He swore, stuck the bag between his teeth, the umbrella in an awkward hold between his arm, elbow, and chin, and tried to turn the tray to a handhold that would give it some stability.
“Here. Let me.” A hand reached out and took the coffee from him, and he looked up into a brilliant smile and lovely pale hazel eyes. “You’re very early,” Jacob said softly. He looked radiant with his hair plastered to his skull and water slicking his navy nylon rain jacket close to his tight, small body.
“I fought—” Brad yanked the bag out of his mouth and gave a sheepish shrug as the umbrella tumbled to the ground. He left it there since they were both soaked anyway. “I thought you might like breakfast.”
“Out here in the rain?”
“Anywhere you want.”
Jacob smiled sweetly. “You came out here, in the rain, for me.”
Brad nodded.
“That is… like a movie,” Jacob said. His voice held a kind of wonder Brad didn’t think the situation really warranted. “A room-com.”
Brad laughed. “Rom-com. Romantic comedy.” He glanced at the bag in his hand, at the yogurt and muffins that chose that moment to break through the soggy bottom and land with a splat on the wet grass at their feet. He sighed. “Kind of is, isn’t it?” he asked, defeated.
“Romantic and funny.” Jacob grinned at him, but this time there was a slight edge of wicked in the expression. “Yes. Very.” He handed Brad the coffee, took Brad’s face in his hands, and leaned close. Brad nodded, trying hard not to close his eyes and nuzzle his face against the chill fingers cupping his cheeks.
“I thought about what you said.” Jacob’s breath was warm on Brad’s lips and cheeks.
“Yeah?”
Jacob nodded. “Then I see you here, so early, and poof.” He made that peculiar fan of fingers next to his head, then brought his hand back to Brad’s face. “I understand.”
“Understand what?”
“This.” Jacob closed the small amount of space between them and planted a sweet, almost chaste kiss on Brad’s lips. He leaned back and took in a huge breath. The smile on his face lit up the dismal morning. “Right here, in front of the government’s house, this.” He kissed Brad again, then glanced up the hill at the castle-like buildings and back, to look Brad in the eye. “I am home.”
Oh. I am home too. Brad blinked at him. He had a goofy grin on his face, and he knew it. He didn’t much care.
When Jacob kissed him again, the touch of lips lingered, lengthened, warmed until a glow surrounded them, and if it was still a dismal, rainy fall day, neither of them noticed.
Stripped
SHAE CONNOR
Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Rarely has there been a testament as strong as yours of all the many facets of love. The greatest of these is yours.
THE BEAT of the music in Blake’s head drowned out everything else. When he was on the stage—rhythm pounding, bright lights flashing, body moving—nothing else existed. He lost himself so completely that it scared him sometimes, but he kept reminding himself there was no harm in a little escapism. Especially not when it paid so well.
He grinned down toward the men lining the sides of the stage, careful not to make too much direct eye contact. Women came in sometimes, but this was a strip club in SoHo, not a suburban Chippendales. Sure, Masque was higher class than most, with a steep cover charge and strict security protecting not only the dancers but also the anonymity of its famous (and not-so-famous) clients. But it was still about raunchy fantasies, not romance, imagining yourself wrapped around another guy, sweaty and hard, grinding each other into oblivion. No white-picket-fence dreams need apply.
Even so, the club wasn’t immune to the season. This was the third year Blake had worked the night of Valentine’s Day, which always seemed to bring a serious jump in tips, and he still had to roll his eyes when the place got decked out. Strings of shiny silver hearts hung from the ceiling, the tables were decorated with pink flowers and stocked with bowls of heart-shaped candy imprinted with words much dirtier than standard, and the dancers traded in their usual black or white eye masks for red.
Stupid greeting-card holiday, Blake thought as he moved along the edge of the stage. He’d never been a big fan, even in years when he’d been dating someone, but being single on a day that was all about coupledom just generally sucked.
Blake grabbed the pole in one hand as he passed by, swung around and pressed his back against it, slid down, spread his legs. He knew exactly what he could get away with in Manhattan without causing the club any issues, although he also knew enough high-ranking city officials frequented the place that anything short of actual fucking on the stage would probably slide right by. Still, he had his own comfort level and he stuck to it, even in the face of a wad of Benjamins waving toward his waistband.
The thong was his least favorite part of the job. He didn’t mind showing skin; he knew he had a great body, because he worked like crazy to keep it that way. But he could never find one that fit without binding in all the wrong places and showing too much when his dick got hard. Because there was no way you could dance like this for hours and not have your dick get hard sometimes. Usually he could find some greasy, nasty-looking guy sitting too close to the stage, and one good look at him would wilt anything his body produced, but some nights were harder than others, so to speak.
Tonight was one of those nights.
He spun on one foot, lowered himself to the floor, and arched his back, letting the music wash over him, focusing on the beat and pushing everything else aside. He never closed his eyes onstage, always wary of the edge never more than a few feet away. The stage sat almost five feet above the floor, so a fall would be no picnic.
As he moved through his routine, he saw several faces he recognized sitting near the stage. A couple were regulars who always tipped him well, one of them a celebrity whose sexuality was one of the worst-kept secrets in all of entertainment. A guy off to the side was one attempted grope away from a lifetime ban, but he’d kept his hands off Blake so far. The other men didn’t look familiar in the brief glimpses he got as he moved, but one caught his eye. Black hair, brooding dark eyes, long legs stretched out in front of him as he leaned back in his seat, arms crossed casually over his chest.
Blake snuck a slightly longer look as he strolled down that side of the stage. Damn, the man was hot. Smooth, pale skin even the flickering lights couldn’t camouflage, broad shoulders, and when their eyes met for just a second, a dimple in the cheek next to his slight smirk. Blake’s fingers itched, either for a pencil to capture that perfection on paper, or to strip away the clothes covering that skin and touch it directly. He almost stumbled at the thought but managed to turn it into a spin just in time.
You know better than that, he scolded himself internally. Customers are just that: customers. Find your dates somewhere else.
His song ended, and he walked the perimeter of the stage to a smattering of applause, smiling as he took bills from customers by hand or mouth, occasionally letting them slide the cash into the elastic of his thong. Dark Eyes didn’t move, but as Blake’s gaze moved in his direction, he waved the fingers of one hand, holding up some folded green paper. Blake nodded to acknowledge the offer. He’d be back to collect once he changed into his floor wear.
As he walked backstage, he wondered if the risk of approaching the first customer who’d ever caught his attention like that would be worth the money. That kind of thing could go very bad, very fast.
JON HATED strip clubs. They were almost all loud and full of nasty, obnoxious people who treated both the dancers and the other customers like dirt. But Masque was different. In fact, calling the place a strip club wasn’t quite accurate, since the men danced in thongs and the eye masks that gave the club its name. Other than the occasional cowboy or cop theme, they rarely wore anything more—or less—when they were onstage.
Jon sighed and leaned back in his seat, running a lazy finger a
round the rim of his glass, only the dregs of his whiskey sour left. Getting through his first single Valentine’s Day in three years had turned out to be a huge annoyance. Hearts and flowers had surrounded him everywhere he turned for weeks, and the last thing he wanted to do tonight was go out to a restaurant or club where he’d be surrounded by happy couples. On the other hand, no way was he going to sit home, pathetically alone.
So he came here. He hadn’t been to Masque in months, but it had the same general atmosphere as dozens of other upscale nightclubs in lower Manhattan, if you discounted the stage, poles, and barely clad dancers. Jon could sit alone, have a drink or two, and watch some gorgeous men for a while, without fending off any hopeful suitors or feeling like he needed to take three showers afterward.
He wasn’t surprised the first couple of dancers didn’t look familiar. Longevity wasn’t the norm with exotic dancers of any stripe, although at least the men didn’t have to wear six-inch platform heels like the women.
The third dancer he’d seen once before, but he’d had to leave before he finished his performance. Jon’s gaze skimmed over the man’s body, and for the first time that night, his libido seemed to take notice. The dancer was gorgeous—long, lean, and tanned, with a mop of unruly blond hair and sharp, soulful eyes, dark even against the deep red of his mask. His hands were smooth but still masculine, and he moved with a sense of grace, sexy with a dirty edge, but without ever straying into raunchiness.
Jon couldn’t take his eyes off the man—Andy, the announcer had said, but Jon knew that had about as much chance of being accurate as that actor sitting next to the stage had of being straight. He was totally not Jon’s type; every guy he’d dated since high school had been brunet and on the stocky side. But Andy, or whatever, was different. The dancing talent didn’t hurt, but it was his sparkling eyes, smooth chest, and shining white teeth that kept Jon’s attention.
The thoughts running through Jon’s mind were really, really stupid. Jon knew that. In places like this, dancers and customers didn’t mix, ever. But somehow he couldn’t quite help himself.
Maybe he could blame it on Cupid.
He pulled out a twenty as the song came to an end, folding it and grasping it between the fingers of one hand. Andy walked along the stage collecting his tips, and he glanced over the people sitting at tables a little farther away as he moved. He caught Jon’s eye for just a second, and Jon lifted his chin and flicked his fingers subtly, drawing a just as subtle nod from Andy.
He’d be coming by the table shortly. Jon started to formulate a plan that might actually get him what he wanted and not get him banned from the club in the process.
BLAKE SLIPPED backstage and grinned at Ryan in his silver metallic thong and shimmering red mask as he headed out for his set. The slightly older black man was heavily muscled, tattoos curling around both biceps, which always served him well when he danced. He hadn’t been working as long as Blake but had more regulars, not that Blake really cared. He was getting what he wanted out of the job.
He smiled and greeted the two other dancers who were in the dressing room resting between sets. He opened his locker and secured his tips, then pulled on snug, faded jeans over his thong and slid his feet into black flip-flops. He hated the things, but customers liked to see feet, and there was no way any dancer would step off the stage barefoot.
He closed the door and double-checked the lock, then pulled off his mask as he glanced in the mirror and reached for a towel. Sweat from the lights and exertion rimmed his hairline; he wiped it away, running his fingers through his hair to give it the artfully tousled look customers always liked. He dropped the towel back on his chair and settled the paper mask back on his face before picking up his bottle of body spray—his own mix of distilled water and vanilla oil—spritzing it into the air and walking through it. The smell of commercial body sprays in the dressing room could sometimes be overwhelming, so Blake tried to keep it simple.
He grabbed a bottle of water from the supply kept just inside the doorway and headed back toward the bar, drained it quickly, and dropped it off in the trash can next to the door. He nodded at the beefy security guard sitting on a stool nearby, rolled his shoulders, blew out a breath, and smiled, stepping back out into the noise and heat.
Chatting up patrons was the biggest downside of the job. Nearly all followed the rules of hands-off, and the bouncers didn’t hesitate to deal with those who didn’t, but Blake didn’t like being fake, and feigning interest in people to their faces just so they’d hand him a few bucks left a bad taste in his mouth. But onstage tips were never enough by themselves, and it was part of the job, so he sucked it up.
Blake started out at the opposite end from the man who’d caught his eye earlier, keeping the smile in place, nodding and saying thanks for the tips he was handed, speaking briefly to a couple of the regulars. Gradually, he made his way around to the brunet, who was tapping the bill he still held on the edge of the table and smirking up at him. “Hey,” Blake said, leaning one arm on the surface of the high-top table. “Enjoy the show?”
“Very impressive,” the man said. He held out the money, which Blake accepted with another smile and a quick thanks, not bothering to check the denomination. It didn’t matter. A tip was a tip. “You’re quite a dancer, actually,” the man continued. “Have you studied?
Blake had to laugh at that. “Tried it,” he said. “Not much for choreography, it turns out.” He let his eyes wander over the other man, just a little more than usual. They liked what they saw. “Don’t think I’ve seen you in before.”
The man shrugged. “I’ve been in a few times,” he said. “I think I saw you start a set once before but had to leave. Sorry now that I missed it.”
He smiled again, dimples on full display, and Blake felt something trip in his chest. Oh no you don’t, he told himself, but the man kept speaking. And he was holding out his hand.
“Jonathan,” he said, and Blake shook the offered hand automatically. “And I know you aren’t Andy, but that’ll do.” He lifted an eyebrow. “You do private dances?”
Blake nodded as he drew his hand away. “Back room, a hundred per fifteen, house rules stand, bouncer at the door.”
“And the mask?”
Blake blinked. “Extra fifty to take it off.”
Jonathan pushed up from his seat. “I’ll take a thirty. Minus the mask.”
Blake had to grin at that. “You got it.”
JON FOLLOWED Andy to one of the small private rooms in the back of the club, stopping to hand five fifties to the bouncer outside, who nodded and moved to a post just inside the door. The room was set up so that the entrance was slightly shielded, allowing for some privacy without endangering the dancers. The space was as opulent as the club outside, with low lighting, a leather sofa, and a small stereo set up on a side table.
Jon settled onto one end of the sofa as Andy turned on the music, choosing a background level that Jon liked. He smiled as Andy turned back to face him. “Any special requests?”
“Just one.” Jon waved a hand toward the far end of the sofa. “Have a seat.”
Andy’s eyebrows shot up. “Not exactly a dance.”
Jon lifted one shoulder. “I’d rather talk.” He smirked a little to lighten it up. “And gawk.” He ran his eyes down Andy’s chest and back up to meet his gaze, drawing a small smile from the other man.
“Okay, it’s your money.” Andy slipped off the mask and ran a hand over his eyes as he put it aside. He settled into the cushions, clearly arranging himself to show off his best assets. Jon particularly noticed the cut of his hips above the waistband of his jeans, and the lines across his stomach outlining the muscles there.
But he kept returning to Andy’s eyes. They were green, he could see now, deep and rich, rimmed with a narrow band of brown. Now that he could see all of Andy’s face, he realized just how good-looking he really was. Gorgeous, in fact. Every inch of skin Jon could see was flawless, except for a faint scar just over his right eye
cutting down into the edge of his eyebrow. The small mark only served to highlight just how perfect the rest of him was.
“Any particular subject?”
Andy’s words drew Jon out of his admiration, and he smiled, choosing his words carefully. “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?” he said. “I don’t mean anything personal, nothing identifying. Just general. Are you a New York native? How’d you get into dancing?”
Andy seemed to study him for a moment before giving a slight nod. “Born and raised in Brooklyn,” he said. “I was in my last year of college when I met a guy who danced here on weekends. He said it was good money and left plenty of time to run the audition circuit during the day, so I figured I’d give it a try.”
Auditions. Jon smiled. “You’re an actor?”
Andy laughed a little. “Sort of,” he said. “I spent almost a year after graduation trying to find work without much luck. A few commercials, not really enough to pay the rent on its own. I finally decided to go back for a master’s degree. Theater design. I minored in art in undergrad, so I thought I’d expand my options a little.”
Jon nodded, still smiling. “Yeah,” he said. “I was in just about the same boat a couple of years ago.”
Andy’s eyebrows lifted again. “You’re an actor?”
“Yep.” He shifted in his seat and let his gaze wander down Andy’s body as he spoke, figuring he might as well enjoy the view, since he’d paid for it. “Took me a while to get my first solid job too, but I’ve been working steadily since then. Getting the first good role is almost always the hardest part.”
Grand Adventures Page 28
