The Last Drop

by Layla Reyne

  “I don’t normally go for hipster.” He nipped at Manhattan’s neck as the other man fumbled his front door keys. “But the body under this getup.” He slipped free the last button of Manhattan’s vest and spread his hands over his chest.

  “Fuck,” Manhattan groaned as he dropped his head back onto Greg’s shoulder.

  Taking advantage of all the skin on display, Greg licked into the crook of Manhattan’s neck and lapped up a night’s worth of sweat and lingering bergamot soap. Could they fuck right here on the porch? It was three in the morning. No one would see.

  Seemed Manhattan had the same idea. He thrust out his chest and thrust back his ass. “Want to feel those hands on me.”

  Greg ran them in opposite directions, one south to cup Manhattan through his jeans, the other north to lightly grasp the base of his throat. “You like these?”

  He groaned louder. “Didn’t think a chef’s hands got like that.”

  “I live and die by my cast iron skillets.” He curled his fingers over the ridge of Manhattan’s cock, hardening behind the denim, and with his other hand, teased the thrumming pulse point in his neck. “And after Katrina, we all had to be carpenters. These hands have built three restaurants from the inside out.”

  “You’ve got three restaurants?”

  “Nah, man, three flops.” He brought his hands back to Manhattan’s middle and began working open his dress shirt. “But that’s not what I want to talk about tonight. Want to talk about getting you out of these clothes, then getting inside you.”

  “Get in the house, New Orleans, and you can talk all you want.”

  Greg liked the sound of that. Liked the sound of the key flipping the lock even better. Manhattan opened the door, and Greg pushed them over the threshold. They stumbled, a tangled mass of half-stripped limbs, toward the foyer wall, and at the last second, Greg braced a forearm next to Manhattan’s head, saving him from becoming a pancake. At this new angle, Greg had a stellar view of Manhattan’s moonlit amber eyes and his heaving chest, sprinkled with curly black hair.

  “Okay,” the bartender panted through a grin. “Talk now.”

  Fuck talking.

  Fuck everything that didn’t involve his mouth on Manhattan’s, his tongue diving between Manhattan’s full lips, the moan he swallowed and echoed back, the taste of hazelnut and berries from the last cocktail of the night. And of something else smoky and fleeting Greg couldn’t put a finger on. He’d get a whiff of it, and then it was gone. He chased after it again and again, his tongue searching every corner of Manhattan’s mouth, his fingers raking through the springy hair on his chest, his body seeking out heat and friction.

  Until Greg needed more air than he was snatching between kisses. He wrenched his mouth away with a muttered, “Fuck,” and rested his forehead in the crook of Manhattan’s neck.

  “Best conversation all night.” Manhattan cupped the back of Greg’s head, fingers rubbing over the short coarse hairs. Greg wanted to nuzzle into the touch. “Maybe all week.”

  Other parts of them wanted to converse too, most notably their cocks, which were each testing the fortitude of denim. Greg dropped a hand again to the bartender’s crotch and skated fingers along his dick. “Maybe let’s move this to the bedroom.”

  “Agreed.” Manhattan leaned his head back, meeting Greg’s gaze, and his smirk was pure sex. “Condoms and lube are in there too.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Greg dove for his mouth again, chasing away the evil grin, until Manhattan slipped his hold and flipped a light switch.

  Good thing, as Greg would have likely tripped over the moving boxes in the dark. “You weren’t kidding. You’re on the move again? Soon?”

  “On to the next adventure.”

  “Where’s that?” Greg followed him through the living room and kitchen, toward the bedroom in the back. The furniture, covered in sheets, must have come with the rental. The couple of boxes per room, Greg guessed, were personal items Manhattan would take with him. A car’s worth at most.

  “Wherever I decide to stop,” Manhattan said. “Never the same place twice.” He stood over the threshold from bathroom to bedroom, resting back against the doorjamb as he loosened his jeans and toed off his shoes. He was a debauched sight to behold. Vest, shirt, and pants hanging open, cock hard, lips swollen and cheeks red, all that black hair askew.

  Greg closed the distance between them, yanked the vest and shirt down and off his arms, then shoved a hand inside his pants. Beneath Manhattan’s briefs, his cock was stiff and dripping. Greg growled as he swiped his fingers over the tip, gathering moisture then stroking the impressive length. “Shame I only get one night with you.” Another stroke. “With this.”

  The body against his, the cock in his hand, surged forward, begging for more. “Better make it count.”

  One more stroke, then Greg moved his hand off Manhattan’s dick and over his hip. “You got a mattress still?” He palmed an ass cheek before sliding his hand under Manhattan’s thigh and hiking it up over his own hip, giving Greg access to the place he wanted most. “Or I can fuck you against this wall here. Or on the floor.” He circled a finger around Manhattan’s rim. “As long as I get my dick inside this hole.”

  Manhattan shuddered one second, then was in Greg’s arms the next, jumping up and wrapping his legs around Greg’s waist. “Mattress, in there.” He nodded toward the room. “Go.”

  Hands full of ass cheeks, Greg toed off his own shoes, then spun and entered the bedroom. That enigmatic thing he couldn’t put his finger on slapped him in the face—charred oak. A pony-sized whiskey barrel sat on the bedside table.

  “Whatcha’ got in there?” Greg asked as he put a knee, then Manhattan’s back to the mattress.

  “Manhattan.”

  Greg laughed out loud. “You don’t say?”

  The handsome man smiled up at him, amber eyes twinkling. “Reminds me of home.”

  “Tell me about it,” Greg said as he scooted back off the bed, taking Manhattan’s jeans and briefs with him. “The drink,” he clarified. He’d noticed Manhattan’s earlier dodges, and the last thing he wanted was to throw this night off course. Especially as the bartender’s swollen cock bounced free. It was all Greg could do not to pounce. But if he only had one night with this beautiful man, he was going to fucking savor it, like the best meal of his life. He dropped his own pants and underwear, yanked his shirt off over his head, and grinned as Manhattan gave in and stroked his cock. Greg crawled back onto the bed between his legs. “What exactly did you use?”

  “Black Maple Hill…” Manhattan’s breath caught as Greg lifted one leg, rested it on his shoulder, and whorled a tongue around the knot of his ankle. “For the rye.”

  Greg slid his hand down a firm calf dusted with dark hair, over a smooth inner thigh and into the groove where leg met groin, then danced his fingertips over Manhattan’s balls. “And the vermouth?”

  “Antica,” he gutted out, three syllables of keening want.

  Greg left the leg on his shoulder, then lifted the other one, repeating his teasing motions. “The bitters?”

  Pale skin flushed, Manhattan arched his back. “Peychaud’s. Seemed appropriate.”

  When he reached his balls this time, Greg upped the ante and gave them a firm squeeze. “Nothing about this is appropriate, baby.”

  “Fuck, New Orleans, those hands.” His back hit the mattress, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon. “Just fucking fuck me. Please.”

  Greg chuckled. “Oh, I will, don’t you worry.” Taking an ankle in each hand, he coasted his grip over calves, behind knees, to the backs of Manhattan’s thighs, pushing them back and wide. “Anything else in that barrel?” He bent and ran his tongue up the length of Manhattan’s cock. “A secret ingredient?” He circled the tip. “Like that splash of chili oil in the cocktail earlier tonight.”

  “Luxardo.” Pant. “Maraschino.” Pant. “Wash.” Then a tortured whimper when Greg dipped lower and blew hot breath on his hole. “Oh fuck.”


  Flattening his tongue, Greg made one, then because the smell and taste and flutter were so damn intoxicating, another pass around Manhattan’s rim. “You gonna leave the keg or take it with you?”

  “Keep doing that and you can have it to remember me by.”

  Greg spread his legs wider and licked up the crease of his balls. “Don’t think I’m gonna have any trouble remembering this sort of perfection.”

  Perfection he finally gave into, spreading his hands and pressing Manhattan’s legs toward the mattress, causing an arch in his back and a thrust of his gorgeous cock toward Greg. Bowing, Greg met the bodily plea, his and Manhattan’s, and closed his lips around Manhattan’s cock and took him in farther, until Greg’s nose was buried in wiry black hair.

  Above him, Manhattan groaned and tossed his head on the pillow. Greg skirted his hands down, fingers framing Manhattan’s balls then teasing his taint while Greg’s thumbs worked him open. Because for all his focus on savoring, on making this good for Manhattan, Greg was close to the edge already, his cock painfully hard and dripping down his thigh.

  A hand palmed his scalp, and Greg realized he’d closed his eyes. He looked up into Manhattan’s beseeching gold ones. “Please fuck me,” he begged. “I want you inside me, your hand around my cock, when I come.”

  Greg released his cock with a salacious pop. “Goddamn, you’re perfect.”

  And perfectly prepared. “Good thing I hadn’t packed these.” He tossed a condom and lube toward Greg, who reared back on his haunches, rolled on the condom, and slicked up his cock. Manhattan’s eyes became impossibly more hooded, amber slits of burning desire. “Fuck yes, get that inside me.”

  Falling forward, Greg planted one hand on the pillow beside Manhattan’s head while the other guided his cock to his entrance. He pushed in, slow and easy, savoring the heat and warmth that grabbed hold and wouldn’t let go.

  Of more than just his cock. “Jesus Christ,” he cursed again. “You feel so good.”

  Even better when Manhattan curled a hand around his neck and brought them breath to breath, tongue flicking out for a teasing lick of Greg’s lips. “Get that big, rough hand on me and get me off. Hard.”

  Greg didn’t have to be told twice. He wrapped his slick hand around Manhattan’s cock and stroked him hard with each equally hard snap of his hips. Pounding, jerking, their grunts mirrors of each other, broken only by curses and pleas for “more” and “harder.” Until Manhattan’s drawn out, guttural “Yes” against Greg’s lips preceded a hot gush of come over his fist. Greg came with a final thrust of his hips as he kissed the lovely, talented bartender, deep and claiming, breathing into him the pleasure of the best orgasm Greg had ever experienced.

  It was a hazy trip down from the high, motions made heavy and slow by cocktails and sex. Manhattan was moving somewhat easier, taking away the condom Greg tied off and coming back from the bathroom with a warm rag to clean up. Greg was just beginning to doze when a waft of spice and sweet hit his nose. He forced open his eyes to find Manhattan beside him with a shot glass of his namesake drink in hand.

  “Better than an after-sex cigarette.” He took a sip, then held the shot glass out to Greg, who levered up on one elbow.

  It was everything Greg loved about barrel-aged cocktails. So much more complex, the charred oak subtlety rounding off the sharp edges of the rye. “It’s fucking perfect.” He handed the glass back, then tucked his head under Manhattan’s chin, burying his nose in all his tantalizing chest hair. “Just like you.”

  Manhattan stretched, setting aside the glass, then relaxed into Greg, pulling them both deeper into the bed. “Think you’ll remember me?” He coasted a hand over Greg’s head, like he’d done before, and Greg nuzzled into it, like he’d wanted to do earlier.

  “No doubt,” he mumbled, before drifting off to sleep.

  When Greg woke in the morning, Manhattan the man was gone, but the barrel remained, a reminder for Greg to savor.

  Chapter Three

  Summer was still going strong in the Big Easy, and with each muggy day that passed in the march toward September, Greg held his breath and kept an eye on the weather. He’d been working in New York when Katrina had hit, but his family had been here. They still had lingering PTSD from the trauma; so did a lot of people in Greg’s hometown. Yes, New Orleans had moved on and thrived, but a heightened sense of anxiety permeated the late summer air. He’d been home long enough now to sense it too. Add to that the restlessness that came whenever he was between projects, and Greg was a ball of nerves. Twice daily trips to French Truck for iced coffee probably didn’t help, but the roasted coffee ground with chicory, shaken with sweet cream, and served over ice was an addiction he couldn’t shake. At least not until the temps dropped.

  Only sex or a kitchen would settle him. The first was swiftly ruled out, even though it had been a month since Greg’s hookup with Mr. Manhattan. He should accept their night for what it was: amazing cocktails, an amazing fuck, and an amazing parting gift. But acknowledging the pony barrel of rye whiskey, sweet vermouth, bitters, and a splash of cherry liquor was the closest he’d ever come to Mr. Manhattan again put a damper on the idea stirring at the back of Greg’s mind. It was only a vague notion—so many pieces would have to fall into place—but it was there, adding to the jangle of nerves. And Greg had zero desire to take someone else to bed. The memories of the sexy hipster writhing beneath him were still too fresh. The comparison wouldn’t be fair to anyone.

  Fuck, he needed to find a kitchen. And at this point in his life and career, there were only two people he could cook with. As one of those was across the country, he snagged his phone and called the closer of the two.

  “Gregory,” his mother answered, “I was just getting ready to call you.”

  He lowered the phone, checked the screen, then lifted it back to his ear. “I called Dad.”

  “Well, you got me. Is that a problem?”

  Always with the sass. His mother delivered it daily, at home and on the city council. Greg had learned at a young age that respecting it was the surest path to peace. “No, ma’am.”

  “Where are you?”

  “French Truck in the Quarter.”

  “Good, you’re relatively close. Meet us in the Bywater in fifteen. I’ll text you the address.”

  “Wait!” he called, certain she was halfway to hanging up, expecting her directive to be obeyed. He would, of course, but he needed some idea where this was headed to mentally prepare himself. “Isn’t Dad cooking in the Marigny today?” That’s why he’d called in the first place. And unless the shelter volunteer schedule had changed, his dad wasn’t in the Bywater until later in the week. “I was calling to see if I could help. Need to get my hands dirty.”

  “He got things started this morning. Staff there is holding it down until he gets back. You can go with him from here.”

  “Where’s here?”

  A moment later, the phone vibrated in his hand.

  “Sent you the address,” his mom said. “See you soon.”

  She beat him to the hang up, and Greg lowered the phone to read her text, an address off Dauphine. Fifteen minutes to get there, and if he were a minute late, he’d hear about it. He could make it at a brisk walk, but in this humidity, hell no.

  He drained his iced coffee, tossed the cup into the trash, and hustled two blocks to the streetcar. He took it as far as the Marigny, cut through Crescent Park, then up two blocks to Dauphine, dodging the early lunch go-ers at the Bywater’s outdoor cafés and forcing himself not to slow and admire the street murals. They always caught his interest whenever he was down here.

  He rounded a corner and spied his parents in the distance. His dad stood out of the way in the shadow of a building overhang, fanning himself with a magazine, while his mom, across the sidewalk, leaned against a lamppost, soaking up the sun like she wanted to live on the face of it. He couldn’t remember a time when she had ever complained about the heat.

  She noticed him first and waved, her
white linen sleeve falling back to her elbow and her gold bracelets glinting against brown skin, a shade richer than his and his father’s. Greg jogged the last half block, regretting it almost immediately as sweat poured down his back. Also like his dad, he did not have his mother’s tolerance for heat. Never had. But he didn’t complain; it was worth making it there on time and earning his mother’s wide, pleased smile.

  A little too pleased, in fact. “What are you up to?” he asked as he embraced her.

  “Why do you assume I’m up to something?”

  “You didn’t call me out here for nothing.”

  “Well, that’s true.” She stepped to his side and gestured across the sidewalk to the two-story building his dad leaned against. It’s two front windows were papered over, its front entry boarded up, and the unit upstairs appeared empty too. “Look what we found.”

  “A vacant building?”

  His dad pushed off the wall and joined them. “You’re burying the lead, Charlene.” His dad drew a set of keys out of his pocket. “Which is why I have these. We can let ourselves in the back door and get out of this God-forsaken sun.”

  She rose on her toes, barely reached his chin for a kiss, and snatched the keys out of his hands. “You’re lucky I love you, Henry Valteau.” She flounced off around the side of the building, and his dad dutifully followed, laughing.

  Greg laughed too, the two of them as prickly and as in love with each other as they had been for forty years. He was lucky to have them, lucky to witness and have their love, and lucky they supported his cooking. It hadn’t been easy, but they’d always had his back. He crossed the sidewalk and laid a hand on the boarded-up entry, imagining what was behind it. Excitement fizzed in his belly like prosecco, the bubbles floating up and bursting in his chest. He had an inkling of what was going on here, what his parents had found, but he didn’t say anything as he joined them around back, letting them have their moment and tempering his own hopes.