Heaven's Ballroom

by Aiden Bates

  And yet, here I was. Somehow the best part of the last seven days wasn’t the solitude, the return to normal, the ability to go into work without seeing a wolfish grin staring back at me from the audience. It was feeling the warmth of his fingers wrapped around mine as he pulled me out onto the dance floor of a pretentious speakeasy full of pretentious people drinking pretentious drinks to pretentious jazz.

  If I wasn’t so happy, I probably would have just gone and thrown myself in the East River already.

  “You want another drink?”

  I looked up at him, only having to raise my chin slightly to meet his gaze. The lights of the club were catching in the dark waves of his hair, turning the blank canvas red, then yellow, then green like traffic lights on water. His eyes were darker still, shining ebony mirrors so deep I could practically see myself in them.

  “Of what? Elderberry-infused vodka?” I laughed. “I don’t think I could bear it. Go on and get one if you want, though. I imagine a man like you has a hard time letting loose sober.”

  “You keep saying that, you know.” He tugged me forward unexpectedly, sending me stumbling into him. “A man like me, a man like me.”

  “I have to,” I countered, relishing the way his hand felt as it slid across my lower back. “How else can I keep giving you chances to prove me wrong?”

  “A man like you can’t be used to being wrong so often.” He pressed his hips to mine, teasing my body into a slow, rocking motion even though the music hadn’t started yet. “Is that why you don’t like me?”

  “Maybe I don’t like you because you’re an arrogant prick,” I suggested. The word felt delicious on my lips, the way they rolled inward between my teeth then pouted out, the sharp stab of it: prick.

  “I don’t need to get drunk to dance with you.” The band lumbered onto the stage, plucking strings experimentally as Duncan’s fingertips ran across the edge of my belt at the base of my spine. He grinned proudly as a cliché came to mind: “I was born loose, sweetheart.”

  “The only thing loose about you is your morals.”

  “Is that why I have you wound so tight?”

  I blinked as he pressed his fingers into the muscles of my lower back, testing them in little circles. Christ—I was tense, tense as the crowd as they waited for the band to pick up into their first song. His hand on my body, his fingers curled around mine, the heat of his breath on my cheek every time he exhaled a laugh. I was bracing for impact already. Impact of what, I couldn’t quite tell yet.

  I eased my shoulders back, eyelids heavy as the band finally slid into something slow and dirty. “There’s only one thing tight about me, Duncan.”

  A flash of his incisors. “I can imagine.”

  “Good. Imagining is all you’re going to get.” I matched his grin. “I’m not in love with you yet.”

  A guitar wailed from the stage, high and painfully sweet. Duncan stole the opportunity to pull me closer still, and against my better judgment, I let him. My fingers dragged along the back of his neck, his hot skin rough and prickling beneath my touch. The song sounded like sex, the guitar’s note arching over it like an orgasm.

  “That’s the key word, isn’t it?” His lips were at my ear now, so close that the humidity of his breath felt like its own kind of kiss. “Yet.”

  Fuck. I could’ve handled it if he’d been drunk, all roaming hands and needy one-liners. Drunks, I could deal with. They knew how to use alcohol to excuse away whatever bullshit inhibitions they’d been mulling over all day, only to throw out the window once they’d thrown back a shot. But sober like this, the burn of a single martini already fading away into oblivion?

  He was clever sober. Teasing the tension between us the same way the band’s guitarist was working his weapon’s vibrato. Like some kind of half-dreamed vision, I could see the two of us abusing the bar tab Duncan’s boss had left open for us. Tangling fingers together, wrestling tongues, nipping at necks and earlobes and lips until we stumbled out into the alleyway to come together like a car crash.

  Drunk, neither of us would’ve had an excuse.

  Sober?

  Sober, and I was grinding my molars down to dust just to keep from giving in anyway.

  “Music’s good,” Duncan purred in a voice so sultry, it could’ve melted me into a puddle on the floor.

  “True.”

  “You move better to it than I thought you would.”

  “As a dancer, I can’t imagine why.”

  “Think you’d move even better to it back at my place?”

  I caught the glimmer in his eyes as I pulled away, that sense of knowing. Oh, he was good. Better than I’d given him credit for. The yoga, the coffee, the cocktails and the conversation—it was all still building to this moment of proof he was expecting to fall down over us any moment, like a long-needed rain after a summer drought.

  Proof of his prowess. Of how handsome and charming and wealthy and capable he was. Proof that he could get anyone he wanted—even someone like me.

  For a moment, I considered it. To say otherwise would’ve been a lie. Like I didn’t know that the second we stepped through the door of his penthouse that night, we’d be off like a rocket into the night. Clothing torn off and thrown in a whirlwind across his floor. His mattress at my back, my thighs squeezing tight around his hips, our every motion pressing the both of us forward in a mutual need that neither of us could deny.

  We were fucking great together with our clothes on. With our clothes off? I knew good and well that only the greatest kind of fucking would ensue. But for the exact same reason that I wanted him, I knew that I couldn’t have him at all.

  Taking Duncan Rourke to bed wouldn’t just mean admitting defeat. I’d lose more than just a bet if we consummated whatever it was that we had here and now. How long had it been since I’d gone out with someone and genuinely enjoyed myself this much? How long would it be until I found something this tangible, this engaging, this deliciously intense again?

  “Is that what you want?” I asked, leaning into him.

  Our lips hovered near, not even an inch between them. Like the moment before a bomb went off. The second before the train went off the tracks and exploded into a blaze of twisted metal and heat.

  “What I want isn’t what matters right now.” He turned my hand over in his, watching the way our fingers moved against each other before he returned his gaze to mine, capturing me with the flecks of light in his eyes.

  “Then what does?” I found myself asking. They were just words at this point, though. Like a hostage negotiator buying time.

  “Kieran.” He said my name softly, the roughness beneath it temporarily pushed back for the sake of clarity. I felt the music fade away, even though it must have been louder than ever. He’d caught me up in our own little bubble of reality, the rest of the world moving at full speed while we danced in slow motion. “You know that I want you.”

  “I do.”

  “And I know that you want me back.”

  I closed my eyes, smiling as I cursed my former self. Of course he knew that—I’d told him as much that first night.

  “So,” Duncan said, his thumb caressing the back of my hand. “Tell me what you want.”

  “I—” I opened my mouth, ready to give him some pithy one-liner, and realized that I didn’t have the words. I wanted him. I didn’t want him. I wanted this feeling to last forever, and I knew the second we let it, we’d fuck and it would end. “I guess I don’t know right now.”

  He smirked. “Do you want me to decide for you?”

  And there it was. I saw it for what exactly what it was: an out. He couldn’t have presented it any better if he’d served it up for me on a silver platter. It was like being hungry but not knowing what or where to eat. I had the need, and he was offering to make the choice.

  It would’ve been easier, I realized, if I had been drunk. It was easy to cave to something so devilishly desirable like that with enough drinks under your belt. Sober, it was a different kind of su
rrender. Drunk meant excuses. Clarity came with responsibility.

  “Decide, then.” Sober, and I caved anyway. Like the bottom of a cardboard box that had been left out in the rain.

  I could hear my own heartbeat as I waited for his answer. Even as I did, every thump in my chest was rushing blood to my core, to my cock as it throbbed, pressed tight against his thigh through my chinos. To my fingertips on his skin, digging into his back as I closed my eyes and waited to hear our fate.

  “Mm. Then, no.”

  My eyes shot open, looking up at him with confusion.

  “No?” I blurted.

  He chuckled, raising my knuckles to his lips. I could feel his smile in his kiss, smug but tender. Amused.

  “No,” he repeated. “Now you can disagree with me. You can say we should, and I’ll take it back. We’ll dance until the martinis are good and worn off, then I’ll drive you home and I’ll ravish you in the way you’ve been craving since you first saw an Alpha’s bare chest and realized how bad you wanted to sink your teeth into it. But.”

  “But?”

  He hummed, still moving his hips slowly against mine despite the way I could hear the music, distant but clear, had picked up the tempo to something roaring and frenzied. “But I think I’ve had as good of a night as I’ve had in a long time. I think you’re feeling a little weak for me right now, which I can’t blame you for.”

  I huffed, looking away from him as I felt my cheeks flush pink. “Weak for a man like you? Never.”

  “For a man like me,” he repeated. “Of course not. So I’m thinking, maybe I ought to take control here. Get you home. Get you to bed. Let you lie there with that hard, perfect cock of yours twitching with need of me when you finally peel out of those tight pants. Let you think about how much you want me, and how much you’d like to ask me to fuck you directly next time.”

  I sucked my lip between my teeth, biting down on it. “And if there isn’t a next time? If I’m never this weak for you again?”

  He laughed. “Then I’ll spend the rest of my life pissed at myself for not taking this opportunity, won’t I?”

  As my lip slipped out from between my teeth, I found myself smiling up at him with the most genuine smile I’d felt in a long time. “Thank you, Duncan.”

  “No need to thank me.” He shifted his arm behind me, pulling me even tighter against him as he rested his forehead to mine. “Just dance with me for a little while.”

  And as the music rushed back in around us, hot and hard and erratic as music had ever been, we moved slow and steady as ever, chest to chest, cheek to cheek. His thigh between my legs. My hand in his.

  10

  Duncan

  I left Kieran on the doorstep of his apartment, knowing that both of us were hungry for a kiss goodnight that never came. I left him hard and grateful, desperate for me and, I thought, thankful that I hadn’t taken advantage of his moment of weakness, too.

  And then, halfway home, I realized what a fucking idiot I was, and nearly turned the car around to march up to his front door so I could ravish him. If the notion had hit me a block sooner, I might have done it, too.

  I wanted Kieran Drake more than any Omega I’d ever wanted in my entire life—and I could’ve had him, too. Worse, I couldn’t even pretend that it was just me being noble, taking him home like that when both of us so clearly wanted to fuck each other’s brains out across the expanse of his bedroom. Sure, in the moment, it had sounded like the gentlemanly thing to do, but in his absence it was beginning to come full circle.

  The whole way home, I knew that he’d be slipping out of those gorgeous clothes of his so he could stroke his cock to the thought of what my lips might feel like if I wrapped them around him. The whole way home, I knew that I’d be rushing up to my own penthouse to do the exact same.

  It had been the right choice for us in the moment, sure. I was proud of myself for being able to make that distinction. Didn’t stop me from wishing for the heat of his tongue lapping at my balls while his greedy fist pumped away at my cock like some kind of machine. Compared to that, my pride was a poor consolation prize—but for the night, it would have to be enough.

  Back in bed, with my slacks around my ankles and my own cock in my fist instead, the sensation only deepened. I wanted him. He wanted me. And we hadn’t acted on it, and I never did that. The question was, why? I stroked myself half to death before I had any answers, and when they came, they were the kind that I had to mull over in a hot shower while I rinsed what felt like a liter of my own cum off my chest.

  The first answer was obvious: not fucking him tonight would only make him want me more. But the second possibility was just as terrible as it was delicious.

  Because if we’d given in tonight, what we had might’ve been over. No stupid bet to hold us together. A lifetime of meaningless, sex-focused relationships forcing us apart.

  I decided, for that reason, that I wouldn’t message him first. I shot him a short text to make sure he’d gotten up to his place okay, and when I read his response—Of course, signed with a little x and nothing more—I knew I had to leave it at that. If he was going to lose to me, he’d have to lose on his terms.

  Whatever happened after, I didn’t even want to consider yet.

  A week of pure fucking torture followed. I became the kind of man whose fingers twitched every time my phone buzzed. The kind of man who found himself walking down the street toward the Ballroom where I knew he worked without even realizing it, only to catch myself nearly showing up at his workplace and forcing myself to turn around in the middle of the sidewalk.

  I knew he’d message me eventually. It had never crossed my mind that things would ever play out otherwise. But until he did, Kieran Drake was a wave mounting on the horizon, and I was just the poor bastard who had to stand on the beach, wondering whether or not it would break before it reached the shore.

  But when the text finally came in, I discovered that my gamble had changed the goddamn tides itself.

  My parents are coming in from Texas tonight, it read. Want to meet them?

  My heart did acts of gymnastics that should have landed it in the fucking Olympics themselves as I texted back, Yeah, of course. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.

  As soon as I got to the steakhouse, I realized I’d made my first mistake. One glance at the other diners in their blue jeans and button-downs, and there I was in my best pair of slacks. Immediately, I regretted taking a cab instead of driving. If I’d driven, at least I could have thrown my idiot blazer into the car.

  I spotted Kieran first, his auburn hair slicked back and a George Straight t-shirt on. He looked every bit the cowboy he played on stage, except that his boots actually looked like they’d been made for wearing, and he’d pulled on denim instead of his assless chaps.

  “Nice look,” he called out as he came up to me, laughing as he looked me up and down. “You come straight from a funeral?”

  “My own, from the looks of things.” I shoved my hands in my pockets, feeling embarrassed for what might’ve been the first time in my entire life. “Could’ve warned me about the relaxed dress code, you know.”

  He shrugged. “I did mention we were from Texas. I thought relaxed didn’t need saying.” His grin widened as he glanced at the shine my shoes had to them. “What was it you said to me last week? It won’t matter, you won’t be wearing it long anyway?”

  “Good thing I’m starving,” I grumbled, offering him my arm. “You know how much I love eating my own words.”

  The hostess took Kieran’s name at the entryway, guiding us back to a beautiful blonde woman and a broad-shouldered man. It was immediately clear where Kieran had gotten his good looks from. His good genes were more than just his taste in denim, apparently.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Duncan,” his mother said, offering me her hand. I considered playing up the charm, kissing her fingertips and giving her one of my infamous grins. But I could feel her eyes boring into me, taking inventory of everything I was and, I
felt, immediately determining that she hated it. “We’ve heard absolutely nothing about you.”

  Ouch. So Kieran hadn’t exactly written home about me, then. I immediately thought better of my original tactic and shook her hand firmly instead, then offered my hand to Kieran’s father, who barely acknowledged my presence at all beyond a disinterested glance.

  “Not a cut of steak above twelve ounces,” he scoffed, staring down at his menu like it had just delivered him a death threat. “Guess that’s what happens when you leave Houston.”

  I glanced over at Kieran, looking for guidance, but he merely smirked as he slid into his seat.

  “Duncan, meet Mom and Dad. You can call them Michelle and Phil, if it helps.”

  “It does,” I said levelly, even though it didn’t. Just based on the thirty seconds of interaction I’d had with Kieran’s parents so far, I had a feeling that the only thing that was going to help me through the evening would be a stiff drink.

  “Can I get you folks our beer menu?” a golden-haired waitress asked, showing up at our table like an angel with a gap-toothed grin.

  “Water,” Michelle and Phil said simultaneously, not even looking at the poor girl.

  I watched her face fall as she turned to Kieran and I.

  “Water’s fine,” I assured her.

  Kieran laughed, giving her an apologetic smile. “I’ll have the biggest glass of cider you’re allowed to give me, and keep them coming.”

  The silence that followed was the heavy kind that sat across my shoulders like the yolk of a guillotine. I didn’t know whether to beg for mercy or just let the blade drop—which, given the atmosphere, would be a mercy of its own kind.

  “So, Michelle,” I started instead, deciding that she was the more personable of the two—if just barely. “What do you do for a living?”