target—he’s a mirror. He’ll reflect every weakness you don’t hide. Get it together, or you’re no use to us.”

I nodded, but my mind was elsewhere, stuck on Asher’s smug face, Adrien’s photo, and the sinking feeling that Dad had sold me out for this. The Thames glittered outside, mocking me, as I tried to figure out how to play a game I wanted no part of. I’m not some queer asset. I like women—Josephine’s curves, her throaty laugh, the way she’d text me a mirror pic that made my night. This? This was a job, nothing more. I’d fake it, nail it, and get out before it fucked me up.