Page 16 of This or That
The reprieve doesn’t seem as effective as I’d hoped. I welcomed a cold shower to dampen my horniness; that is, when paired with jacking off to the female porn star that I watched as soon as I locked the door. I replayed the images of how vocally she expressed her enjoyment. But my body was in knots and it took me forever to find my release, which isn’t like me.
The buzz brought on by my second beer is slowly setting in, and I finally relax; that’s all I need, whether it pleases my inner demon or not. I need to control my intake. He and I have already been down this road.
With that in mind, the conversation flows easily, and we talk about this and that. I don’t miss how his gaze lingers on my face, though. When he’s done with his Bloody Mary, we peruse the menu for dinner options. I don’t miss how pained my breathing is. When the waiter delivers our burgers to the table, we rudely ignore him. I don’t miss how our backs are glued to the booth. When the food reaches our mouths, we’re fascinated. As much as we want to keep this casual, our body language tells another story.
But I carry on with the pretense because I’m genuinely interested in the enigma that he represents, in more ways than one. “I had no clue you and Monster Hunter were the same person!” I begin in between bites. Mmm… what a burger! “My friend, Matteo, is a huge fan. He dragged us to your gig…”
His face falls for a second before the lips that I long to taste again curve upwards. His ketchup-covered fries stop their journey in mid-air. “I take it you’re not a fan.” He wolfs them down, then what’s left of his food. Damn, I can be such an insensitive prick!
Why would he need reassurance? His attitude reeks of self-confidence. Either I’m imagining things or I’m oddly in sync with him. Firmly believing that it’s the latter, I try to make amends so he knows that it has nothing to do with him. “To be honest, electro isn’t really my favorite. I’m more of a classics kinda guy… From what I heard, yours is—”
“Don’t bother sugarcoating…” He chuckles. “Notyou, okay?” His chocolate eyes caging mine, he sips on his water. I’m at a loss until he adds, “Not my favorite frenemy!” We laugh in unison, ignoring the elephant in the room. “Like any kind of music, it’s not for everyone. There are so many genres.” Talking about his influences and how he got his start in the industry is safer. From my frown, he guesses that additional context is necessary since I don’t know the first thing about his idols. “Most of all, I’m into deep house.” Eyes on his empty plate, he threads his long fingers through his dark hair while I drink him in, refusing to fight it this time. “Maybe it comes from my love of clubbing. I mean, I studied musical notation and performance but gave up playing cello after—” His cough is a feeble attempt to hide that there’s more to his abrupt stop than he leads on. “Dancing’s always been an escape, so mixing the music felt natural, you know?” I nod, thoughtful. “What about you?” His dark eyes seem to see right through me. Is he tormenting me on purpose, or is he utterly clueless?
With extreme difficulty, I calm my racing heart and manage to tell part of my story in an even voice. “My dark blue corporate lawyer suit needed hemming, so I pulled out my sewing kit, and three years later, I landed an internship as a fashion designer in Paris.” I nurse my IPA, explaining the nausea that overwhelmed me when I stepped into my father’s law practice each morning. I grimace at the mention of my dad but discard my sudden discomfort. “Sorry, TMI.”
“No, no, no. No need to be sorry.” He motions for me to carry on.
My breathing falters and I blurt out, “So, tell me. Bartending’s your pastime in between gigs, is that it?”
“It is.” I push my palms against the table to help me stand up. The world around me spins, and I’m well aware that alcohol isn’t to blame. “Should we go?”
In truth, I’d rather stay where people forbid me from acting on my growing desire for a person that I’m not supposed to be attracted to. In truth, I’d rather stay in my overthinking head than envision my hands reacquainting themselves with his skin. In truth, I’d rather stay and pose all of the forbidden questions I have in mind. One prevails and entices my confusion…What’s his sexual orientation?
I don’t wait for his answer, and he follows me in silence. His nearness unsettles me as we saunter out of the restaurant, commenting on the food and the old jukebox. Ambling aimlessly, we walk side by side around the deck, and I begin rambling to appease my nerves. Why am I mentioning that I have a couple of vintage jukeboxes at home? Why is he grilling me on where home is? Why am I inquiring the same?
“So, we’re practically neighbors!”
“I wouldn’t say that Greenwich Village and Park Slope make us neighbors. Close enough. It’s a small world, though.” He winks.
My erection comes to life yet again as I remember what followed the first time he said that.
Fuck, what are you doing to me?
Then it dawns on me that I’m talking, but he’s gone radio silent. I search my surroundings, but he’s nowhere to be found. He wouldn’t have ditched me, right? A crease forms between my eyebrows as I turn around and find that he stopped at the previous intersection. My hazel eyes darken with worry… and pent-up desire.
When I join him, he asks, or rather commands, “Coffee. My cabin’s down this way.” He tilts his head, and I shiver, which must be all the approval he needs as he takes off at a sprint while fumbling with his iPhone that is soon placed in his pocket.
The door doesn’t have time to close behind me before his mouth pummels mine.
So, amazingly good…
My back slams it shut when he rubs against me. The muffled sound resonates inside my head that’s devoid of anything but the desire that this sexy individual instills in me. Only now do I hear the music in the background. An unmistakable song floats through a speaker that must be in his bedroom.Whole Lotta Loveby Led Zeppelin. Such a sexy song. Such an obscene song. Such a classic song.
Scalding heat spreads across my skin as his masculine essence brands my brain, heart, and soul. No coherent thoughts are required. No further resistance is necessary. No more reasoning is useful. This kiss is rawer, yet softer than our previous ones because we both shaved. Why should I carry on with the comparison? My aroused mind chooses to make peace—for now at least—with the idea that I’m kissing a man for the third time… of my own accord. I smile against his mouth; it feels like a welcome home kiss, and I’m fine with it.
My entire being goes lax, and I let him angle my face to deepen the kiss. I’m at his mercy and that’s okay. More than okay. Grabbing my butt. Grinding our lengths. Grazing my skin. His fingertips travel across my cheeks in fiery caresses but are soon redirected to pop open the buttons of my shirt, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
“Fucker!” I mumble, acknowledging his rough touch that’s also oddly gentle. He chortles, nipping at my lower lip before trailing kisses along my collarbone. His TLC is both foreign and natural, making my heart sear. I grow more hooked on his scent with each breath. “More, Hunter.” I don’t recognize my own voice, and I writhe under his ministrations. Needier. My heart skips a beat. His kisses run down my chest while two fingers pinch my nipples. Hornier. My eyes enjoy the view. His hand slides inside of my pants and fondles my insanely hard boner through my boxer briefs. Dirtier. My avid mouth waters. His fingers make quick work of my button and fly and now easily stroke my greedy manhood with resolve.
This is the sweetest torture ever, and it still isn’t enough.
“Please…”
Chapter 11
How Bad Do You Want It
Troy
