by Aiden Bates
Either Duncan perpetually had a special table reserved at this place, or he’d been counting on me accepting his invitation this time.
Arrogant all the way to the bone.
“Do you have a menu?” I asked the waiter after Duncan had continued to play the perfect gentleman, pulling out my seat for me then sliding it back in as I lowered myself into it.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Duncan assured me, waving the waiter away. “They know what I like.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And what about what I like?”
He laughed. “If this isn’t the best meal you’ve had in the last year, I’ll tip the waiter four-hundred percent.”
I leaned back in my chair. “That doesn’t seem like a good bargain. Rewarding the staff here for subpar service?”
“The service here is impeccable,” he countered, “But I see your point. Hmm…I’ll give you an embarrassing story about me, then. If you really don’t like the food they bring you, something completely humiliating about me should be adequate compensation.”
A little grin tugged at the corner of my mouth as I admired my odds. “I think I can appreciate that.”
“Good—because here comes the wine.”
The waiter didn’t even need to let Duncan try it—it was obviously his favorite, and to my dismay, I discovered I liked it more than I wanted to. A rich, full-bodied red. Just sweet enough that it played nice on my tongue, but with enough tannins in it that it wasn’t cloying.
Fuck. He was good.
“Thought we might want to hammer out some terms,” Duncan said casually, watching me with intensity as I licked a lingering drop away from my lips.
“Terms? I thought we’d already figured that out.” I placed my glass back down on the table, meeting his gaze as the wine’s aftertaste continue to bloom on my tongue. “You fail to woo me in the way you expect to, I get the satisfaction of seeing you go home with your tail between your legs.”
“See?” he chuckled. “One sip of wine, and you’re already thinking about what’s between my legs.”
I glowered, which he seemed to enjoy. “Okay, then. What kind of terms were you thinking?”
“A time frame seems appropriate. If you’re so sure I’m going to fail, I ought to have a deadline so I know when to give up.”
“How about a month?” I suggested.
He laughed. “A month? That’s an eternity in Rourke-time.”
“Cute that you’ve renamed time after yourself,” I scoffed. “I’m feeling generous is all.”
“Very generous.” The candle on the table flickered, its light catching in the chestnut of his irises like a forest fire. “Or maybe you’re just trying to get as much time with me as possible.”
“Or maybe, I’m trying to even the playing field for you a little. It’s not much of a bet if you’re doomed to fail from the start.”
“I’ll take those odds. A month, then.” He thanked the waiter as two bowls of elegantly garnished spaghetti were placed in front of us. “And I can be as seductive as I like. No holds barred.”
“Hold on,” I warned him, holding up a finger. “This isn’t a game of seduction. You’re supposed to be romancing me, aren’t you?”
“Seduction isn’t just about sex, Kieran.” He shook his napkin out and placed it on his lap.
“Then what is it about, Duncan? Enlighten me.” I mirrored his movements, once again eerily aware of myself.
We weren’t in one of those ostensibly fancy places with more cutlery than any sane person knew what to do with, but there was something about the ambiance—the candlelight, the weight of the cloth napkin beneath my fingers. The way he was looking at me, like he was daring me to make a wrong move. It all had me feeling out of place, which was probably appropriate. I did well enough at the club, but I wasn’t about to go blowing my paychecks on bottles of wine that cost more than my monthly rent anytime soon.
“It’s about connection, isn’t it?” he said, picking up his fork and stroking his thumb down its silver handle.
“You tell me.”
“Well, I see it like this. Sex, love, all of it—it’s nothing if you don’t have a connection with the person. That’s why you’re here, sitting at this table across from me, instead of blowing some hotshot jerk-off in his penthouse and sneaking out the door as soon as he falls asleep right after he comes.”
“What a picture you’re painting.”
“Tell me it hasn’t happened before,” he challenged me.
I tried to think of something clever to say back to that, but ended up just shutting my mouth. He’d just described my first three months in New York—boring men, boring apartments, boring blowjobs.
It was only funny when I realized he’d only mentioned it because he’d experienced it too.
“And you think you can connect with me?” I asked him instead of answering.
“I think I already have. You and I—I think we’re cut from the same cloth in a way, Kieran.”
“Same cloth, maybe. Very different types of suits.”
“Mm. And do you have one? A suit?”
I shrugged, picking up my own fork. “Maybe not one as expensive as yours—but yes. Why?”
“Because I’m going to be taking you places, Kieran. Full boyfriend experience, I’m thinking. Gorgeous places—even nicer than this.”
“How generous of you.”
He blinked, something shifting in his gaze. It was seductive, I realized. Being looked at like that. Like I was the only man in the room, even though I’d spotted half a dozen Omegas just as devilishly good-looking as I was on the way in.
“I’m going to make you feel things that you’ve never felt with anyone else, Kieran. Important things. Things that you’ve seen in movies, read about in silly romance novels—things that I think every man ought to feel at some point in their lives, but things that you’re going to feel stronger and more passionately and to greater effect than any other man in this city.”
I laughed, shaking my head at the audacity of what he was claiming. “Are you now?”
“I am.”
“And how are you so sure that I’m going to be able to live up to those standards? My feelings aren’t any more important than anyone else’s.”
“See, that’s where I think you’re wrong.” He sank his fork into his spaghetti, twirling the red-sauced strands of noodles artfully around its tines. “I’ve been watching you. You’ve probably realized that by now.”
“Yes, and there’s nothing an Omega likes more than being stalked.”
He took the little jab in stride. Didn’t even react beyond a little smirk that disappeared before it could turn into another one of his cocky grins. “You know how to feel pleasure. You give yourself over to it completely. It’s in your dancing. The way you flirt with men who aren’t even half your caliber. It’s even in all your little quips and digs at me.” He shrugged as he raised his fork up over his plate. “I like that about you.”
“Okay. Sure,” I allowed. “You’re going to make me feel just oodles of pleasure. How exciting for me. What’s in it for you?”
“I get to watch you experience it, obviously.” Then, his grin finally took over, lighting up his entire face. “Eat your pasta, Kieran. It won’t be as good when it’s cold.”
Narrowing my eyes, I mirrored the way he’d twisted the spaghetti up and raised my own fork to my mouth. Immediately, the flavors caressed my tongue, depth and color and intensity and comfort all rolled into hand-made noodles finished in their own sauce.
Fuck. He was right.
It was the best thing I’d ever tasted in my life.
6
Duncan
Even after I’d driven him home, I couldn’t seem to get him out of my mind. He lived up in Washington Heights just off Broadway, in an old converted factory building with bright red doors. When I leaned in to kiss him goodnight, he’d only laughed.
“One good meal doesn’t buy you a kiss, Duncan,” he’d said to me, unbuckling his
seatbelt.
“Then what does? You know I’m good for it.”
He’d laughed again. “You couldn’t afford it.”
And then he’d left, leaving me sitting there rubbing the stubble on my jawline and wondering about the taste of his lips.
God, he was fun to play with. If even one or two of the Omegas I’d been with since college had half Kieran’s wit and poise, the elegance with which he delivered his clever quips, maybe I wouldn’t have taken up such a playboy lifestyle. But in truth, I’d never met a man—Alpha or Omega—that I clicked with in the same way that I got along with Kieran before. Sure, he was still playing like he hated me—but from the way he looked at me when he was tasting that wine I’d ordered, I was no longer buying it.
And he did say he wanted to fuck me, I reminded myself as I drove in a circle around his block, racking my brain for a reason to call him or buzz up to his place. But in the end, I decided against it. If he was thinking about me half as much as I was still thinking about him, I was better off letting those feelings simmer. If I’d learned anything as a self-made playboy, it was that absence brewed longing—at least, for everyone who wasn’t me.
The next morning, though, I found I couldn’t help myself. I slipped in through the red door of Kieran’s building behind a little blue-haired grandmother, holding the door for her in one hand and balancing two to-go cups of coffee in the other.
“Thank you, honey. Aren’t you just the sweetest thing?” she remarked as I turned to the mailboxes, looking for Kieran’s name and only finding numbers.
“No problem at all, Ma’am,” I shot back at her, flashing a smile. “Do you happen to know a Kieran here? I thought I’d bring him up some coffee, but I’m not sure…”
“Kieran Drake? Oh, what a lovely boy. Is he your boyfriend?”
I laughed. “I’m working on it.”
She gave me a smile as broad as the city skyline, patting my arm sympathetically. “True love always wins out in the end. He’s on third floor. Apartment 307. You two have a nice day, now!”
Up at Kieran’s apartment, I knocked twice on the door and waited with interest to see how he’d answer. All of this felt new to me—exciting and fresh. Was he a morning person like I was? The kind of man who’d already been on a run through the park before the sun even rose? Or was he a late sleeper, still in bed and groaning at the prospect of answering the door before noon?
The door creaked open and his seafoam eyes peered out at me with suspicion, revealing himself to be somewhere in between. No dark circles carving out trenches on either side of his face, but his auburn hair pointed in every direction like he’d been caught in some kind of storm, and his grumpiness radiated off of him like warmth from a heater.
“What are you doing here?” he groaned, checking the Fitbit on his thick, muscled wrist. “I didn’t think I’d have to deal with you again for a few more days, at least.”
“Early bird catches the worm,” I said with a wink.
He groaned again as he moved to let me in. Kieran was dressed for a work-out that looked like it still hadn’t happened yet. Somehow, he looked just as divine in sweatpants and a Ramones tank top as he had in that little golden thong he wore at work every night. With a body like his, he could’ve been dressed in a trash bag and still looked delicious.
“At least you brought coffee,” he sighed, reaching for a cup. “Latte?”
I winced. “Long black. Wasn’t sure how you took it.”
A third groan as he carried the coffee to his kitchen, opening the fridge and getting out the milk. “That’s one strike against you, Duncan. Two more and I’ll have to throw you out before I head off to yoga.”
“Yoga, huh?” I glanced down at my own clothing—jeans and a simple button-down—as a wild idea began to form in my head. “Lend me a pair of sweats and maybe I’ll tag along.”
He laughed sharply, raising an eyebrow as he dumped spoonful after spoonful of sugar into his coffee cup. “Inappropriate attire. That’s two strikes.”
I grinned. “But you’re more than happy to let me fix this tragic wardrobe mistake?”
He rolled his eyes. “Bedroom’s down the hall. Workout clothes in the dresser, third drawer down. Touch anything else and I’ll have your hands for it.”
“My hands, huh?” I let him see my gaze travel up and down his body. “Where would you like to have them?”
He snorted, mixing the sugar and milk into his coffee with a long-handled teaspoon. “You’ve been here for three minutes and you’re already two strikes in. If I were you, I wouldn’t push your luck.”
If I was pushing my luck, I was enjoying the hell out of it, I decided as I smirked my way down the hall. Kieran’s apartment was like most one-bedrooms in New York: slender and cramped, too small with too many things stuffed into it anyway. But it was clean, too, and elegantly decorated. He had a reproduction Jackson Pollock hanging over his bed, white splattered across a black canvas in a way that made me think of the Milky Way, or maybe just of cum. His floor didn’t have so much as a stray sock on it, which made me think of how nice it’d look with our clothes scattered across the rug, and his bed was made—which made me think about how much I’d like to throw Kieran into it and mess his perfectly positioned pillows up.
I pulled open the drawer he mentioned and found his stash of workout clothing. The sweatpants were slightly too tight on me, which I didn’t mind—all the better to see my ass with, right?—and none of his shirts seemed to have sleeves. The AC/DC one I pulled out to slip on looked like its sleeves had been forcibly removed with a pair of scissors. When I pulled it on, I found that it was cut low on either side, revealing not only the hard muscles of my biceps, but a flash of chest and abs as well.
Not my style, maybe, but I couldn’t blame Kieran for wanting to flaunt what he had. The only thing I would’ve enjoyed more than putting on his clothes in that moment would’ve been taking them off.
“Ready?” he asked, looking a little brighter now that the coffee was kicking in.
“I am,” I told him. “But before we go—why are you letting me tag along? I figured when I offered, you would’ve taken the coffee and kicked me out.”
“Maybe I’m just leveling the playing field a little. Making it easier for you.” He smirked, watching intently for my reaction. “Or maybe, I’ve spent the morning annoyed because it’s partner yoga and Noah canceled on me an hour before you showed up.”
“Serendipity, huh?”
He rolled his eyes. “Something like that. Come on—we’ll be late if we don’t leave, like, five minutes ago.”
We slipped into Kieran’s yoga class with not a minute to spare, earning us a dirty look from his man-bunned Alpha instructor and a place in the very back of the class.
“You do this every day?” I asked, glancing around the room as Kieran shifted into position. “All of this…stretching and arching, Om meditation crap?”
He gave me an unamused look. “You don’t?”
I laughed as I lowered myself onto the mat next to him, crossing my legs and settling my knees against his. “I run. I lift. All this warming up, though…kind of a waste of time, isn’t it?”
He placed his fingertips on my shoulders, leaning forward and pushing me back. When he started the reverse movement, though, I grunted in discomfort, feeling the muscles of my back tense up immediately at the thought of moving in such a fluid way.
The sound of my pain left Kieran smirking. “Waste of time, huh? You tell me, Duncan.”
The next half hour or so was a strange kind of agony, twisting and turning myself in ways I hadn’t moved in years. Before this class, I’d considered myself relatively fit, but watching all the fascinating shapes and positions Kieran could twist himself into that I couldn’t even fathom, I was beginning to reconsider that stance.
“Feeling any better?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at me as I positioned myself behind him.
“Like I’m a Stretch Armstrong doll that some little brat’s spe
nt the morning trying to rend limb from limb.”
He chuckled. “It gets better. And you’ll like this one—maybe it’ll make all of this torture up to you.”
My tongue slid across my lips as Kieran bent over in front of me, his pert, firm ass pressing against my hips as he moved himself into something the instructor was calling a “downward-facing dog.” Kieran moved like water over rocks, liquid and effortlessly lifting his heels to raise his ass even more firmly against me.
My cock couldn’t have been harder if it’d been cut from diamond—and positioned the way he was, he had to have known it, too. It pressed between the cheeks of his ass, the sweatpants doing little to conceal the way it throbbed under pressure, twitching against him and begging for release.
Down, boy, I ordered it internally—but to no avail.
“Now bend over me,” Kieran instructed. “Press down on my shoulders—get a nice arch into my back.”
I only hesitated for a moment to do what he asked—and even then, only because I wanted to drape my body over his so bad just then, I couldn’t believe he was actually asking me to.
His shirt was soft, tactile and washed thin as I ran my hands down his back, my hips flush with his ass and my body moving with absolute care. I didn’t want to put too much pressure on him and risk hurting him, but at the same time, there was that predatory, lion-like thing in my chest urging me to do exactly that. To pin him down, sink my teeth into his neck, curl my fingertips around his gorgeous, muscular hips and claim what was rightfully mine.
I didn’t, of course. I had more self-control than that. But as I pressed against his shoulder blades in the way he’d asked me to, a deep, pleasureful moan escaped his lips on the end of a sigh. When he breathed in again, I felt it beneath the heels of my hands. Like wind picking up the sails of a ship, carrying it away across the stillness of the sea.
I rested my forehead against his back, breathing in with him and matching his every breath. There was a sense of calm with him there, something dark and clear and comforting. When I closed my eyes, the rest of the world slipped away into nothingness, and then there was only him. The rise and fall of his back. The scent of his deodorant, blond wood with something fresh and green beneath. The way his body felt against mine, strong and stable but perfectly relaxed.
