Owen stares. His heart is beating rapidly in his chest and he has a feeling Luther can hear it. What’s strange is how little he seems to care.
“The menorah’s for me,” Owen says. It’s not a question, but Luther answers him anyway.
“Duh,” he says, with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. Then Luther reaches up and flicks Owen’s nose, lightly, with his thumb. If it were anybody else, that would piss Owen off. Instead, he tilts his head, leaning in toward Luther until they’re almost within kissing distance.
“And the tree?” Owen asks. His breath tickles Luther’s eyelashes and he watches as Luther closes his eyes and breathes in, deep.
“Lot of trouble to go to if there’s not gonna be anybody else around to enjoy it.”
“You waited,” Owen says, bewildered. “You—why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t you?” Luther counters.
“Point, sir.” Owen reaches for Luther’s chin with one hand and wonders what it says about him that he’s still surprised when Luther doesn’t pull away. Luther makes this noise when Owen kisses him, soft and needy, and Owen lingers over the kiss for far longer than he intends to. Owen kisses Luther until Luther moans, long and deep. Then (and only then) Owen pulls away.
“I—I didn’t get you anything,” he says. Owen’s chest is heaving and it hurts to breathe, but it’s okay, because Luther’s gazing up at him with wide, lust-blown eyes, and he looks—he looks in love. The realization makes Owen’s words stutter and die in his throat.
“Owen.” Luther’s smiling, but Owen could swear he sees a slight sheen of moisture in Luther’s eyes through the mingled glow of the candlelight, and the rising sun that’s slowly turning from red to gold on the horizon. Luther looks amazed, like he can’t quite believe what he’s about to do. Then, he leans forward, standing on his tiptoes to reach Owen’s ear. “All I want for Christmas,” Luther whispers, so soft that Owen can barely hear him, “is you.”
STRANGERS FOR THE NIGHT
T. R. Verten
He awakes with a start—the daily jolt of shit, dinnertime, shit, bath time, shit, bedtime, shit, parenting—but no, they’ve gone to their grandmother’s, where they will stay for the whole weekend—oh, wonderful, glorious, sweet relief—and so flops back down into the pillow to snatch back the quickly unraveling threads of his dreams. An hour or so later, the rumble in his stomach stirs him a second time; he stretches unhurriedly.
As he rubs the tendons of his neck, he gropes his way into the hallway, eyes cloudy with grit. He trips over Michaela’s elaborate Lego castle and knocks over a turret in progress, one of the yellow pieces embedding itself in his bare foot.
The inside of the fridge makes him regret skipping the weekly Trader Joe’s run for sleep. The doors are stocked with low-acid orange juice, Horizon 2%, San Pellegrino, and Reisling Kabinett. The shelves hold cartons of yogurts, unfinished fruit and vegetable purees, prewashed carrot sticks. There is turkey, at least, and the end of a loaf.
He clears away the medical journals cluttering the kitchen table to eat his sandwiches. The bread is too dry, he decides, should have toasted it first. He eats, though, and exchanges texts with Cathy. Yes, she confirms, the kids are fine. Guilt pangs Shawn’s stomach, and he refills the water glass with cold white from the fridge.
He can’t always be there, and hell, he may be a parent, but he has needs, too. That’s what tonight is for, for him, for the itch he has to scratch. It’s early yet. The club scene now comes alive after eleven, crowded with guys from beyond the city limits. Those who will come from the far stretches of the South Side, like he used to, a route he could probably still navigate through a drunken stupor: Jackson local to the green line, an outdoor transfer to the red, back down below the belly of the city, a walk up piss-scented stairs to surface at the lights of the city center.
He could end up at a place with flashing lights and pulsing bass; he can play at being nineteen again. But early, this early on, he opts for a shower. Shawn makes it a scalding hot one because he’s got it all to himself, unlike yesterday morning, and plans his outfit under the steam. A fitted shirt, he decides, to show off his arms. Soapy water sluices down his back and legs. Before he shuts off the taps, he rinses his balls with a cupped hand, and then drips his way into the bedroom. Button-down shirt—without the possibility of spit-up he can wear white, plus it sets off his skin, jeans—no, too casual—trousers are better, a soft charcoal twill. He slides black boxer-briefs up over his narrow hips, puts the rest on. Wallet, keys, phone now dim with no one to text.
He walks five blocks to the red line and sits under a broken heat lamp. The 9:47 train’s delayed by ten minutes, and when it rattles in, his car turns out to be packed with shouting teenagers. Shawn pretends to study the ads for dentists and community colleges while they whoop and shout, hanging off their seats, passing a crumpled water bottle filled with the product of creative siphoning from parental liquor cabinets. They leave, thankfully, at Belmont, leaving him with late-shift hospitality workers and drunks who’ll ride the line to the end. The air outside isn’t much of an improvement from that underground, but he catches a whiff of the thawing lake, the burned smell of tar and stone coughed up by the afternoon’s construction projects. The potholes of winter are being filled in, orange cones directing traffic into one light-clogged lane.
“Evening, sir,” the doorman nods, as he enters the lobby. Shawn tilts his chin in acknowledgment as he unwraps his scarf, shoving it in his pocket. He glides past the foyer, with low-slung seating, artfully arranged single orchids, small groups of women stirring swizzle sticks. Beyond another door dim yellow lights and the seductive clink of glassware beckon. He scans the room, seeing straight couples canoodling in booths. Not the kind of place he’d have picked. The drinks list is printed on translucent rice paper. Shawn has experienced this before, at an outlandishly spendy seventh-anniversary dinner at Alinea. Served with a flourish, the waiter murmured in reverent tones that the menu itself was their amuse-bouche. He shudders at the memory.
“Can I explain the cocktail menu?” a bright-eyed mixologist asks.
“No,” he tells her, as he rubs it between his fingers, swallowing away the remembered taste of glue, “I’d rather you didn’t.” Her eyes narrow, trying to suss him out—hammered, asshole, business traveler, shitty tipper, what? He orders a Crown and Sprite. The first sip jolts his tongue awake, the next spreads warmth down his neck.
“Are you staying at the hotel?” she asks each customer who bellies up to the bar, and he, in turn, flicks his gaze to them, so as to establish his presence without overt interest—a man in dark purple cashmere, who’s working on a laptop and orders a 312, a cute blond glued to a cell phone, who covers the mouthpiece to order vodka, two twentysomethings in sloppy business casual, pastel shirts untucked, who order rum and diet soda and bleat their evening plans to all who will listen. The bartender shares his smile of relief when they’re poured into a taxi by the doorman, away to terrorize the town’s improvisers at the second set.
“Another?” she asks, indicating the empty glass. Shawn nods his assent. She sweeps away the crumpled napkin and salted pistachio shells. He drums his fingers on the bar, keeping tempo with her as she pours, shakes, strains and places a fresh drink before him. He pulls out his phone, resigned to wait as long as it takes. Which, as luck would have it, lasts for only two games of Tetris and a scroll through Twitter. Nothing from Cathy, but he keeps the ringer switched on, just in case.
“Are you staying at the hotel?”
“Yes,” says a crisp voice, “Room 502.”
“I’ll charge it?”
“Thank you.”
Shawn’s attention snaps into place. He looks up from the political bickering of his timeline with relief; here he is, the one he’s been waiting for. That melodious voice belongs to a man of middling height and dark red hair, whose average features cohere like a discordant symphony. Shawn’s fingers clench the slippery stem of his martini glass. Tanqueray and toni
c—he hears him order—lemon, please, not lime.
Shawn drinks him in: his sinful mouth, curved around the lip of his glass, the teasing flick of his pink tongue, as he licks the gin from his upper lip; his slow-spreading smile to the bartender as she hands him his own tiny silver dish of pistachios. He catches Shawn’s eye and holds the stare that beat too long, then walks his drink and his dirty, angelic, dick-sucking face over to a corner table. His tight shirt was a bad idea, he thinks, since sweat is suddenly gathering in his armpits.
Shawn undoes the top two buttons of his shirt, twisting as he does so to watch him walk away, but the seat lies just beyond his range of motion. The windows, fortunately, reflect the man back at him, and he takes full advantage, tracking the quick motions of his hands as he cracks open the nuts, the delicate purse of his lips as he licks salt from his fingers.
He tips, then, with his ass falling off the leather, a graceless flail of limbs and momentary loss of his center, before he grabs the edge of the counter and rights himself. Shawn sits very still and wills himself to look at the counter, the bottles, the bartender, but he can’t help it, he’s too adorable, his mouth is obscene, he would destroy it given half a fucking chance… his breaths come quick and shallow, the drive to look already turning his head once more—
—and Tanqueray has sidled his way over, seeping his way into Shawn’s orbit. Their shoulders brush, electric.
“You look like you could use a drink.” The ice clinks as he fishes out the wedge of lemon and brings it to his lips. Sweat drips down his own glass, which has managed to empty itself once more. The room tilts a fraction and his cheeks grow hot. He could use that mouth on his balls, to start. He could use every piece of this guy, fill every hole he has and then some. Hell, he almost says so. Jesus, he’s old, if two drinks can send him sideways. Shawn blinks, yellow spots pop up behind his eyes. His throat is thick and dry.
“Maybe,” he manages. “I’m getting there. She,” Shawn nods at the bartender, “pours a good cocktail.” Not his best line, but better than sitting there stupid and silent. Those red lips split into a naughty smile. “I’ll have to catch up to you, then—” He signals her for one more.
“Same again?” she asks Shawn.
“Could you get us a bottle of Pellegrino? One more of these,” the redhead says, ice rattling in his empty glass, “and that’s on me.” He turns to Shawn, “I’ve got a table.” Yes, Shawn tries to say, I saw you come in. I was watching. You’re beautiful. I’d very much like to fuck you. What comes out: a garbled: “Yes, I can see that. There you are.”
“You get the glasses.” He picks up his fresh drink and the green bottle; Shawn follows, watching his ass bounce gently in crisply pressed gray dress slacks. The pants follow the curves in the front as well, clinging to lightly muscled thighs and up the inseam…he can almost taste the wool, how it would fuzz up his tongue and suck the moisture from his mouth. Swallowing, he finds he still has spit. Tanqueray breaks the seal on the water and pours.
“These are new trousers,” he tells Shawn. The bubbles tickle his nose. “I’ve been out shopping today.”
“You’re visiting?” Shawn asks, dumbly. God, he’s awful at this.
“Mm. Ducked out of my conference and went to Saks. It’s naughty, I know.”
“Oh?” For eleven years he’s been out of practice with pickups, the flirting and innuendo, but he clears his throat nonetheless. “They’re very nice, it’s—erm, shit—you look nice.”
“Nice?” He tuts into his drink. “Not quite the reaction I was hoping for when I bought them, but I’ll take what’s on offer.”
Shawn can do this, he’s danced these steps before. All he has to do is remember how. “I mean, the pants are—good. They look tailored. Expensive?”
Oh, that’s totally the wrong thing to say, they’ve only just met, they’re strangers, they don’t share a bank account and fight over money, but the other man smiles all the same.
“Very,” he replies, mouth curving upward. He then lobs another question over, his a smooth backhand in contrast to Shawn’s own clumsy, unpracticed strokes. “Do they suit me, do you think?”
A hint of a smile plays around his lips. Surely he can see how Shawn’s affected by him, drawn like metal to a magnet. Do they, fuck. His voice prickles the back of Shawn’s neck. When he speaks again, his own voice wells up thick in his throat, alien to his own ears.
“I’d have to take a closer look,” he says, “to be absolutely sure.” Gaining confidence from the other man’s rising blush, he continues, making the words gravelly and intimate. “I didn’t see much, but those pants, however much they may have cost”—the stranger’s eyebrows go up at the mention of money—“they are worth every single cent.”
“Yes,” the man breathes out with a happy sigh, “I was hoping you’d think so.”
Glass emptied, Shawn reaches across the table to touch him, rubbing tiny circles into his wrist with his thumb. The stranger bites his lower lip, and Shawn wants to take it between his own teeth to taste the blood and feel the sting. The man clears his throat and says, “I saw you looking, before. When you were sitting alone. At the bar.”
His heartbeat flutters beneath Shawn’s touch, thready and quick. “And?” Shawn bends his head to press his mouth against his pulse point. Words, he can’t master, but the touch is doing the trick.
His lips part, “And I think you need to go get your credit card back,” he answers, “because I’m holding you to that promise.”
“You said you’ve got a room?” the point of Shawn’s tongue flicks out, cleaning away the salt on his skin.
“Upstairs,” he says, eyes half-shut in drowsy pleasure; it’s late for them both. “Do you want to come see it?” As if this hotel could be all that different from any other, with its luggage racks and industrial towels, miniature bottles of booze and shampoo, cheaply framed art depicting local scenery.
“If you’ll let me,” he says, teeth grazing the fleshy meat of his thumb. The other man stands quickly on shaky legs. Shawn’s face is nearly level with his groin, and the pants are so tight, the outline of his cock is already noticeable. He looks around, checking that they won’t be seen, and then cups the other man’s crotch appreciatively.
“I really want to see what’s underneath”—he tugs on the pants leg—“these.” With one finger he traces the stiffening curve of his cock, a soft swell in the fine, silky fabric. Shawn is fairly sure he’s not wearing any underwear, and he licks his lips, meaningfully, trailing his fingers down the other man’s quadricep. The muscle twitches there, too, the nerves electric. His thighs are wonderfully sensitive, even with the barrier of cloth between probing hand and bare skin. Shawn wants to seal his mouth over the bulge and lick the expensive wool until it’s sodden with his own spit.
“We don’t have to go upstairs,” he says softly, making every word count. “I could take you in my mouth right here, right now.” The man flushes even more deeply, his breath coming fast and ragged, face twisted up with shameful pleasure. He delivers his words to the expensive gray fabric, whose exorbitant cost is now forgiven because of the way it so beautifully gives away every twitch and flex of the hard cock beneath. He continues, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? For everyone to see how you are, all these people watching you come apart, watching me suck your cock?”
The tug on his hand yanks him up from the booth, and Shawn chuckles as the man walks to the doorway sideways and stiff-legged, hiding his hard-on behind a hibiscus topiary, as he signs the tab and avoids the curious gaze of the bartender. Then together they begin the long journey from bar to lobby to bedroom.
“You fucker,” the man says, once they are alone in the elevator, with only the security guards watching on their basement monitor, “you absolute fucking bas—” Shawn swallows the words, and the kiss floods his mouth with the herbal tang of gin, and the sweetness of his mewl, the slam of his hand atop the stranger’s, pinning him to the wall. “Tsk,” he says, at the swearing. “You want me
to put my cock in you?” Shawn asks, cupping his buttocks with his free hand. The man wriggles in his grasp.
Already he is panting, a flush painting his cheeks, his mouth red and kiss-swollen. Shawn, tongue loosened with alcohol and want, is suddenly on a roll with the dirty talk; the guy fucking loves it, so he continues, “You like that? The idea of me fucking you”—for a moment he hesitates, since they haven’t exchanged names, have simply been thrown by chance into the delirious momentum of an anonymous hotel fuck, but he has to call him something, right, something besides Lips or Pants or Tanqueray, so he tacks on—“baby?”
“God, yes.” He shudders when Shawn’s teeth catch his earlobe. “Want it, all of it, all of you.”
“Course you do,” he growls as he palms that perfect ass, hitching the man’s leg around him. The movement draws the new pants tight around slimly muscled thighs. His own cock clamors for more attention, but his hands are busy grabbing fistfuls of tight ass. With their tongues pressed together, Shawn grinds his hips down at the same time.
The door pings on the fifth floor, sliding open with a swish. They tumble forward into the hallway. Ten paces past the foyer he sweeps the stranger up in a wet, filthy kiss. He wriggles away and veers left. “This way,” he says, blue eyes gone dark.
Shawn walks stiff-legged himself now, as he trails his prey down the still corridors. His lips seek the stranger’s once more as they sneak past the ice machine. He stands a head shorter than Shawn, and when they kiss, he lifts onto his toes, the better to fit their mouths together. His mouth trails below his jaw, a slick motion that earns a heated gasp. God, the sounds he makes when Shawn pulls on his hair, red silky strands that slip between his fingers.
“Has it been that long?” he whispers to the sensitive spot that sits right behind his ear, “because you’re practically begging me to fuck you here in the hallway.” Shawn seals the indecent words with a lick from ear to neck, as the green light flashes, and together they stumble forward into the room.
Take This Man Page 4
