by M. J. O'Shea
Remy figured neither one of them were especially in the mood for finesse. “I’m good with either. Your choice.”
Joe grinned. “I like how that sounds.”
After that there wasn’t much talking. Just skin and sweat and fingers and then Joe sliding into him hot and thick. Remy grunted at the fullness. It was exactly what he wanted.
“Fuck.” He scraped his fingernails down Joe’s back.
“Yeah,” Joe rasped. “I think that’s a perfect idea.”
Remy hadn’t felt so full in months. Joe might be one hot night soon to be forgotten, but he fit Remy perfectly, all the way down to the last groaning moment.
They fell apart, panting into the air-conditioned night. Remy lay still for a few minutes, then started to sit up and get dressed, but Joe put a hand on his arm. “You can stay. I’d like it.”
“Yeah?” That wasn’t typical protocol for the bar hookup. Remy didn’t mind, though. “You’re not, like, a serial killer, are you?”
Joe laughed. “Not that I know of. I’ll let you know if I get any of those urges in the middle of the night.”
“’Kay.” Remy was sleepy, and he’d probably wake his grandmother, let alone Grace, if he slipped into the house right now. The last thing he needed was either one of them on his case about where he’d been. Remy fell back against the pillow and passed out.
* * *
Joe Fitzgerald wasn’t hungover. He hadn’t had enough to drink the night before to even come close. But he was hot already, and sore, and he had a headache like he’d had too much to drink, so maybe he was hungover. However that had happened. He rolled over and flopped his arm across rumpled sheets. He smiled. At least he’d had a good welcome to the city of eternal hot-and-swampy. Joe looked around for a phone number, but he didn’t see one. Probably best that way. He had work to concentrate on. Didn’t have time for gorgeous hipstery types with big, dark eyes and long, sexy hair to pull. Still, it was damn hot. Not gonna lie.
He got up and dragged his sore ass to the shower. He should’ve known better than to stay up half the night fucking before an important meeting. It was worth it, though. Who knew when he’d have time for another night like that after the deal got rolling. He shampooed his hair and got dressed in business causal—J. Crew slacks and a black Banana Republic polo because they were cut to fit him perfectly. Wouldn’t want to intimidate the property owners with a three-piece suit. Besides, if the previous afternoon was anything to judge by, he’d be walking out into a veritable hot tub anyway. No point in ruining a two thousand dollar suit by sweating all over it if he didn’t have to.
He stepped outside his building to exactly what he’d expected. A hot wall of humidity. It made it hard to draw a breath, and when he did Joe didn’t exactly like what he encountered. Unlike the fresh, salty air of Venice Beach, threaded with waffle cones and sunscreen and car exhaust, it smelled like… weird. Some odd mix of old and stagnant, alcohol and seasonings, and some tang far too pungent for him. Joe made a face and looked up and down his block. He would kill for some caffeine.
“What are the chances there’s gonna be a Starbucks around here?” he muttered.
It turned out the answer was that chances weren’t good. And he was going to be late if he kept looking for somewhere, anywhere, that served some decent coffee. Instead, he got out his phone’s GPS and plunked in the address for Lumiere. He knew it wasn’t far. He just had to get there before his skin steamed right off.
Good thing the French Quarter was tiny compared to the urban sprawl of Los Angeles or even Atlanta. He was still sweating by the time he got there—pitting in his damn polo probably. At least it was black. Joe liked to feel ready for meetings. Not flustered and hot and in desperate need of coffee.
There were three men in the darkened dining room, two facing him, the other sitting with his back to the door, waiting for Joe amid antique Southern charm and dim, scattered lights. He had to say he understood the appeal of Lumiere as it stood. To a point. Didn’t matter. Joe had work to do.
“Good morning, I’m Joe Fitzgerald. From Pineapple Joe’s.”
* * *
All three stood and pushed their chairs away from the table. The one facing the back wall turned and fuck, fuck of fucking course. Remy. From last night. Remy, whose eyes were no longer sleepy and fucked out but laser-sharp and angry. Fantastic. Joe cocked his head to the side and gave Remy an ironic smile.
“Ready to get started?”
