Martin hated clubs. They played the music too loud and people jostled him. Yet, Martin found himself aglow in reddish-orange light, his fingers tapping on a wooden bar. Glitter dusted the dark floor and black stools. Martin blinked through a strobe as he looked over his shoulder at him.
Martin hated to admit that he didn’t know the name of his crush. He also hated to admit that he had semi-stalked him here. A regular at Martin’s coffee shop, the man was a hipster type with big dumb glasses, a plethora of identical plaid shirts, and a smile that could steal a straight man’s breath. Not to mention his dark curls, scraggly beard, and the way he leaned a little too far over the counter so Martin could smell sharp spearmint on his breath… Yes. Martin was supposed to ask for customers’ names. But he always forgot when it came to him.
The man had mentioned the club to a friend while in the shop that morning. He had wanted something scandalous – aka the exact opposite of Martin. But Martin had googled the club and found out it was a gay bar. And with confirmation that the attraction might be mutual, all bets were off. He wasn’t a risk-taker, but he was impulsive.
The man glanced up from his spot on the dance floor. Glitter sparkled across his dark eyelashes and bare chest. For a split second, his eyes caught on Martin.
Martin looked away. His heart hammered as he turned back to the bar and stared blankly at the long shelves of neon green liquor. He had denied a drink when the bartender asked him. Now he wished he hadn’t.
Large hands landed on his hips and pushed him forward, pinning him against the bar. Hot breath wafted down his neck. “If you keep staring, I’m gonna have to do something about it.”
Martin would recognize his voice anywhere – it was a soft growl, with a lilt at the end of the sentence and a click of the teeth at every hard consonant. Martin had memorized more, like his coffee order (tall blonde with whipped) and what he liked to eat (banana bread but only twice a week). He knew which table was his favourite (the one in the back corner away from the windows) and what time he came in (10:15 a.m.). But he had never noticed the size of his hands. One gripped each hip, long fingers curling around Martin’s front as thumbs skidded down his ass.
“I’m… I’m sorry…” Martin stammered.
He huffed a laugh. “Sure.” He nipped at Martin’s ear. “Don’t let me catch you again.” As he stepped away, he slapped Martin’s ass.
Martin wanted to get caught again.
It took all night. It took three other guys trying to buy Martin drinks and Martin’s polite rebuttals and several dirty looks. It took two bachelorette parties and one bar fight. It took long enough that Martin’s roommate texted asking where he was, if he was okay, if maybe he had died – it was eleven-thirty for fuck’s sake.
Martin exited the bathroom, blinked into the dim light, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He bumped into someone and looked up with an apology on his tongue. The words stopped as he saw him. Martin stared.
“What did I say about catching you?” The man shoved him back until he hit the wall. A sconce lit the man in sharp relief, shadowing his cheekbones and giving his blue eyes the devil’s spark. When Martin didn’t reply, he placed a hand none-too-gently on Martin’s throat and growled, “What did I say?”
“That… that you’d d-do something about it.”
The man chuckled darkly. He closed in, hips pressing against Martin’s. His breath smelled like cheap whiskey and Limoncello. “Say yes,” he whispered, suddenly sweet.
His kiss enveloped Martin, coaxing him in. His tongue swiped between his lips. As one leg slotted between Martin’s, sharp pressure pushed against Martin’s erection. The man moved his tongue in lazy circles, kissing like they had all the time in the world and grinding his hips like there was no time at all.
He broke the kiss to trail his lips down Martin’s throat. One of his hands wandered across Martin’s ass and squeezed, pushing his aching crotch further into his thigh.
Martin gasped. “We should… we should get out of here…”
“No.” The man kissed him silent and undid his zipper.
Forget that the alcove was barely set back from the dance floor. Forget that it was blocked only by a thin curtain of black beads. The music was muffled, but the bass still pounded across the floorboards. The lights couldn’t illuminate a closet, let alone a club.
But anyone could pass through the beads. Anyone could exit the bathroom and emerge right beside Martin. And yet, with the man’s hands down his pants, Martin couldn’t form a coherent worry to articulate.
The man’s long fingers wrapped around his shaft with a squeeze. “Touch me,” he demanded.
Martin scrambled to react. At some point, his fingers had tangled in the man’s hair. He dipped a hand into his tight jeans instead, encircling his length. Martin bit back a whimper and he felt, more than heard, the man’s exhaled laugh. He was thick and long, longer than Martin had ever taken, and thicker than he had ever held. The man bit his lip and Martin whimpered as he stroked his length.
“I could take you right here,” he whispered. “Fuck you so hard the whole club would hear you screaming.” He scraped his teeth down Martin’s throat.
Martin’s gaze fluttered to the ceiling. Slick precome wet his fingers and dick as the man twisted his wrist. “Okay,” Martin whispered.
The man faltered for the first time, his grip loosening. He shifted back enough that cool air wafted between them, a welcome relief from the hell-hot press of his body. Martin whined. He met the man’s curious and shocked stare.
Martin licked his lips. “Do it.”
The man’s eyes roved everywhere. Martin thought of what a wreck he must look in his wantonly ripped black jeans and the ten-year-old concert tee he’d thrown on in a weak attempt to look cool. But before he could apologize for daring to challenge this sweat- and glitter-spattered god, the man spun him around and pinned his cheek to the wall.
Martin gasped as the man pushed his pants down and pressed his still-clothed hardness to Martin’s bare ass. “Do it,” he repeated.
The man bit his ear with a chuckle. “You want it.”
“Yes.” Martin shifted back into his touch.
The man massaged his ass in one hand as he rustled through his pockets with the other. His hot breath left Martin’s neck as plastic tore, rupturing the rhythm of the pounding bass. His fingers swiped across Martin’s hole, slick with lube. Martin nearly swallowed his tongue as he dipped a finger inside.
He encaged Martin’s body, eager to get closer still. He slipped a second finger inside, spreading them quickly, and Martin keened. “Quiet. Someone might hear you.”
A strained laugh escaped Martin’s lips. Seeing worried him more than hearing. The man took his time working him open, massaging his ass, and teasing across his prostate with each aborted thrust. Martin wanted to beg for speed but he’d had a hand around his length, and he knew the man had probably broken more talented bottoms than him.
He slipped a third finger inside and breathed out a curse. His teeth scraped over Martin’s shoulder as he sunk in deeper. The man curled fingers over his prostate and muffled the whine it elicited with a sharp kiss. Martin tried to turn into it but was pinned fast against the wall. As his lips left him, Martin whispered, “I’m ready.”
“Of course you are.” He slipped his fingers out and shifted back. Martin breathed through the loss and tried not to panic over how cold he felt without a body pressed against his back. Just as he started to push away from the wall, unsure his legs would hold him, his hip was caught by those hands. “Patience.”
The man lined up his cock and slowly entered. Martin bit his tongue at the intrusion, the spread, and the heat pooling in his hardened dick. The man bottomed out, gasped, and paused. Martin relished the sensation of being laid bare under a stranger’s tongue. He reached back to thread his fingers through the man’s hair as he kissed the top of Martin’s spine. His voice shook as he asked, “Ready?” and Martin nodded.
With a snap of his hips, he set a punishing pace. Martin pressed his palms against the rough wallpaper. He tasted blood on his tongue as he tried not to scream. The man pounded into him, hitting his prostate with frightening accuracy and sending waves of pleasure coursing down his spine.
He reached around Martin and took his cock in hand. He stroked him with every thrust. Martin’s lip skidded out from under his teeth as whimpers and shudders overtook him. He blinked blurry, tears marring his vision as heated shockwaves flooded his system.
As the man came, he lost rhythm and his thrusts became erratic. But he jacked Martin off faster, spreading precome until Martin felt pleasure overwhelm him too. His spine arched, and he came as the man buried one last thrust inside him. Martin’s come splattered across the red wall, leaving a white streak behind.
“Oh fuck,” Martin said.
The man chuckled as he slipped out. He lopped an arm across Martin’s chest, pulling him into an odd hug as he kissed his cheek. “I think it improves the décor, don’t you?”
Martin glanced over his shoulder. The man had already tucked himself away. Aside from his ruddy lips and too-red cheeks, he looked just as put together as before. He winked, smile bright, and disappeared through the beaded curtain.
The next day, Martin blinked through the early morning coffee rush. He barely looked up from the till in a vain attempt to stop the buttons from blurring. He’d had five shots of espresso already and it wasn’t even nine a.m.
He heard footsteps approach and repeated the party line.
“Tall blonde with whip.”
The voice sent shivers down his spine. Martin could still hear its growl in his ears. Spearmint wafted over the counter and his blood rushed down as he looked up.
The man wore sunglasses but from the quick, sideways quirk of his lips, Martin knew he’d been recognized.
“You’re the guy from last night.”
Martin choked on his spit. “Umm… yes. I don’t… uhh… I don’t usually do…that…”
The man cocked an eyebrow, leaving Martin speechless. His tongue darted between his lips and Martin wondered if – no, hoped – he remembered his taste.
“You should put your number on the cup.” The card reader beeped.
Before he could walk away, Martin caught himself and said, “A name? For the drink?”
His smile widened, hungry. “Now where’s the fun in that?”Ingrid Simson. Click Here To Read This Article From It's Original Source