by Daryl Banner
“So you hear. Two minutes.”
“Two and a half actually, according to my iPhone. Gotta pee. Hold my seat.”
As Elijah gets up to go, I call after him, “Better not take longer than two and a half minutes!” But the words are lost to the storm of loud, hypnotic music and screaming chatter already washing over the room.
I push away my watered-down Coke and continue staring through the crowd, wondering if I’ll find that man again. When I finally manage to get a view of the table he was standing at, however, I find it sadly unoccupied.
I slouch, deflated. He left. Maybe he was actually staring at a girl near me before. Or he was lost in a thought and wasn’t even looking my way at all, staring off into space. Or some hotter guy or gal snatched him up while I sat over here discussing minutes.
I shouldn’t be discouraged. It’s not like I had an actual shot anyway. I’m not seriously considering Elijah’s advice of hooking up with someone here. What he doesn’t realize is that I’m not the casual-sex kind of guy.
In fact, I’ve never even had serious-sex before.
Like, at all.
That may seem a bit hard to believe, considering I’m twenty, have three years of college under my belt, and while my looks may not rival a six-foot-four beauty on the runway, I’m certainly not the least attractive guy in the room.
I crane my neck once more, searching the club for the man in the sexy suit. Again, my search is in vain.
I can’t even begin to think about what would happen if a man like that actually approached me, told me I was hot, and had his way with me. How would I react? Would I seriously tell him, “No thanks, Captain Dreamy. See, I have this big important finally-meet-my-boss thing Monday morning and totally need to keep a clear mind for it. You were going to fulfill my every fantasy? Oh, well, thanks, but no thanks. The only thing I fantasize about are studies on whether social media compromises the very fabric of our humanity.”
No. I wouldn’t tell him any of that. I’d likely not be able to say a damned thing as he took my body and pulled it up against his.
Oh, that’s a nice image. I chuckle to myself, my thighs pulling together as I feel blood rushing below. Let’s think of another.
Wish granted. I’m choked for words as I imagine him standing over me, commanding my attention. He’d have every ounce of it. Statistics and staples and bewitched copiers would fall right out of my mind, replaced by a throbbing in my fast-tightening pants and a desperate, hungry need for my hands to be all over his body—and for his hands to be all over mine.
He has to have strong hands to match those bulging biceps.
I cross my legs suddenly. I’m getting so stupidly hard just thinking about what those muscles might feel like beneath my gripping fingers. I wonder what the meat of his body would sound like if I were to push him against the brick wall over there.
No, scratch that; he’d be the one doing all of the pushing into brick walls. Definitely him.
I close my eyes, the noise of the nightclub far, far away as I imagine my hands on his chest, sliding down his rippling abs. Let’s face it: Mr. Hot Stuff definitely has rippling abs to go with that huge chest. And in my dream, I can put my hands anywhere I want.
Even in his pants.
I bite my lip, my crossed legs squeezing harder to conceal my throbbing, aching boner.
Then at once, I flip open my eyes. What the hell am I doing? Am I really this pent up that I’m going to sit here in the middle of a bar and fantasize about some random guy who might or might not have been staring at me across the crowded room?
Maybe Elijah is right. Maybe I really do need to get laid.
But not tonight. I lift my chin, take a deep breath, and try to coax my furiously cramped hard-on to go away.
No hot man with muscles in a bar, nightclub, or anywhere for that matter is going to distract me from my goal. That includes the dumb, sexy boys at the office, none of whom like me, I’m quite convinced. And they don’t have to like me, I’ve also decided. I’m there for only one person: Mr. Gage. He’s the only one who matters. Not my coworkers. Not Elijah and his quipping. Not even our immediate supervisor Rebekah.
And not a hot guy in a bar. I’ve worked too hard and for too long to be addled by some muscled man in a tight suit who’s giving me tight situations in my pants. That’s a fact.
“Were you looking for me?”
I turn at the sound of that deep, sultry voice right behind me, and my eyes fall on a beautiful man.
It’s him. The man. From across the room.
Yes, I’m still hard as a rock. And now I’m getting harder. He’s twenty times more gorgeous this close-up. Oh my gay gods. Now my fantasy has relocated to right in front of me, and for a countless amount of excruciating seconds, I can’t say a damned word.
And then …
4
Benjamin has his eye on the prize.
“E-Excuse me?” the boy squeaks.
I hide a smirk of amusement. This kid just might be the cutest damned guy I’ve ever seen at this bar, and I’ve been here so many times, I can’t count. He’s got this cute, slightly upturned nose, and lips that are frustratingly kissable. I say “frustratingly” because I’m fighting a nagging doubt that this guy, in fact, wasn’t looking at me, and maybe he’s yet another one of those hot dorky straight guys I keep going after.
But from the panic my mere presence just struck in his eyes, I think I might be talking to my sure-thing midnight snack.
I repeat myself. “I asked if you were looking for me.”
He seems to have trouble speaking, which surprises me, since he seemed so confident sitting here at the bar by himself. It’s kind of adorable, how instantly flustered I’ve made this kid. He’s got dirty blond hair, a sexy little body, and a mouth I’m pretty sure can take every inch of my cock. He’s simply perfect.
He’s gonna need to take a lot of inches, by the way.
Fuck, I’m gonna peel you like a sweet, ripe, tasty banana.
“You … were staring at me,” he insists with an annoyed crease of his brow, his voice like liquid silk and cream.
I keep my face strong as I appraise the package that is this kid, my gaze severe and my expression hard. “Is that so?” I love toying with him. He’s so easily ruffled; I can tell. “I’m not so sure.”
“Well, I am,” he chokes out, a delayed response, but there’s a touch more assertiveness about it.
This kid is stubborn. I’m pretty sure that means he’s going to be a cum rocket and a few attitude grenades in the bedroom, which is the exact brand of hot I need after the week I’ve had.
I tilt my head and prop an elbow on the bar, letting my mere presence overwhelm him. “So what’re you doing over here all by yourself?”
He lifts his chin. “Having a drink,” he answers firmly. “As you can clearly see for yourself,” he adds, then his eyes go wide and he looks away, as if his own words just scared him.
Now he’s blushing five times worse than he was when I first approached him. I love this game he’s trying to play with me.
I clear my throat. “Let me get you another. What is it you’re having? Jack and Coke? Rum and Coke?”
He presses his lips together tight and clasps his glass like it’s about to grow legs and run away from him. “Just Coke,” he finally confesses, trying (and failing hard) to act all cool and flippant, “and I don’t need another. In fact, I … was just about to leave.”
He fidgets, his legs nearly squirming.
He turns his head away, but not completely.
I smirk knowingly. This kid is so into me, I have no doubt now. I can tell he’s concealing a boner. I swear, if he squeezes his thighs together any tighter, he’s going to turn his cock into a diamond.
“So no drink?” I fish one last time.
He doesn’t look at me, forcing himself to stare at the ceiling. “Nope.”
Hard to get is a game I know well when it’s played by cuties like this one. And it’s a game two can p
lay. “Alright, no prob.” I let my gaze drop to his lap, give him time to notice, then flick my eyes back up to meet his, my forehead wrinkling innocently. “I hope you find what you’re looking for tonight, stud. Excuse me while I go … lick my wounds.”
He parts his lips as if to say something, then freezes. I don’t give him another chance. Turning, I saunter off to a table near the door where it’s a little less damaging to the ears, then claim a seat and stare at my phone. There’s two messages sitting there from Rebekah, but I ignore them, as I’m not really paying attention to the phone; I’m paying attention to whether or not my little ploy is going to work. When you play hard to get, you need complete and utter focus. To be fair, this game of mine has backfired before.
A shadow covers my screen. I look up.
There he is.
He folds his arms. “So you’re gonna leave? Just like that?”
“Do you see me leaving?” I counter.
He bites the inside of his cheek and stares me down. Then he says, “I don’t see you licking any wounds.”
“I’m a fast licker,” I quip back.
The joke doesn’t land. In fact, his crossed arms tighten and he looks off, as if searching for someone. Then, surprisingly, I see a genuine desire in his eyes to get the hell out of here. His whole face and body is tensed with discomfort. Why didn’t I let myself see it sooner? Maybe I was too busy entertaining the dirty thoughts wrestling through the bed sheets of my mind.
He isn’t like the typical cutie who churns through this place. He’s a fish out of his fresh water pond, and he’s drowning in air. The look in his eyes strikes me, reminding me of the first time I ever went to a club. It was long before I started working out, long before the tattoos, and long before the success of my company. I remember how terrified I was. I remember the constant feeling that I didn’t belong, that I should go home, that I wasn’t gay enough or hot enough or naked enough. Every single guy I looked at would turn away like I was nothing, and I hated them all for it—all those elitist queens who wouldn’t give me the time of day.
Am I doing that to this guy?
Am I now one of the elitist queens?
As fast as I see that glint of discomfort in him, I’m on my feet. “It’s really loud in here.”
My voice pulls his focus back to me. “Oh? Is that so? Nice observation. Next you’ll tell me it’s sweaty and smells like straight sex everywhere.”
I fight the laughter in my chest. This boy’s got a lip, and I love it. “You want to go somewhere quieter?”
His expression changes, softening.
He seems hesitant, perhaps weighing it over in his mind. He looks off toward the bar, fidgeting, then glances down at his phone. Just when I’m about to say something else, he looks up suddenly and blurts, “Yeah. Y-Yes. Let’s … get out of this place.”
Just what I wanted to hear.
5
Trevor is totally not freaking out.
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.
I have to pay very careful attention to where I step. The last thing I want to do is trip over my own foot in front of this hot, gorgeous man who radiates with strength and control. Leave it to me to be the only one in that bar who wasn’t drinking—and then eats concrete on his way out.
“You a coffee guy?” he asks me. “Want to grab a coffee?”
No, I’m not. It makes me jumpy. But this man is definitely the takes-his-coffee-black type, and maybe I feel like I should match him somehow, like a competition. Do all dates in the gay world feel like emotional arm wrestling? I would be surprised if he didn’t hack a log in half every morning before he eats breakfast.
I give him one quick, nervous nod, my lips pressed together.
Apparently I can’t talk.
“Sounds good.” His voice is so deep and sexy. Every single word of his literally feels like it’s pulling on my balls, which is not helping the still-semi-hard situation in my pants. “One of my favorite coffee spots is just up the street.”
I return a tight smile, then glance down at my phone. Elijah’s last text is still sitting there. It’s just a thumbs-up emoji with a bunch of drooling faces and then an eggplant.
I might have told him that I left with a guy. He’s so proud of me. He’s like my beaming away-from-home mother. Get ‘em, tiger.
“So … do you go to that club often?” he asks.
I lick my lips. It doesn’t help. “No,” I admit. “Never, actually.” I cross my arms. Then I uncross them. Then I shove them into my pockets like they’ve done something wrong. “Uh … you?”
He nods. “All the time. Never seen you there.”
All the time.
Maybe this is a routine for him, hitting up the bar and picking out the first boy he likes. Maybe I’m just his little toy of the week and nothing more. That seems to marry well with what I’ve always thought of the dating scene—that it’s just a big confusing mess of sweat and sex and nothing nice.
But maybe doing something totally reckless tonight—like running off with the hottest guy at the nightclub—is precisely what I need. Maybe, for the first time in my life, I should take my best friend’s horribly irresponsible advice.
Maybe I should get laid.
Am I crazy?
“Are you alright?” he asks me suddenly. “You seem kind of nervous.”
I stop at the next corner. For some reason, I can’t get my feet to move anymore.
“I think I should go home,” I blurt out.
He opens his mouth, then shuts it again, baffled. Then he nods at the building across the street. “The coffee place is right there. You sure you don’t feel like just—?”
“I hate coffee.”
He lifts his eyebrows in surprise. “Well, shit. Why didn’t you just say so?”
“I don’t know. I’m nervous. I don’t usually do this.”
“Do what? Get coffee on a Friday night with a total stranger?”
“Something like that.”
He glances across the street and squints. “Well, it doesn’t look like the coffee shop is going to be much quieter. Looks packed as hell.”
I don’t respond, finding myself caught in staring at him again. Up close, his chest muscles appear even bigger in that crisp, tight dress shirt, and his biceps are just ridiculous, still hugged in the shimmering blue fabric of his fitted blazer.
I can’t believe this guy is even talking to me.
And his face—handsome, chiseled, and intensely smoldering—causes me to flush all over again. I have never been struck so hard before by simply how a man looks. He was intense enough to watch from across the dim nightclub. Up close, he’s downright stunning.
I can’t explain the next thing I say except that all of the suppressed sexual energy inside me is bursting to the surface in front of this man. I want him to do everything to me and more. I feel a tightness in my chest that doctors say is a sign of cardiac arrest. Yeah, this man is breaking my heart just by standing there looking gorgeous, and every second that goes by where my hands aren’t on him is killing me.
“Do you have somewhere else in mind we could hang that’s more … private?” I ask him, out of breath while standing still.
He returns his handsome gaze back to me. My heart is racing away just from that look he gives me. Sweat gathers in my pits. I can’t seem to blink properly. Or breathe.
“Well, not to be too forward, but … we could go back to my place,” he suggests. “I live fairly close by.”
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.
I give a quick nod, my chest feeling hollow as my heart beats feverishly to pump all the blood down to my cock. I’m thankful for the tight pants and underwear I have on; they’re concealing my excitement for the most part. “I … g-guess we c-could do that,” I finally get out, despite the embarrassing stutter.
He takes a step toward me. Just that little movement closer is overwhelming, what it does to my body. “It’s down this street.” He nods at
the road, then proceeds to lead the way.
I follow.
We’re walking in silence for some time, which disturbs me worse than the noise of the nightclub. Unlike before, there seems to be no one on this street. Everyone who passes by is quiet or on the other side of the road. Why am I so nervous?
I push myself to say something. “I’m not really the club kind of guy. It was my roommate’s idea. He thinks I’m too uptight … or something.”
What am I saying? Shut up, Trevor!
He chuckles once breathily, then nods. “Yeah, I gathered that much about you.”
I frown at him. “What do you mean?”
“That was the first thing I thought when I saw you across the club. ‘What’s a guy like that doing here?’ I asked myself.”
His question catches me off-guard. “A guy like … me?”
“Yes.” He nods at me, like it’s obvious. “You seem a bit out of your element, kid. You look terrified.”
“I am not terrified,” I reply, terrified.
Just the way his mouth moves when we have this dialogue, I find deeply erotic. To my utter mortification, my cock responds to that observation by flexing—hard—in my already too-tight pants. I literally can’t control myself right now. I’m a teenage boy with sex hormones flooding me, hormones I’ve almost never acted upon, hormones that are totally changing who I am, messing with my head and chasing my heart away.
This scorching man has succeeded in doing precisely what my fantasy version of him promised: he commands me with just a few words, owning me with his charm, and making me forget the bumbling fool that I am.
Mostly. “So you think I’m uptight?”
“No.” He gives it a moment’s thought, his bottom lip pushing up as he thinks. He has one seriously magnificent jaw encased in that epic chin-beard. He constantly exudes strength with every word uttered, with every movement. “I think you’re cautious.”
“Cautious?”
“Yeah.” His forehead wrinkles up as he glances over at me. Piece by piece, I feel all my own strength breaking apart under his gaze. I’m growing weak in the knees, succumbing to him.
