The rest was a distant dream.
Adirtydream.
Mickey reached for his topped-up drink and took a slow sip, measuring his first words. They were in a sex club, but assumption was still dangerous. “I haven’t seen you here before. What’s your name?”
“Benito.” The man held out his hand and shook Mickey’s with a firm grip, his palm warm and dry. “I haven’t seen you either, but I don’t usually come on Thursdays.”
“What’s special about today?”
Benito shrugged. “I don’t know yet. Am I about to find out?”
Heat pooled in Mickey’s groin, but he dampened it down. If this dude was asking to fuck him, he was in for a disappointment, and so was Mickey. He was too intrigued to let him go just yet, though. “Maybe,” he hedged. “Or maybe we’ll just talk. Doesn’t matter to me, no pressure.”
Benito lifted his glass and swallowed the last of whatever clear alcohol he’d been drinking. His throat worked, and he licked his lips, his tongue darting out, chasing stray drops. “I don’t mind pressure. I didn’t come here to talk.”
“Then you’re missing out. I’m excellent company.”
“Yeah? What else are you excellent at?”
“Probably all the things you’re not interested in.”
“Like what?”
“How about we have another drink?”
Benito smirked, but it was laced with something else. Impatience? Nerves? Mickey couldn’t tell.
He drained his glass and signalled to Jaiden for another before meeting Benito’s gaze again. “What are you having?”
“I’m good, thanks. I gotta drive after this.”
This. Mickey smiled into his fresh drink—ginger ale this time, he was driving too—mind already lit up with all the things he could do to Benito if they turned out to be compatible. Or even if they didn’t. Maybe it didn’t matter if they didn’t have the same endgame in mind.We could just blow each other.Benito’s mouth was inviting enough for Mickey to be tempted.
“So...,” Benito said when Mickey didn’t speak. “Do you come here a lot?”
“Enough to know you don’t.”
“Vague.”
“Okay, probably once a month. I only know your habits because Jaiden told me.”
Benito’s gaze flickered to the end of the bar, then his eyes narrowed, irritation darkening his handsome face. “He don’t know shit about me.”
“He never said he did. Just that you’re not here much. What’s so bad about that?”
Benito said nothing. He reached for his empty glass and twirled it, spinning the melting ice that remained. Tension flooded the tenuous connection they’d struck up, but not the kind that warned Mickey off. If anything, Benito’s set jaw and hardened gaze excited him, driving any lingering itch for his worst vices away.
He let his attention drift to Benito’s corded forearms. The ink on his skin was intricate and expensive, not the kind done in a backstreet scratcher like the mess of bad decisions Mickey had on his own chest. His fingers itched to trace it. To unbutton Benito’s shirt and push it away so he could follow where the dark etchings led.
Maybe they could do that instead of fucking. It had been a long time since Mickey had last enjoyed the journey as much as the pot of gold at the end.
“Sorry,” Benito blurted suddenly.
Mickey relaxed further onto his stool. “What for?”
“Biting your head off.”
“You didn’t. And even if you did, you’re not the first dude I’ve met who’s jumpy in here.”