I opened my mouth to speak—to say what, I didn’t know—but it came out as a croak, a low noise that sounded as if I groaned. Vince quirked his lips, trying to become a smile, and I became fascinated by his lower lip, how full it looked, how it had tasted in my mouth, how plump it had felt as I rolled it between my teeth. His tongue came out, a flash of pink against a darker red, wetting his lips. I saw the hint of teeth, strong and white. He shifted his right hand slightly behind my head, scraping his fingers along the brick of the building, the sound like a roar in my ears.
I opened my mouth again. “So,” I said.
“So,” he said, his voice deeper than I’d heard it before, like a rasp.
I swallowed thickly. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I felt like I should say something, anything to fill the charged silence between us, but nothing came to mind, and I was afraid if I started babbling, I’d never be able to stop. I tended to do that when I was drunk, nervous, or turned on out of my fucking mind, and I was two out of three, which did not bode well for coherent conversation.
Fortunately for me (I think), Vince didn’t seem to be in the mood to talk. I could feel the heat of his body so close to mine, but I didn’t push for those last few inches that would have him pressed against me. It was already a warm night, and I felt sweat trickle down the back of my neck into the collar of my shirt.
He leaned forward then, still pressing his hands against the wall. He went to the side, his cheek barely scraping against mine, the grate of his stubble against my smooth cheek. His breath was on my ear, but he didn’t take it further, just stayed there, breathing in and out. Then he pressed his nose against my neck and breathed me in. Our shoulders knocked together, his chest against mine as he breathed in, separating as he exhaled.
He found the patch of skin under my ear that drives me up the fucking wall. I stifled the groan that threatened to rise but could do nothing about the way my jaw grew tight, the way my blood thrummed just under the surface. He sucked on the skin, hard enough that I knew it’d leave a mark. I should have been somewhat horrified that I was a thirty-year-old man receiving a hickey in the back of a gay club while people milled only feet away, but I couldn’t be bothered. I was too far gone under the sensation of his lips latched onto my neck, the scrape of his teeth, the press of his tongue. He leaned back and inspected his work, looking darkly pleased with himself. He took his left hand and rubbed his thumb over the mark, the slight burn growing stronger with the caress.
I’d never been so fucking hard in my life. His systematic breakdown of all my defenses was leaving me somewhat breathless. I was never one for public displays of any kind of affection, and the fact that he had me pressed up against a wall for everyone to see caused my stomach to twist. But even that emotion was overrun by the hot pleasure I was taking from him, the perverse idea that everyone was watching him fuck with my head, that they could all see my arousal. My dilated pupils. The quick breaths. The shaking of my hands. The way I craned my neck to give him better access to study his mark. I wanted everyone to see. I wanted everyone to know.
Keeping his right hand behind my head, he took his left and gripped my face, his palm against my chin, his fingers splayed out across my face. He squeezed gently and leaned forward and kissed me. I tried to respond to the touch, but he pulled away. Then he kissed me again and pulled away. And again.
And it was about that time that I realized that I wanted to fuck. I wanted to fuck like I’d never fucked before, and I wanted to do it now. I was done with gentle touches and wicked games. I couldn’t help but snarl in his hand. I reached out and gripped his waist, spinning us until we’d traded places, his back against the wall, me standing in front of him. But I wasn’t some fucking jerk who dragged out foreplay. Forgetting where I was and who I was, I pressed up against him, grinding my dick into his, marveling at the fact that he was just as hard as I was. He moaned, but I caught it in a kiss, letting it cross into me as I sucked on his tongue, chasing it with my own. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to shoot right there in my jeans, something I’d never done before.
“Wanna get out of here?” I asked as I pulled away from his mouth.
“Why, Paul,” he laughed, sounding out of breath, “I don’t know what kind of boy you take me for.”
Feeling daring, I said, “One who is about to get very, very lucky.”
He grinned. “Oh? Is that so?”
“That is so.”
“Well, far be it for me to say no to getting lucky.”
“You don’t seem like the type to say no to that.” I winced inwardly as I realized how that sounded. Calling someone a slut is not sexy talk. I had a feeling that it was about to get awkward.
He arched an eyebrow. “Is that your way of seducing me? Compliments?”
“That’s not really what I meant to say.” The sexiness was leaving very quickly. “What I meant to say was that I like being pressed up against you.”
He chuckled. “Do you?”
I scowled. “You’re mocking me, aren’t you?”
“Sort of.” He leaned in and kissed me again, really just a peck. Like we were friends. The sexiness was almost gone.
“That’s great,” I sighed, starting to take a step back.
But he stopped me before I could. He grabbed me around my waist and pulled me back into him until were pressed together head to toe. Being almost the same height had its a
dvantages, especially when I could tell he still had a hard dick. “Tell you what we’re going to do,” he said, his forehead against mine, a wicked curl to his lips. “We’re going to leave here. We’re going to go back to my apartment since it’s closer. And then I’m going to fuck you through the mattress. Or through the wall. I haven’t decided yet. Maybe we’ll do both. That sound okay with you, Paul?”
And the sexiness returned rather quickly with that pronouncement, and I spoke before I could think. “That sounds awesome. Let’s go do that—”
“Paul Auster, hiding in a corner pressing against some sexy man? As I live and breathe, I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Oh sweat balls,” I groaned, not wanting to turn around and see Helena’s smirk.
“If either one of your hands is down the other’s pants, I ask that you refrain from continuing your jack-off sesh, at least for the moment. Afterwards, you may continue with my blessing. And my participation, if necessary. I’m sure Vince has always wanted to try the queen-sized version.”
Vince chuckled as I growled. “No jack-off sesh,” he said. “Not yet.”