then put his hands down Wes’s pants, jerking him off as they kept kissing and kissing until Wes spurted into Justin’s hands and whimpered his name, burying his face in Justin’s neck.
They went for walks at night, looking at the sights, sitting at sidewalk cafés to people watch with a bottle of wine or cups of coffee. They went back to the Champ de Mars, where they drank a bottle of champagne and lay on the grass, watching the Eiffel Tower light up every hour. In between light shows, they made out, trading soft kisses as Justin draped himself across Wes’s chest and Wes ran his fingers through his hair.
In the mornings, Justin joined Wes for his runs, and, now that Wes was eating enough, he went back to calisthenics, dropping into squats and lunges and stopping for push-ups and pull-ups as they jogged around the park. When Justin held his ankles so he could pump out a hundred sit-ups, Wes didn’t count a rep official unless he kissed Justin’s lips at the top. Once, Justin lay down beneath Wes when he was doing his push-ups, but Wes only got twenty-seven reps into his set of eighty before he went down and stayed down, wrapping his arms and legs around Justin and kissing him in the dewy dawn.
In class, they only had eyes for each other, and while the rest of the group was going wild over the Riviera or the Alps or gossiping about their trip to Lake Como, Wes called Justin mon coeur and mon amour and doodled two swans on the pages of their workbook. They sat on the quad to eat lunches Justin packed, watching the ducks and the swans float across the pond until Wes got the feed and they came running. Eventually, the ducks learned Wes meant food, and after that they were swarmed as soon as they tried to picnic.
Every night they made love, and each time was different. Justin rode Wes and held his hands, the lights of Paris dipping into the curves of his naked chest, the planes of his trim, tight muscles. He lay on his stomach and Wes spent a half hour eating him out, exploring his hole with lips and tongue, French-kissing him in a whole new way until Justin was a panting, quivering mess. Wes slid inside him then, kissing his way up his spine and the back of his neck to whisper in his ear, “Mon amour, tu as mon coeur pour toujours.”
Other times it was fast and frantic. Too much teasing in class, too much footsie and kissing in the bathroom and holding hands beneath the desk, and when they got back to their room, it was all they could do to get their pants down and shirts off and their bodies together, skin to skin, lips on lips. Wes was an animal in those moments, caging Justin to the mattress or the wall, pushing his body into Justin’s, twining his fingers with Justin’s as he held his hands over his head and pressed their cheeks together. They’d groan, Justin bucking into Wes’s hips, driving himself onto Wes’s cock until Wes slid his hands down to Justin’s waist and took control. They’d both roar when they came, Justin’s seed painting the wall or the sheets or his belly, Wes exploding into the condom. After, Wes always brushed his thumb over Justin’s hip. Always hissed as he pulled out, and kissed between Justin’s shoulders, over his spine.
An idea grew in the back of Wes’s mind, something planted the night they walked back from the school and stopped by the opera house. He had to sneak away during class, duck out to use the restroom and slip down the stairwell to make a call. He fumbled through his questions in French, and the bemused Parisian on the other end patiently explained to him how much tickets were and which seats were the best in the house.
It took three days to apply for the credit card over his phone and then email customer service to say he was studying abroad and was trying to buy ballet tickets. They’d given him a modest line of credit, but it was enough to buy two good tickets to Swan Lake. He spent more than he ever had in his life, but the thought of Justin’s face when he’d touched his fingers to the playbill, and the desire in his eyes, made it all worthwhile.