* * * *
Spring arrived in Luxembourg. At least in my memory, we pulled back the curtains that very next morning and the entire country—indeed the whole world—was awash in sunshine and chirping birds. Charming, attentive, flirty Marcel had returned, and set about making up for lost time. Only now, when he brought me coffee in bed, it was in his bed. Our dinners were delicious and romantic. And though our wrestling matches over Luxembourgish still ended in a tangle, the prize was much sweeter than any pudding cup.
Hitherto locked behind a door to which I hadn’t know there was a key, the Bottom in me blossomed, and I frequently got as good as I gave. Marcel was a generous and curious lover, and most days we weren’t able to turn loose the bed until we discovered, and then mastered, a new position. I pulled muscles I never even knew I had, which then throbbed as reminders of the lengths to which we had gone to pull them, the memories of which set other muscles to throbbing, and, well, is it any wonder that the shooting range fell by the wayside?
Not that we never left the bedroom. We breakfasted on the patio; we strolled arm in arm through the hills, the meadows, and the streets of town; we spent two relaxed and romantic weeks perusing the museums, cafés, and shady lanes of Paris, a short—and quite X-rated—train ride away. We rode this neighbor’s horses into the mountains, we helped that neighbor make cheese—we did hundreds of things together, rapt in each other’s company, but work out on the range was not among them, and when Marcel started fretting about the European Cup drawing near, it took me a split second to fathom what he was talking about.
“We’ve got to get you back on the range,” he said one morning, fairly leaping from the bed after a mere two orgasms.
Less inclined to leap about, I muttered, “Don’t worry about it, baby,” pulling back the covers to signal that he should rejoin me. “There’s plenty of time for that.”
“Not really, there’s not,” he said. “We leave for Munich in three weeks, and we’ve got a lot of work to do if you’re gonna be ready.”
“You mean I’ve got a lot of work to do,” I pouted. I was unaccustomed to being in his bed alone, and I was not a fan.
“You do have a lot of work to do,” he said. “And I am your coach, which means we will work together. Come on, Beau. We probably needed a break, and I sure am glad we took it.” He winked. “But it’s time to get serious. You’ve got a shot at a Quota Place if you do well in Munich. The Olympics, Beau—it can happen in three weeks, but not if you don’t get out of bed.”
He was serious, but his tone was light; he was cajoling, not bossing. But he was naked, and I wanted his ass up against me, not across the room, and accordingly, I whined like a brat. “But I don’t want to get out of bed. I don’t want to practice. Can’t you just come back to bed and then you get us the Quota Place in Munich?”
It had apparently been too long since I’d had any shooting practice, as this suggestion hit way wide of its target. “So that’s your plan, is it? Just fuck around like bunnies and then ride my coattails into a spot?”
It was out of my mouth before I had a chance to edit it, or believe me, I would have. “Well, yeah,” I blurted like an idiot. “You knew that.”
His eyebrows went way up, then came crashing down into a scowl. A priceless beauty at all other times, Marcel was not even vaguely handsome when he was scowling. “I’m not sure I did know that,” he said quietly. “In fact, I’m pretty sure I thought this was something we were working towards together.”
“Well yeah, we’re going to go together,” I said.
“Once I get us in.”
Lolling in the bed was not turning out to be as fun as I’d hoped, so I got out of it. “You weren’t expecting me to get us in?”
“I’m expecting you to try!”
“Fine, geeze, we’ll go practice,” I said, wriggling into my jeans.
“If you don’t want to, we don’t have to,” he said.
“I don’t want to,” I confirmed.
He padded, still naked, into the kitchen and set about making coffee. I followed him in my jeans and flopped into a chair at the small kitchen table.
“You’re gonna have to shoot in competition sooner or later,” he said. “You won’t last two seconds in London if it’s your first competition, they’ll eat you alive.”
“You know I don’t care about that,” I teased. “I’m not going to London to shoot.”
His shoulders tensed; I was oh for two in the offhand remark event. “What are you going to London for?” he asked.
“I already told you what I want in London,” I said.
He turned to face me. “Still?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Marcel. Geeze, I’m just trying to joke around here, lighten the mood a little bit. I’m not trying to start a fight. Probably there are gonna be a ton of hot guys there, and we both know I’m not gonna shoot my way to victory.”
“So you’re gonna flirt with all the other guys? Sleep around?”
“Hey, at least I’d have a shot at a medal in that event.” I winked.
Marcel was not in a joking mood, and I hurried after him when he fled the kitchen, catching the brunt of the slamming bedroom door with my shoulder.
“Marcel, honey, I was just teasing.”
He was turned away from me, trying to snuffle back his tears. “It’s funny to you? You’ve been using me this whole time
