Taking You Home

by Cooper Davis

  I clasp his hips, tugging him close by the waistband. “Baby, can you breathe? ’Cause I don’t want you passing out on me or anything. Blood supply is critical for some of my favorite parts down there.”

  He plants one hand on his hip indignantly. “Excuse me?”

  I burst into a roll of laughter. “Oh, shit, Max. You look ridiculous when you flame like that!”

  He swats at me with his white T-shirt, popping my arm hard, so I yank the damned thing right out of his hand. He lunges at me, but I bounce away from him on the balls of my feet, playing keep away.

  “So what’s this?” I dangle the shirt over my head like a stolen basketball. “The tightest shirt this side of San Francisco?”

  Max strains to grab it out of my hand, reaching for it, but my height advantage makes it impossible for him to succeed.

  “Give it back.” He scowls at me, all testy, and that flat turns me on.

  “No way in hell.” I hide the thing behind my back as he grabs at it unsuccessfully. “So you’re dressing all the way out tonight?” I am definitely getting the picture of the kind of party he has planned for me.

  He reaches over my head again, slightly winded. “Maybe,” he admits, as I pull him close into my arms, and suddenly find myself pressed chest to chest with him. Well, with him and those damned tight jeans.

  “You’re looking very sweet,” I murmur in his ear, as I run my hands all over his bare back. “You’ve been working hard in the weight room too.”

  He only laughs like a coquette, holding me close, so I say, “Yeah, you’re laughing, but it’s no joke how hot you’re looking there, Maxwell.”

  “I’m getting married. I’m supposed to look beautiful.” Beautiful. That seems an appropriate description for my blushing groom-to-be.

  “Well you damn sure do.”

  “Good,” he says, and then he’s laid hold of that shirt. Ripped it right out of my hands, and he kind of pirouettes away from me in victory.

  “Hey, no fair!” I chase him across the bedroom, and he stops long enough to give me a frisky gaze, as he slips it over his head, sliding right into the clingy thing.

  “Tough break, Willis.”

  No fucking joke. I’m supposed to stare at that all night long without jumping his ass? Yeah, right. Somebody give me a time machine—fast forward about ten days, would you please?

  Wedding night sounds great right about now, thank you very much.

  Turns out I was right: We’ve hit clubland full stride, with the gaytraders and even Bruno the pickup basketball player in tow. I ignore the momentary pang of jealousy I feel, thinking about Bruno having stolen Max’s first gay kiss. Kind of wish it’d been me, but hell, I got the rest and that’s all that matters. Besides, without Bruno neither of us might be here tonight, so I owe him a bow of gratitude for Max’s initiation into the queer nation.

  First thing I do when we enter the club is grab myself a beer; that and wonder what Max has planned. After all, he brought me here blindfolded, with the promise that it was going to be “one hell of a night to remember”. God, I love him. That’s what I’m thinking with a dopey smile while I wait for the bartender to notice my existence. I never feel quite so straight anymore as I do standing at this club, surrounded by other gays. Not sure why exactly, but something about this place makes me feel really macho.

  I am curious why our straight friends are absent from the event, but don’t question Max since he’s in charge tonight. Maybe he figured they’d be weirded out or something, even though that makes no sense. Louisa and Veronica have always loved clubbing, straight or no, so long as the dancing is good. Besides, they’ve made their acceptance of our lifestyle undeniably clear, so has Ben.

  The bartender hands me my beer with a wink and a thank you for the generous tip. That’s when I spot Maxwell and can hardly believe my eyes. He’s snaking his way out of that shirt, tugging the damned thing right over his head, so that he stands in front of this whole crowd of strangers practically naked. I can’t even say a thing, just point at him, working my mouth.

  He laughs, giving a modest glance downward. Beautiful, perfect, no question about it, and definitely no need for modesty on his part, either. He’s got the body, no wonder he’d want to flaunt it.

  But I can’t believe he’s actually going for the shirtless thing. I mean, I’ve seen it countless times in the clubs. Gorgeous guys strip out of their shirts to show off their bodies, but those guys are usually looking for it, aren’t they? Or maybe they’ve just been flirting all along and somehow I missed that point.

  Maxwell tosses me an alluring gaze, reaching for my hand, and I know he’s leading me straight into pure temptation, right out on that dance floor.

  Max knows from experience that I’m not too keen on dancing at this place. It’s one thing to hold him in my arms when it’s just us, when it inevitably leads to so much more than an embrace. It’s another thing altogether to pump and grind with him out in the open. Something about that always makes me feel like an oaf, a little self-conscious, too. Like I’m really pushing the envelope of my sexual orientation or something.

  So usually I lurk by the bar or stick around upstairs watching the show. The show that has always included hundreds upon hundreds of half-naked gay men, pummeling their bodies to house music, and it never once occurred to me that my exhibitionist lover might want to join their ranks.

  Until now, when he’s ditched that T-shirt of his, so he’s part of the tribe. My heart is in my throat as he leads me onto the crowded floor, shouldering his way into the writhing masses.

  At last he turns to me and slips one thigh between my legs, stepping inward. For a moment, he stares up at me, a question forming on his face. I’m not entirely sure what he’s asking, maybe if I’ll go as far as he’s obviously willing to lead. Not sure at all, but I nod slightly. He knows I’ve acquiesced, because his smile broadens; he presses inward, sliding together with me.

  Then, just like that, it’s happening. Some kind of vortex opens, swallowing us whole and I’m spinning right into my lover. Into our moment, together.

  Our hips lock fast, and there’s nothing separating us except noise and heat and sweat, as we start to grind to the droning beat. It hardly matters that we’re in a crowd; there’s only Max pushing against me, his thighs, his groin. I’m hard as they get, baby. He slips his palms onto my hips and draws me even tighter against him, right as he launches into an amazing gyration of rhythm.

  That lovely bare chest shimmers beneath the flashing lights like something primal. He’s my very own tribal dancer, pushed close against me amidst hundreds of strangers. His eyes drift shut for a moment, as he raises his hands high like an offering. Shimmying, he separates a bit, our hips drift apart. This time it’s me who reaches, drawing him back.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” I growl in his ear, and he laughs sexily, pushing in close again. Thrusting a bit, we disguise it as dance while our bodies slide and gyrate. We’re pressed hip to hip, abdomen to abdomen. My hands rove all over his velvet chest, touching, claiming. God help me, if one of these other shirtless boys try to make a move on him, I’ll kick their ass.

  More grinding of our hips, more flailing of arms and bodies as we pulse with the music. His hands wander all over my thighs, upward onto my waist, urging me into a pounding rhythm. Right here on the dance floor, and nobody gives a shit. Still, I glance around self-consciously, and Max leans in close against my cheek. His breath is warm, familiar.

  “There’s only us,” he assures me.

  “And a thousand other people,” I shout back into his ear.

  “Like I said,” he laughs, lifting his arms again with a beguiling look. “Just us.”

  For a moment, my own eyes drift closed, as I feel the rhythm. Our rhythm, pounding out between us. I’m startled when a draft of cool air hits my chest, and even more so to realize that Max is carefully unbuttoning my flannel
shirt.

  “No,” I insist, shaking my head as I cover his hands with my own. He thrusts his hips faster, moving his hardened cock against mine. Making me aware of how blatantly he’s aroused.

  I can’t breathe. I swear to God, I simply can’t. Maybe that’s why I don’t fight my lover, as he slowly unbuttons my shirt, until it falls open. A frigid waft of air conditioning causes my nipples to grow taut; he keeps rocking and grinding, drawing the shirt off of my shoulders.

  He’s undressing me, that’s what my lover’s doing. Anyone can see. As if anyone really cares.

  With a slow, wicked grin, he hands the shirt to me, leaning to shout in my ear, “Tie it around your waist.” He points at his own T-shirt, looped over his belt and dangling down his back.

  With an awkward, frantic gesture, I secure the shirt around my hips. Glancing downward, I’m dismayed by how strongly I resemble some Seattle grunge refugee. Again, Max leans close, his breath fanning my cheek as he teases, “I always had a hard-on for Kurt Cobain.”

  I just roll my eyes, and say, “Shit, man. Courtney was the hot one.”

  We rock and thrust; we step apart and slide that floor. Then we spin right back together again, and I hold him fast against my body. Cradling our hips together as we make our need clear to one another.

  “Baby,” I gasp, fighting for air as he runs his fingertips over my chest silkily. His eyes have narrowed and I know that bedroom gaze. For a fleeting moment, I actually think of dragging him off to some dark corner, and glance around.

  I think he knows my thoughts, because he throws his head back with a wild peel of laughter. Those muscular arms fly overhead, as he spins a wicked little turn.

  His motions catapult him backward from me, and I’m left grasping for his slender, alluring body. But with one quick glance that explains everything, he’s gone. Swept away in that whirlwind of movement, then suddenly paired with someone else. Okay, I feel jealousy choking me like thick bile. I’m fighting it, beating it back as that stranger presses in close with my baby and they begin a quick dance movement of their own.

  He’s mine, goddamn it. What the hell is going on?

  But then someone’s in my own space, shoving inward, making a move. Oh my God. I’m being hit on by a strapping, great-looking guy! Someone other than Max. I hardly get a look at him because I just keep staring toward the floor, watching the way our hips kind of push and move. I’m entranced by our motion; most especially that I’m dancing so boldly with a stranger. That I’m this gay. Except—I’m getting married in less than a week. Doesn’t get any fucking weirder than this.

  With that thought, finally I look up, and in the flashing neon meet the stranger’s gaze. Only he’s not a stranger. My dance partner laughs at the obvious recognition on my face, and leans in close to say, “What do you know, huh? It’s never the ones you expect.”

  I’m speechless, because it’s Robert from swing gang down at Universal. Holy shit.

  “I had no idea,” I manage back in his ear, over the sound, looking around desperately for Maxwell. I see his dark head bobbing in a sea of bodies, and it looks like he’s moved on to dance with someone else, the little fucker.

  “Me neither.” He’s laughing while moving in closer until we’re barely separate at all.

  “I’m with somebody,” I shout, kind of gesturing in Max’s direction. Robert doesn’t even bother to follow my gaze.

  “Kurt or Courtney?” he jabs, tugging on my flannel shirt with a lopsided grin.

  “I’m with my boyfriend.”

  He just cocks a curious eyebrow, his gaze roving across my bare-chested state, and I blush a thousand shades of red. “Well, isn’t he the lucky fellow?”

  I clarify, “This is my bachelor party.” It only gets me more wide-eyed curiosity, and I curse myself for the four or more beers I’ve already tossed back. “Commitment ceremony next week,” I grunt in his ear, by way of explanation.

  “Well, are you boys into the free thing? You know, open relationship? ’Cause if you are, then maybe we could…”

  I cut him off with a bitter scowl. “Just dance, for crying out loud.”

  He laughs at my grumbling, shaking his head. “I’ll remember this Monday morning, Willis! Down at the studio.”

  “Well guess what, Roberto?” I lean in close, exaggerating my hip motion for effect. “So will I, man.”

  But somehow, on a really weird level, this is insanely gratifying. To just know that I’m attractive to other guys—hell to guys I work with, apparently. Even as Robert and I are kind of thrusting and swimming along with a thousand other sex-crazed dancers, I realize this is important. It’s like a Grade A stamp of approval on my queerness.

  Maxwell is the shit for knowing to do this. I am marrying a guy who is literally, completely and totally the shit. Go, Me! I have excellent taste in husbands.

  A thousand tribal beats later, Max finds me again. He’s damp from his exertions out on the dance floor, and grinning like a besotted fool. “You’re amazing,” he pants in my ear, wiping at his brow.

  “How’s that?” I ask with an aloof shrug. I’m trying to look pissy and sullen because he left me on my own, when really I can’t believe how sexy he looks. His face is flushed, his dark curls clinging to the nape of his neck. Kind of like he’s been doing something else entirely.

  “The way you opened up to all that. Just dove in and totally went for it.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I complain with a reluctant grin, as he kisses me on the lips. His warm hand grazes my cheek, drawing me much closer.

  “I love how open you are. To things with me.”

  My eyes narrow on instinct. “You’re buttering me up.”

  “We’re not done for the night.”

  “How come I knew you’d say that?”

  Brian suddenly appears, slinging an arm over my bare shoulder. “Hunter, ole boy, the best is yet to come. At least as far as you’ll be concerned.”

  Then Max, Brian, Peter and Bruno have formed a knot around me and it seems they’re all just howling with laughter. At my expense. I don’t know what’s so damned funny, but there’s an adorable twinkle in Maxwell’s eyes that makes me feel safe. Especially when Brian claps my shoulder, saying, “Come on, buddy. Time for the blindfold again!”

  Then Max shoves a clean white T-shirt into my hand. “But first you need to put this on.”

  I unfurl it, and read the silver, glittery words embossed across the front: I’m not gay, but my boyfriend is!

  “Oh, fucking great,” I manage, as I tug the shirt over my head. The damned thing must be at least two sizes too small, pulling at my biceps and chest. Max gives me a knowing glance, cocking one eyebrow as he strokes my upper arm in appreciation.

  “Perfect. Just the right size.”

  With that pronouncement, the silken black scarf goes back over my eyes again. God only knows what Maxwell has planned next.

  Somehow, I can’t help but wonder if the night won’t be swinging more toward the bachelor side of things, considering how he’s just branded me with that T-shirt.

  Turns out, I had no idea just how right I was.

  That is, not until they shuffle me out of Brian’s SUV and my boots hit pavement with a scuffling thud. Then the blindfold is peeled away, and I see a curving neon figure displayed on a marquis. Girls, girls, girls! We’re talking Bada Bing all the way, not Louisa or Marilyn wannabes at all.

  “What the hell?” I ask, turning to Max, who just grins like a Cheshire cat.

  “Bachelor party, Hunter.” He shares a quick glance with Brian, then his gaze cuts back to me.

  I start shaking my head in instant protest. “Maxwell, I don’t know about this,” I say, brushing anxiously at my hair. Never thought I’d see the day when a strip club would make me unsettled, but somehow this feels weird. You know, coming to a girly club with my gay lover.

  M
ax doesn’t miss a beat, though, as he slips his arm around me, and draws me close. “Hunter, this is for you. A last night out thing before our wedding.”

  “I’m queer now,” I blurt defensively. “This isn’t my deal anymore.”

  Before Max can answer, I see several familiar faces emerging from the parking lot. Veronica lets loose a high-pitched whistle as she sails to my side. “Hellooo, boys!” she bellows in her best Mae West imitation. “Ready to have some fun?”

  “Ah, shit!” I announce. “This is like a total setup.”

  “You bet it is!” Veronica laughs, flinging her arms around my neck. “Love the shirt, Willis.” She tugs on the hem, and it barely springs back at all it’s so skin tight. This wins me a dramatic wink, as she teases, “Just in case they didn’t believe what it says, huh?”

  “I hate you,” I grunt at Maxwell, but he’s too busy sweeping Louisa into his arms for a tender hug. “And you two? You’re both straight, okay!” I shout, gesturing at them. “You just need to go have wild sex, make babies, and get it over with already.” They turn to me, a little surprised, still clinched in one another’s arms, as I add, “Maxwell Daniels is straight as folk, people! He’s straight! And I’m outing him right now!”

  Every last one of our friends howls with laughter, and for a long moment I stare indignantly. I mean, I meant it to be funny, but I really was a little worked up and jealous, too.

  Then Louisa skips to my side, and sweeps me into her small arms for a hug, pressing her face close against my shoulder. She smells like the earth, natural and sweet, and I sense how much she loves me. It’s not just Maxwell anymore; I’m really important to Louisa Carter, too. Unbelievable.

  “You do realize that I’ve seen him in a Ninja Turtle bathing suit, right?” Louisa laughs, still holding me. “In the long run, that does make sex slightly problematic.”

  I have this bizarre flash of our honeymoon, and Maxwell appearing poolside dressed just that way.

  “Got a point there, Carter. Kind of a strong visual.”

  “Stronger than you can probably imagine.” She giggles, stepping apart and grinning at Max.