International Manwhore – Part 23 (Patreon)

Everyone in this story is 18+

The villa bedroom was still dim, the first gray light of the day slipping through the half-closed shutters like it couldn’t decide whether to commit to morning. I sat on the edge of the bed, the crumpled note in my fist, staring at the empty space where Adrien had been.

I needed to talk to someone. Anyone. Before the ache in my chest turned into something stupid and permanent.

Asher’s room was down the hall. I padded barefoot across the cool tile, still in the linen trousers Adrien had left me, shirt unbuttoned. Halfway there I heard it: wet, rhythmic gluk-gluk-gluk, followed by a low, muffled groan. I froze. Fuck. Of course.

I knocked anyway—three sharp raps, louder than polite.

The sounds stopped. A beat of silence. Then Asher’s voice, clipped and British as ever, slightly breathless.

“Occupied.”

“It’s me,” I said. “I need to talk. Now.”

A rustle of sheets, a muttered curse, then the door cracked open. Asher stood there, hair wrecked, lips swollen, wearing nothing but Hunter’s ridiculous gold-threaded robe—open at the chest, silk sliding off one shoulder. Behind him, Hunter sprawled on the bed like a satisfied cat, same robe tied loosely at the waist, looking far too pleased with himself.

Asher raised an eyebrow. “Bryson. Charming timing.”

I stared. “Adrien’s gone. Left a note. ‘Sorry.’ That’s it. We need to figure out what the hell to do next.” My eyes flicked between them. “And I thought you two hated each other?”

Asher didn’t blink. “Pardon me. It’s merely corporate team-building exercises. We’ll be right out.”

He shut the door in my face.

I stood there for ten seconds, then walked back to the living room and dropped onto the sectional. The infinity pool outside shimmered like it was mocking me.

Five minutes later they appeared—both in matching gold robes, silk whispering with every step. They looked like Versace had thrown up on a pair of Roman emperors.

“Jesus,” I said. “You guys look like a luxury-brand fever dream. Asher, what happened to your style? I thought you wouldn’t be caught dead in anything that shiny.”

Asher smoothed the lapel with the dignity of a man who’d just throat-fucked a billionaire heir and was now defending his wardrobe. “They’re comfy. As you Americans say. Pure silk.”

Hunter grinned, tying the belt tighter. “Finest mulberry worms money can buy. Handwoven by Tibetan monks in a convent, dyed with real gold dissolved in—”

“Okay,” I cut in. “Let’s get to the issue at hand. Adrien’s gone. Did either of you notice?”

Asher shrugged. “Not really. We’ve been… occupied. Teambuilding and all.”

“Yeah. 'Teambuilding.’” I rubbed my face. “Anyway. We need a plan. He just left a note. ‘Sorry.’ No explanation. Nothing.”

Asher studied me for a long moment. “Do you like him?”

My stomach flipped. “No. Of course not. I’m stra—”

“The way you looked at him was not very straight,” he said quietly. “With all due respect.”

“Shut up.” I exhaled hard. “I mean… fuck. I… let’s just leave it at that for now. I love pussy, okay?”

Asher’s mouth twitched. “So do I. You can love both, you know.”

Hunter nodded sagely. “Yeah, samesies. A hole’s a hole. Like, who cares? A clever Tibetan monk, the same who made these robes, once told me—”

“Jesus,” I snapped. “Stop with the Vietnamese monks!”

“Tibetan, actually—” Hunter started.

“For fuck’s sake!”

My phone buzzed on the coffee table. Video call. Sebastian.

I answered. Seb’s face filled the screen—same neat hair, same faint worry lines around his eyes he’d had since we were kids. Lex appeared beside him, hoodie up, already grinning like he knew something was about to be hilarious.

Seb blinked at the screen. “Bloody hell, Asher. What are you wearing? It’s very… Hunter.”

Lex lost it—head thrown back, cackling. “Holy shit! You two boning?”

Asher didn’t flinch. “I can assure you it’s very strictly professional. We’ve been engaging in some teambuilding exercises.”

I muttered under my breath, “Yeah. A very horizontal kind.”

Seb’s eyes flicked to me. “That will have to wait. Adrien’s left. I don’t know where he is.”

Seb frowned. “What—he left again? After saving you? I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” I said.

Sebastian leaned in, serious now. “We’ve got a few more leads. Nothing conclusive yet. But I suspect he keeps physical records somewhere. The kind you don’t trust to a server.”

Seb nodded. “He wouldn’t risk it in the offices or the embassy residence. Too obvious. Either a bank box or at home.”

“London?” I asked.

Seb shook his head. “I doubt it. The trail points to the New York townhouse.”

My pulse kicked up. “Could you check?”

“I can get into the house,” Seb said. “But you know his office. Sealed with biometrics. I can’t access it.”

“Shit.”

Seb’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“I think I can access it,” I said slowly. “But I have to go there. And it needs to be low-key. No travel records. Dad, CIA, MI6—none of them can know I’m moving.”

Hunter perked up. “Take my jet. It’s got a built-in hidden chamber where I smuggle Molly and psychedelics. You’ll fit. Barely.”

Asher glanced at him. “You take Molly?”

“If the vibe is right,” Hunter said. “You?”

Asher’s smile was small, private. “I’ve dabbled. I’ll never forget Berlin…”

“Berlin is the best!” Hunter crowed.

“Okay,” I cut in. “Let’s not get sidetracked. I have to leave as soon as possible. Hunter—get the jet ready. I’m going to New York. Seb, Lex—try to locate Adrien. We have unfinished business.”

Seb’s expression softened, just for a second. “Oh dear. Be careful, Bry.”

I nodded. “Always am.”

The call ended. The villa was quiet again, except for the soft lap of the pool and the rustle of silk as Asher and Hunter sat down across from me.

I looked at the note still crumpled in my hand.

Sorry.

Yeah. Me too.

◆◆◆

There was still no trace of Adrien as Hunter’s blacked-out Range Rover pulled up, engine purring like it knew better than to wake anyone. Asher stood at the open door in one of Hunter’s spare robe, naturally—arms crossed, looking like a very expensive gargoyle.

“You sure about this?” he asked me.

“No,” I said. “But I’m going anyway.”

Asher nodded once. “I’ll stay here. If MI6 or the Agency ping my location. Buy you time.”

I gripped his shoulder. “Thanks. Keep an eye on the feeds. If Adrien surfaces—”

“I’ll text you. Go.”

Hunter was already in the driver’s seat, gold robe swapped for black cashmere and aviators even though it was early as fuck. “Cannes-Mandelieu,” he said as I slid in. “Tiny airport. Low-key as hell. They don’t rotate staff like the big airports. They know me.”

The drive took twenty minutes—silent except for Hunter’s playlist (some lo-fi remix of yacht rock that felt aggressively chill). We bypassed the main terminal and rolled straight onto the apron. A VIP handler in a navy blazer waited beside the jet steps, tablet in hand. Mid-forties, salt-and-pepper hair, the kind of smile that said he’d seen worse than whatever Hunter was about to pull.

Hunter killed the engine, stepped out, and slipped an envelope into the man’s palm without breaking stride. “He’s with me. No questions asked. Envelope for you in the regular spot.”

The handler didn’t even glance inside. Just nodded. “Jet’s fuelled. Pilot’s waiting. Safe flight, Mr. Maddox.”

I followed Hunter up the steps. The cabin smelled like leather, citrus, and very faint patchouli. The pilot—late fifties, wearing a plain polo and no name tag—gave Hunter a small salute from the cockpit. “Morning, sir. Guest?”

“Just me on the paperwork,” Hunter said. “You know the drill.”

The pilot’s eyes flicked to me for half a second, then back to the instruments. “Understood. Wheels up in ten.”

Hunter pulled out his phone, tapped a few times. “Manifest’s locked. Only my name. You’re ‘personal security detail’ if anyone asks. But don’t worry, Philippe up front has been flying me since I was a tot and knows better than to care.”

I stared out the oval window at the dark tarmac. “This is insane.”

Hunter grinned. “Welcome to the club.”

The jet taxied, engines spooling up. I buckled in, stomach tight. The runway lights blurred, then we were airborne, climbing fast over the sleeping Riviera.

Once we levelled off at cruise, Hunter unbuckled and stood. “Right. In case they decide to do a random inspection—they rarely do, but people hate the rich—let’s get you tucked away.”

He walked to the rear bulkhead, pressed a panel. A slim door slid open, revealing a narrow compartment maybe four feet deep, padded bench, reading light, air vent. Cramped as fuck.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Climate-controlled. Mood lighting optional.” He flicked a switch; soft purple LEDs came on. “In you go.”

I stared. “This is where you stash the Molly?”

“Among other things.” He patted the bench. “Come on. It’s only for the approach and landing. Twenty minutes tops.”

I sighed, crawled in. The space was tight—knees to chest, head ducked. No window. Just the hum of engines and the faint scent of leather and whatever Hunter used to clean his “sensitive cargo.”

The door clicked shut.

I tried to stretch, got a cramp in my calf instead. Fuck.

Then—music. Muffled bass through the bulkhead. Hunter had turned on the sound system. And… moans. Wet, rhythmic, definitely porn. Loud enough that I could hear every gasp, every slap.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I muttered to the dark.

The moans escalated. A man’s voice—definitely Hunter’s speaker setup—groaned something filthy about “taking it deep.” Then Hunter’s laugh, real and close, like he’d cranked the volume just to fuck with me.

I banged on the panel. “Turn that shit off!”

No answer. Just more porn.

I pressed my forehead to my knees, trying not to laugh or scream.

Adrien’s face kept surfacing instead—the way he’d kissed my temple last night, the note, the empty bed. Sorry. What the hell did that even mean? Stay away? Come find me? Or just goodbye?

Another cramp. I shifted, cursed under my breath.

The porn cut off abruptly. Silence. Hours went by, I almost fell asleep.

 Then Hunter’s voice through the panel, amused.

“Descent starting. You alive in there?”

“Barely,” I growled.

“Good. Almost there.”

The jet banked, engines throttled back. I felt the drop in my stomach. A few minutes later, wheels kissed tarmac. Gently.

The compartment door slid open. Hunter stood there, grinning, robe back on somehow. “Welcome to Stewart International.”

I unfolded myself inch by inch, legs cramping, dignity in tatters. “Never again.”

We stepped onto the ramp. Cool March air hit me like a slap. A customs officer waited at the bottom of the stairs—early twenties, baby-faced, uniform still creased from the hanger. He clutched his tablet like it was a life raft, eyes darting between Hunter and me.

“Morning,” he said, voice cracking just a little on the last syllable. “Manifest shows one passenger. But… I count two?”

Hunter gave his most disarming smile—the one that usually worked on doormen, bartenders, and border guards. “Technicality. He’s with me. Personal security.”

The kid—Brian, name tag said—blinked at the tablet, thumb scrolling frantically. “I… I don’t see any addendum. The system says—”

He looked up, cheeks flushing. “I’m supposed to verify everyone.”

Hunter’s smile didn’t falter, but I felt the shift—tiny, like a gear slipping. Brian’s eyes flicked to me again, then back to the screen. He swallowed.

“I should probably call this in,” Brian said, almost apologetic. “Just to be safe.”

The ramp felt suddenly longer. Wind tugged at my shirt. I kept my face neutral, but my pulse kicked up. If he radioed, if he logged it properly my cover was blown…

Another set of footsteps approached from the FBO building. Sharp, unhurried.

“Brian,” a new voice said, smooth and amused. “Don’t keep our guest waiting.”

A man in his early thirties appeared—sharp jaw, crisp blazer, clearly gay, smile like he’d already won the conversation. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who’d handled a hundred Hunters before breakfast.

Brian froze. “Jami, I—there’s a discrepancy on the manifest. I’m just—”

Jami laid a light hand on Brian’s shoulder. “This is VIP travel, darling. Different rules. Now go to the break room unless you want me to tell the manager you’re harassing the man who owns half this airport.”

Brian’s eyes went wide. “He’s that Mr. Maddox? I’m so sorry. I—I—”

He scurried off like a startled puppy, tablet clutched to his chest.

Jami turned to Hunter, smirking. “Sorry about that. He’s new. Very earnest. Don’t worry. I’ll train him for you.”

Hunter laughed, low and easy. “No worries. I’m sure you’ll train him very good. Just like you did me?”

He gave Jami’s ass a playful spank. Jami giggled.

“You know it. So—just you on the plane? No monks this time?”

Hunter winked at me. “Just me this time.”

Hunter’s eyes flicked to me, amused, then back to Hunter. “Hit me up next weekend if you wanna party?”

“Nah,” Jami said. “Getting too old. Just got a boyfriend.”

Hunter clutched his chest. “Wow. You’ve been tied down? Shit. My loss then.”

“Absolutely your loss, sir.”

They both laughed. Jami gestured to a waiting black Range Rover, windows blacked out.

“Escort’s ready. It’s about an hour and a half to Manhattan if traffic plays nice. Safe travels.”

We climbed in. Hunter slid behind the wheel again.

I stared at him. “You own this airport?”

“Yeah. Or Dad does. Majority stake or whatever. I can’t remember.”

“Jesus. No wonder people hate us billionaires.”

Hunter shrugged, pulling onto the access road. “Yeah, whatevs. Windows are tinted, traffic cams won’t spot you. Let’s get you to New York.”

The city lights were still distant, but closing fast.

I leaned back, the “Sorry” note still in my pocket, heavier than it should have been.