His smile is grateful and sad at the same time. I don’t know what happened to him, but I bet it wasn’t good. Someone did a real number on him, and beneath that tough exterior and all the stunning tattoos beats a broken heart.
7
Troy
I still can’t believe I sucked Ballsy Boys Rebel’s cock.
What’s more, it seemed like he’d be up for messing around again as long as I can keep things casual. Well, hello, casual is my middle fucking name.
I’m fucking flying this morning despite my lack of sleep and burning eyes. I couldn’t sleep last night because I was hit with major inspiration. I’m talking a million-dollar idea for a game, and I couldn’t let myself close my eyes until I had all the details hammered out and written down so I wouldn’t forget them.
I duck into the coffee shop on the way to my morning class and groan at the long line of bleary-eyed students waiting for their own caffeine fix. I check the time on my phone and decide it’ll be worth being a few minutes late to my first class if it means getting some coffee. Not to mention, I have a job I need to get out of the way. Why not kill two birds with one stone?
I shove my phone back into my pocket, resisting the urge to text Rebel. It’s not like I like him. It’s the novelty of the thing. How often do you have a porn star’s phone number who you could text for a hook-up if you wanted? Not that I’m going to abuse it, but it’s pretty fucking cool.
Maybe I’ll hit the club this weekend and look for some fresh meat. I always enjoy a bossy little bottom or a bathroom blowjob. I’m young, hot, and I love to fuck, and I’m not going to apologize to anyone for that.
“Hey, Troy,” a familiar voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I glance over my shoulder to see a dude who shares many of my classes. He’s a computer programming major too, and I think his name is Nick? Nate? Something with an N, I’m pretty sure. Sad thing is, this is probably the guy I’ve talked to most in the past two years.
“Hey, man.”
“Mason,” another guy calls from across the room.
Mason, that’s it.
“Semester starting okay?” I ask, because if we’re going to be standing in line we might as well make small talk.
“Yeah.” He smiles and glances nervously over to the guy who just called his name. “That’s my boyfriend, Brad, so I’d better go.”
“Oh?” I search my memory for any previous mention of Mason’s apparent boyfriend...or the fact that Mason is gay. He must have mentioned it, right? Because he’s admitting this now like I should know what he’s talking about.
I’m surprised it didn’t stick in my mind that Mason is gay, because he’s actually cute as hell with a few little freckles on his nose and his light green eyes hidden behind thick rimmed glasses. His brown hair is a mess of curls on the top of his head, and his lips are all pink and welcoming. He’s totally nerd cute to the max. But it’s obvious he’s serious about his boyfriend, so that must be why I file that information under irrelevant in my mind.
Mason hurries over to his boyfriend, who seems to have some sort of bug up his ass since he’s scowling and posturing before Mason even reaches him.
“Who the fuck is that?” Brad asks Mason loud enough for anyone in the coffee shop to hear, but I do my best to ignore it.
“A friend from some of my classes,” Mason answers in a more hushed tone.
Brad snorts and something about the condescending sound makes my fists ball. I don’t know this guy, but he’s clearly a grade A asshole.
“I guess I shouldn’t be worried anyway, not like anyone else would want to put up with your socially awkward ass. You know, it’d be nice if just once I could take you somewhere with my friends without you being weird and quiet,” Brad complains.
“I’m sorry,” Mason mumbles, and he sounds so resigned I start to wonder if I should go over there and say something to Brad about what a dickwad he’s being.
“Sorry? Right. I don’t know why I even bother with you. What’s in it for me? Not sex, that’s for sure. You’re nothing but a pain in my ass, and I’m getting really tired of carrying your dead weight.”
All right, that’s it.
I step out of line and stalk over to the table Brad and Mason are sharing. With a toothy smile that’s honestly more of a snarl, I slam my hands down on the table and lean close to Brad.
“Hey, fuckface, you might want to keep it down. I don’t think the entire coffee shop wants to hear how little you think of your boyfriend. Who, by the way, is a smart, cute, friendly guy who can do a hundred times better than you.”
Mason gasps, and Brad’s jaw and shoulders tense. “And just who the fuck do you think you are?” Brad growls.
“I’m Mason’s friend. And I’m the guy you’re going to have to go through if you plan to keep talking to him that way.”
Brad stands up, his chair scraping loudly on the tile floor, and the entire coffee shop goes deathly silent. I’m sure everyone is waiting to see if we’re going to throw down with a fistfight. The fact that all eyes are on us seems to register with Brad because he looks around and lets out a long sigh and then laughs. His gaze falls on Mason who’s full-on deer in the headlights.
“You’re not worth it. It’s been fun, but we’re done.”
Mason’s face pales, and he watches silently as Brad strides out of the shop without a backward glance.
“Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… Fuck, he was just being so damn mean to you,” I stammer a half-assed apology.
Mason bites his bottom lip and nods, his eyes full of sad resignation.
“Tell me what I can do to make this up to you?” I ask desperately.
Mason shakes his head and then stands, coffee in hand. “What class do you have this morning?” he asks.
The abrupt non-sequitur throws me off balance, and I almost call him out on it. But one look into his eyes show that Mason is desperately trying to keep it together.
“Algorithms and Data Studies,” I answer without further comment on his douchebag boyfriend...or ex-boyfriend, as the case may be.
“Cool, me too,” he says with a nod. “Get your coffee, so we aren’t late.”
The line has thinned out, so it only takes two minutes for me to order my coffee. When I catch the barista’s name tag as she hands me my coffee, I plaster on a friendly smile and lean slightly over the counter so I don’t embarrass her by saying it loud enough for others to hear. “Stephanie, I’m really sorry, but Jake wanted me to tell you it’s over.”
She looks shocked and then her face falls, and her eyes start to glisten with unshed tears. “He wants to break up?”
“He does. And if you ask me, you can do better than a jackass who can’t even face you when he ends it.”
Apparently, I’m just anti-cupid this morning.
* * *
I pull on a form fitting, royal blue t-shirt that I’m confident enough to say looks sexy as fuck on me. A touch of gel lets me achieve a just fucked look with my hair, and a quick glance in the mirror confirms that my ass looks edible. I’m officially ready to hit the club and score some helpless hottie.
I glance at my phone, and for a second, I consider texting Rebel to see what he gets up to on a Friday night. Probably something epic. Off-camera porn star orgy maybe? Or it’s possible he leads a totally normal life when he’s not fucking like it’s a sport. Maybe Friday nights, Rebel is just Hendrix, sitting on the couch, binge watching his favorite show on Netflix. I wonder what his favorite show is. And I wonder what he looks like lounging on the couch in nothing but his underwear.
I can almost picture it. His lean muscles on display, long hair pulled back out of his face, hand casually down the front of a pair of plain colored boxers.
I shake off the thought and shove my phone into my pocket. I don’t need to call Rebel. If he wants to hook up again, he can text or call me. And if he doesn’t, there are a million other willing guys in the world waiting to spend one night with me, even if they don’t know it yet.
I Uber it to Bottoms Up, the closest gay nightclub, and bypass the long line thanks to a close, personal relationship with the bouncer.
The heavy pulse of club music reverberates in my chest as I make my way up to the bar to get a drink.
“Hey, baby. Haven’t seen you in here in a minute,” the bartender—I’m pretty sure his name is Ryan—greets me with a flirty smirk.
I smile back but don’t offer an explanation. He took it well when I gave him a gentle let down after we hooked up a few months ago, so I’m not going to insult him by giving him a lame excuse. I avoided the club on nights I knew he’d be here to make sure he wouldn’t expect a repeat.
Not that I wouldn’t enjoy a repeat every once in a while. It can be fun getting to know someone’s body a bit. But few people are capable of fucking around with the same person on the regular without developing feelings. Ryan had been fun, and I wouldn’t have minded a second time around, but he was also kind of sweet and starry-eyed, and that’s dangerous.
“Can I get a rum and coke, please?”
“Sure thing.”
Drink in hand, I turn and scan the crowd, checking for anyone who might catch my interest for the night.
And then I see someone who really catches my interest.
I try to fight the smile on my lips and fail while I sip my drink and will my heartbeat to stay calm.
I roll my shoulders back and add an extra swagger to my step as I approach the group of men so beautiful it should be illegal.
In my mind, I’m trying to decide how to play this. Should I stand in their general vicinity and wait for him to notice me? Or I could go the straightforward route and come right out and greet him? The decision is made for me within seconds as Rebel turns his head and our gazes lock. He smiles instantly, his baby blues lighting up in recognition.
“Hey, it’s banana boy!” he shouts over the club music and my step falters.
My freaking porn star crush just called me banana boy in front of a bunch of other porn stars. This isn’t real, right? This is one of those awkward naked in class dreams? Because I was really hoping I could pull off being cool for at least a few seconds.
“Banana boy?” the man beside Rebel asks.
Even in the flashing club lights, I recognize him instantly. Sexy, playful, fuckboy Brewer. He’s mouthwatering with his messy brown hair and his ink-covered arms. He’s the kind of guy you can tell from watching his scenes that he’s truly having a good time.
“I can’t believe I didn’t tell you guys; this dude showed up at my place in a banana suit the other day,” Rebel explains, and they all laugh.
Of course he’s only going to tell the embarrassing part of the story, not the part where I sucked his dick...twice. In all honesty, I’ve imagined this moment many times, being surrounded by the entire Ballsy Boys crew, and never once did I envision they’d be chuckling at me...or that we’d all be fully clothed.
Since this didn’t go how I’d been hoping, I start to slowly back away while some of my dignity is still intact. But I only make it a few feet before Rebel is grabbing my arm and tugging me against his side.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I was just surprised to see you. And you have to admit, it was pretty funny that you were dressed as a banana when you came to my place,” Rebel says close to my ear, his hot breath tickling my neck and making me shiver.
“You could’ve at least told them how good I am at sucking dick,” I joke.
Rebel shrugs and then looks back toward all his friends. “I should also mention that this dude gives insane head.”
“Better than me?” Brewer asks with mock indignation.
Rebel glances between me and Brewer with a look of contemplation. “Yeah, better than you. Sorry, man.”
I know he’s probably just being nice, but I still feel damn proud. I catch Tank rolling his eyes in Brewer’s direction, and it occurs to me that of all the guys here, Tank and Brewer are the only two I’ve never seen in a scene together.
I notice Pixie off to one side talking to Campy, who seems somewhat less comfortable in the club than the other guys. And then I spot one of the newest Ballsy Boys, Heart. “Oh my god, you deserve a medal for the epic pounding you took in that new scene. DP from two guys as big as Tank and Campy, much respect man.”
Heart looks startled by my praise, and I realize it might be bad form to fanboy all over porn stars. “Uh, thanks. Sorry, this is all pretty new. It’s kinda weird to have someone talking about watching me get fucked.”
“Sorry about that, didn’t mean to make it weird.”
“Not at all, it’s actually pretty cool, and I’m glad you enjoyed it. You’re right; Tank in particular is no joke.”
“Aw, don’t let this big bear fool you,” Brewer coos, stepping up beside Tank and petting his chest. “You just have to know the right way to stroke him so he doesn’t get all growly.”
On cue, a low rumble erupts from Tank’s chest, but by the deadly glare he’s turning on Brewer, I don’t think he’s amused. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m not one of your fuck toys, so don’t touch me?” Tank grits out, shouldering Brewer off him.
To my surprise, Brewer doesn’t seem the least bit put off by Tank’s reprisal. “Aw, my grumbly bear just needs a good snuggle, doesn’t he?” Brewer nuzzles his head against Tank’s massive, hairy bicep.
“Do you want to dance?” Rebel asks before I can see if Tank is actually going to crush Brewer with his fist or not.
“Sure.”
8
Rebel
He’s taller than me. It’s a strange thought because at my five-foot-nine, I’m not that tall, but for some reason, I hadn’t realized Troy is taller than me. Not by much, an inch maybe, but it’s enough to make me feel...warm inside.
“I suck at dancing,” Troy informs me as we take position amidst dozens of sweaty bodies, his mouth close to my ear, giving me shivers.
“That makes two of us. I only asked to get away from Tank and Brewer. I swear to god, those two drive me nuts. Brewer’s biggest hobby is to ride Tank and get a rise out of him, and Tank would gladly serve Brewer’s head on a platter.”
Troy laughs, then grabs my neck and yanks me flush to his body. “We’ll have to grind, then, instead of dance.”
Now here’s a plan I can get on board with.
I circle my arms around his waist, as he pulls me even closer, our bodies melting in a way that would get us arrested in half the countries in the world. Not this one, though. Not in this club. God, I love this place.
We sway to the music, every inch of our bodies pressed against each other. At first, our heads are apart, somewhat awkwardly, but then I surrender to this deep urge to put my cheek against his shoulder. The shirt he’s wearing, which so perfectly brings out his eyes, is soft under my skin, and I can’t resist scraping my stubble against it.
His body is perfect, if you ask me.
Confession: I have a biceps fetish. It’s one of those weird, unexplainable tics everyone has, and this is mine. Every time I check a guy out, I look at his biceps first.
Well, maybe not first. You sorta take in the face and the whole appearance automatically, but it’s the first thing I specifically look for. Other guys check out asses or six-packs, or they wanna make sure their man has a solid seven-inch cock, or whatever. Me, I dig solid, toned biceps.
Not the Arnold-Schwarzenegger-in-his-glory-days type, where the biceps are as thick as my thigh. But I hate skinny arms. I love a perfectly sculpted, well-developed set of muscles in the upper arm.
My first crush was on my neighbor kid—well, he was seventeen to my fourteen, so kind of a kid, still—and he’d been helping his dad in the junkyard all summer. He was tall, tanned from working outside, and he always wore these black tank tops. Wife beaters, they’re called, which is a stupid-ass name for tops that looked so damn sexy on him I drooled every time I saw him. His arms were perfect. Absolute, sheer perfection. Ripped, but not bulky.
Just
like Troy’s. I’ve eyed them before, and they’re right in my line of vision now, these perfect, strong arms. His muscles flex and ripple as he holds me tightly against him. So. Damn. Sexy.
My hands drop lower and lower, until I find his ass. His firm, fuckable ass. Mmmm. I was fucked hard yesterday by a guest star named Dick—and holy fuck, was he aptly named ‘cause he was a major asshole—and I’m the mood to pound. What are the odds I could have a go at this sweet ass?
I squeeze softly, first his right cheek, then his left, and Troy lets out a delicious little growl right next to my ear. Encouraged, I subject him to the one true top-or-bottom-test I personally designed and have tested on fuck knows how many guys. I trail my finger down his crack, not even under his jeans, but right on top, and press gently when I reach his hole. Troy shudders, then involuntarily spreads his legs.
Bingo.
He’s a bottom, or vers, like me. Probably the latter. But there’s no fucking way he’s a strict top. Tops don’t spread their legs when you tap their hole. Tops don’t moan into your ear like Troy is doing right now when you increase that pressure ever-so-slightly. And tops don’t whisper “Please...oh, fucking hell, more...” with an urgency that makes it clear they really like what you’re doing to them.
We’re grinding against each other full force now, all pretense of dancing gone. Suddenly, he pulls me back by my hair and slams our mouths together. Fuck, yes. Controlled aggression? Such a fucking turn on.
He tastes minty fresh. And that’s the last coherent thought I have before he starts fucking my mouth with his tongue, and holy fucking mother of everything, I like. I love. I need.
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