Page 31 of Pull
He almost chokes on the worddance, like it’s so foreign coming out of his mouth, his throat is trying to repel the letters. It makes me laugh.
“Babe, you really don’t have to—”
“I’m well aware of what Ihaveto do,” he hums, grasping my jaw with his strong fingers. “I have to make my husband happy. That’s my main concern at the moment.”
I pout at him, pressing a slow kiss on his perfect lips, his perfect mouth and all the perfect things that come out of it.He’s a gift, this man.
“It wouldreallymake me happy to watch you dance,” I grin from beneath his kiss and he growls, pushing his hips into mine.
“Only if I get to do it with you,” he breathes, raspy and deep.
“Try and stop me.”
We pull apart at the recollection that Tate is right there, and of course he’s staring at us like he has no idea what’s happening. It’s the tiniest bit awkward, since the last time I saw him was at his apartment on Christmas morning, after he let me fuck him knowing full-well I was madly in love with two other people.
We’ve managed to avoid each other since then, though we’ve heard through my brother-in-law that he’s been doing great, apparently having become even more of a workaholic in the last year. He sent a gift when Ethan was born, and Jess made sure to send him a Christmas card at the holidays. But I think we all agreed maybe some time apart was best for the friendship.
It does suck, though. Because Tate was a true friend to me when I needed one. And sure, there was a sexual nature to it, which was hugely important to me coming out as bisexual. If it weren’t for Tate, I may not have picked up on this side of myself right away. Or at least it would have been much more complicated for me to navigate.
As crazy as it sounds, Tate brought me back to Ben and Jess. For that, I’m eternally grateful. And I don’t want him to feel bad, or to be upset about his love life issues. I’d like to try and help him the way he helped me.
Okay, not thesameway. Just in a supportive, friendly capacity this time.
“So where we going?” I ask Tate and he says nothing, simply motions for us to follow him.
Here goes nothing.
* * *
This placewe find ourselves in is unlike anything I’ve experienced in my twenty-three years of life.
The building is huge inside. And spread out, like it should’ve been a warehouse. Or maybe it was one before. There are two bars across the space from one another, and a few scattered pieces of furniture here and there, but outside of that it’s all open for dancing. And there are these stage-like boxes in the corners with stripper poles in the middle, complete with guys in thongs dancing on each.
I’m unable to tear my eyes from them for a moment because of hownakedthey are. There’s nothing more than a thin piece of fabric separating their dicks from the world. It’s… wild.
As we weave between all the hot, sweaty bodies grinding on each other, I notice that there are cocktail waiters wearing pretty much the same thing, walking around with trays of those little test tube shots. Tate grabs one while we slink past, sucking it down as the guy with a rainbow bowtie hanging around his neck forces a scowl. Tate simply winks at him and he grins back, which makes me think they might know each other.
In fact, I think Tate knows a few people here. He’s being waved at left and right. I mean, I’ve always known Tate is popular. And his presence in this place is so very different from Ben and me, who are awkwardly clutching one another for dear life, completely out of our elements.
The place ispackedwith men. It’s like a sea of muscle, overload for my eyes, most of them dancing close, making out, or singing along to the house-type remix of an Ariana Grande song. The air is muggy with sweat, cologne and masculine sexuality. It’s an interesting vibe, one that I wouldn’t mind being a part of from time to time.
Tate reaches a spot he deems fit for us to stop, by the bar, and props himself up against the edge. He grins and leans in closer so I can hear him shouting over the music, “Your eyes are so wide.”
Ignoring my own insecurities, I tell him, “This is crazy.”
“You want a drink?” He asks, eyes darting to the bartender—dressed only in tight leather shorts—who also seems to recognize Tate, a salaciously familiar smirk covering the rather beautiful man’s lips while he holds up a finger as if to sayone minute.
I look to my husband, who’s gripping my hand so hard it’s seconds from fracturing. Ben’s eyes are all over the place as he takes in the scene, while simultaneously ignoring the couple dancing next to us, eyeing him like he’s a bacon double cheeseburger at the end of a seven-day cleanse.
His blue gaze comes back to me and he pulls a grin, nodding, “Whatever you’re having.”
“We’ll have two penis drinks.” I turn to Tate and his brow quirks. “Do they do the penis drinks here?”
Tate laughs out loud. “You’re so cute. It’s Pride, I’m sure they can whip something up.”
“Please stop letting him hit on you,” Ben whispers in my ear, immediately giving me chills.
Tate is leaning over the bar to flirt with the bartender and order our drinks while I pull my husband close to me, playing with the hair at the back of his neck the way he likes.
