My Best Friend’s Brother Dylan Was Supposed to Be Straight
Copyright© 2025 by StoriesByTroy
Chapter 9: Lunch With Frenchman
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 9: Lunch With Frenchman - When I agreed to a chill weekend at my best friend's place, I didn’t expect his older brother Dylan to be back—or to look like that. I should’ve looked away. I didn’t.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Ma Ma Teenagers Consensual Romantic Gay BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Humor Western Brother DomSub MaleDom Spanking White Male White Couple Anal Sex First Masturbation Oral Sex Safe Sex Size Nudism Slow
The sun was too bright for how nervous I felt.
I stood outside the cafe Elliot had picked, trying to act normal. My reflection in the glass door didn’t help, hair a bit too styled, shirt too carefully wrinkled, like I was trying to look like I didn’t care. I did. Obviously. I had spent the whole morning telling myself this was nothing. Just lunch. Just two guys having food. People did it all the time.
And then he stepped out from inside.
White shirt. Open collar. Sunglasses pushed into his hair. He smiled like he hadn’t spent the last week teasing me with hands on my thigh and slow-burning kisses. Just warm and effortless, like we hadn’t crossed a line.
“Troy,” he said, his accent soft, that lazy elegance rolling off every syllable. “You made it.”
“Of course,” I said. “I like food.”
He laughed as he pulled the door open for me. “Good. Then I won’t be the only one eating.”
We sat under a striped awning, two iced coffees arriving before I had even gotten settled. The waiter knew him. Of course. I fiddled with my straw while he ordered us both some perfect, curated French-sounding lunch and leaned back like this wasn’t already too much.
“So,” Elliot said, folding his arms. “Tell me something you’ve never told anyone.”
I blinked. “We’re skipping straight to that?”
“I find it’s more efficient,” he said with a smirk. “Otherwise we pretend to be normal for an hour and then I leave wondering if you’re just pretending to be this charming.”
I gave him a look. “You think I’m charming?”
He shrugged. “I think you’re distracted.”
I flushed and looked down. He wasn’t wrong. I could barely hold eye contact. Not because I wasn’t into it. Because I was. Fully. Painfully. He was calm in a way that made me fidget. Made me feel seen in a way I wasn’t ready for.
“It’s the shirt,” I muttered. “You can’t wear white like that and expect me to be composed.”
He laughed again, light and real. “You should see what I wear to bed.”
“Jesus.”
“You’re easy to tease.”
“You’re very good at it.”
Yeah, I completely avoided his question about “something you’ve never told anyone.”
The food arrived. He poured us water. His fingers brushed mine when he handed me the bread, and I swear I felt it in my knees. Under the table, our shoes bumped. Once. Twice. Not an accident. He didn’t move his.
I wasn’t sure when it shifted from a meal to something charged. Maybe around the moment he leaned in and said, “You have a little something on your lip,” then reached out and wiped the corner of my mouth with his thumb.
Or maybe when he tilted his head, just slightly, and said, “You do this thing when you’re thinking hard. Your eyebrows twitch.”
“You’re really observant.”
He took a sip of his drink, eyes still on me. “I photograph people for a living. I have to be.”
I tried to focus on my salad. Failed. He leaned back and gave me a once-over, not in a gross way, just like he was letting himself enjoy what he saw.
“I think you’re trying very hard to seem relaxed,” Elliot said, his gaze warm and quiet. “Which usually means you’re not.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the accuracy. I was halfway through my iced espresso, my knee bouncing under the table. I had barely touched my sandwich. And I kept looking anywhere but directly at him for longer than three seconds.
“I’m chill,” I lied, instantly losing all credibility by knocking over the little glass jar of sugar packets.
Elliot reached forward, righted it, then brushed one of the paper wrappers off my hand like it was nothing. “You don’t have to be,” he said. “I like who you are when you’re not.”
There it was again, that calm confidence. Not cocky, not intense. Just present. Steady.
The opposite of Dylan in every way.
I bit into my sandwich just to shut myself up, chewing in silence while he watched me like I was some kind of weather pattern he was trying to figure out.
“You know,” I said eventually, licking some pesto off my thumb, “you’re very good at making people feel like they’re in a movie scene.”
He tilted his head. “Good scene or bad?”
“Good,” I admitted. “Like the kind where something’s about to happen.”
Elliot smiled. Not wide. Just ... knowing. He glanced at the time and then back at me. “There’s a pop-up exhibit two streets over. Friend of mine is showing his new series. Nothing serious. Want to walk over with me?”
I hesitated for about half a second before nodding.
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