Chapter 1 #2
I shift in my seat again, reach for my drink with a hand that’s trying to look too casual. The glass is half empty now, and I have no idea when that happened.
Probably somewhere between I’m not gay and I wonder what his lips feel like.
I’ve never had a lip fetish before, but I certainly—
“Alex? Are you still there?”
For fuck’s sake.
Teya’s voice slices clean through my salacious train of thought, and I jolt like I’ve been caught red-handed. I swivel my barstool away from temptation and clear my throat.
“Teya! Yes, yes. I’m here. I, um…”
I squeeze the back of my neck, flinching when my grip bites a little too hard.
“Just distracted,” I mumble, leaving it at that—because, seriously, how the hell do I even begin to explain this puzzling distraction?
There’s just way too much to unpack here.
I can’t even untangle it in my own head.
“Alex, honey, I have to go. The salesman’s on his way back.”
There’s a loud clatter—her phone hitting the floor, I assume—then she’s back.
“Shit! Cracked my screen.”
Of course.
“Anyway, Emilee’s with me. She’s staying for the weekend, if that’s alright. I’ll bring your daughter home on Sunday.”
A pause. Then—
“She wants to know if she can hang out with Ana when she’s back?”
“It’s fine,” I mutter, already half checked out.
I end the call, shove the phone into my pocket, and let out a slow breath—eager to return to my gay fantasy.
ELIJAH
Gabriel would be star-struck.
My husband has had a crush on this guy for years—Alexander something-or-other. The one with all those puzzle pieces tattooed across his body. And I’m pretty damn sure that’s him, sitting five stools down, looking every inch the top fashion model he is.
For once… I’d have to agree. He’s quite possibly the most drop-dead gorgeous man I’ve ever laid my eyes on.
Period.
A subtle twitch in my suit pants reminds me just how long it’s been since anyone’s stirred this kind of reaction in me. Just the sight of him is stimulating.
I shift lightly and casually run my hand across the front of my slacks, attempting to smooth things over—literally.
Well, this is a welcome surprise.
I’ve been married to this bar for nine years—sixteen-hour days, sleepless nights. Every ounce of me is poured into Bourbon Bar. And I’ve built something I’m proud of. Achieved the success I’ve strived so hard for.
Speaking of hard…
For Christ’s sake.
Again, I reach down and discreetly readjust my cock as it full-out defies me and stretches to its full length.
This is not a good time to become aroused.
I take a steadying breath and a slow sip of bourbon, waiting for myself to chill the hell out. Then… I sneak another look his way.
And there he is—half-lidded eyes climbing up my body with unhurried intent, exploring me with quiet hunger. It’s all I can do not to shift under the weight of that gaze as it drags over me like fire before finally settling on my face. And… fuck.
Those eyes. Hazel, smoldering, tracing the line of my jaw like a slow burn.
Jesus. I could get lost in those eyes—and for a breathless second, I do, when they crash into mine, and something in me tilts, slips, and starts falling.
A flush crawls up my neck.
And, of course, that’s when Emilio strolls over, smirking like the shit-stirrer he is.
“He’s totally fucking hot,” he teases under his breath, flipping a bar towel over his shoulder like a punctuation.
I chuckle into my glass, take another slow sip, and then glance back toward the man in question, just in time to see him jolt at the sudden glow of his phone screen. He stiffens, clearly caught in his own little daydream.
Smiling, I toss back the rest of my bourbon and push off the bar.
For some reason, I’m feeling bold tonight.
I make my way over and slip into the seat beside him. He’s angled slightly away from the bar—probably for comfort, but it gives me the perfect excuse to observe him up close, without seeming obvious.
Long legs, lean build—fit, but not bulky.
Probably about my height, six-one or six-two.
Definitely younger than my forty-two years though.
Like me, he has dark hair, but his is straight, with a slightly longer top that flops gently over the side of his forehead, although at the moment, it’s sticking up in a bit of disarray, which only adds to his appeal.
His skin is lighter than mine. Smooth and glowing—clear evidence of someone who takes his skincare routine seriously. Of course, being in the modeling industry, he’d have to, but I haven’t quite landed on that conclusion yet…
Before I can finish that thought, he begins turning back around, slipping his phone into his shirt pocket and… wait. Is that a tattoo peeking out from beneath the sleeve of his white shirt?
His knee bumps up against mine, and he startles. The hard set of his jaw and the stiffening of his shoulders give it away, but he makes no attempt to move his leg from where it’s pressing against my thigh.
Instead, he plays it cool, reaching for his glass of bourbon and bringing it to his lips. As he does, his shirt sleeve rises up past his wrist and… yes, yes, I am correct. Definitely a tattoo.
Once again, my dick stiffens.
Clearing my throat, and thankful for the bourbon taking the edge off, I draw in a breath, offer a polite smile, and extend my hand.
“Hola senor. My name is Elijah Garcia.”
ALEX
Oh, for the love of God.
That Spanish accent sliding out from those impossibly plump lips?
Completely unexpected.
“Senor?”
I work at unclenching my teeth as I swallow down my surprise.
“Uh, yes, Mr. Garcia. Nice to meet you. I’m Alexander Jarrell… but please, call me Alex.”
I reach out at an awkward angle and shake his hand. His palm is warm. Steady and confident.
The complete opposite of mine.
“Thank you for the drink… sir,” I add—because… ugh, I don’t even know. Can I sound any more ridiculous?
And what the actual hell is with the high pitch to my voice?
He chuckles, low and warm, smooth as the bourbon in my glass.
And yep… there it is. My skin tingles.
“You are most welcome, Alex. And, please, call me Elijah.”
His words roll out like smoke—lazy, dark, and likely toxic to my self-control. He tilts his glass.
“Let me get us another, sí?”
I drain the rest of my drink. If I’m going to unravel, I might as well do it with a little dignity—and a lot more whiskey. Good call on his part. Not gonna lie… that Latin accent is seriously turning me on.
Shifting in his seat, he raises his empty glass and nods toward the bartender, whose face is beaming with an over-the-top smile.
Great. Just great.
Elijah spreads his legs, and I suck in a sharp breath when his thigh presses more solidly against mine, causing goose bumps to sprint across my skin.
A sheer moment of panic rips through my chest as I wonder if this knocking of knees is intentional or not?
But as quickly as that thought enters my mind, Elijah’s hand comes to rest on my thigh, and I have my answer—
Definitely intentional.
Filthy images blow through my mind—his darker skin in beautiful contrast to my considerably lighter tone; heavy cock sliding across my thigh, much like his hand is doing right at this very moment and—
“Emilio,” he commands in that sexy broken English, tongue slicing the L, releasing me from my erotic mind trip. “Please get Alex and me another bourbon.”
I am so fucked.
He tilts his head, those dark-chocolate eyes dropping to my mouth. Nervously, I lick my lips. His—plump and far too tempting—slant into a crooked smile.
Oh god.
I reach for my fresh glass of bourbon and take a nervous sip, trying—failing—to pull myself together.
Say something normal, Alex. Anything.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” I manage to choke out, swallowing the fine spirit—along with my nerves.
His smile lingers as the glass meets his lips. “Gracias. This must be your first time, sí?”
For Christ’s sake.
I nearly groan into my drink when his Adam’s apple dips low with the swallow, smooth and deliberate, like he knows what he’s doing.
I follow suit, tossing mine back as well—mostly to keep from saying something stupid.
“Yep. First time for a lot of things, actually.”
Smooth, Alex. Real subtle.
He lifts a brow, clearly amused—and very much flirting.
“Mmm… well in that case, I’ll be sure to make your firsts very memorable.”
He squeezes my thigh, and fireworks detonate throughout my entire damn body.
That Spanish accent is doing things to me I didn’t even know were possible. Add in those eyes—dark, magnetic, a little dangerous—and that ridiculously inviting smile, and—well… I’m done. Just put me in a cab and send me straight to gay town.
Fast-forward two hours and God knows how many bourbons later, I’m completely relaxed, still pressed beside him, and actually enjoying the hell out of his company.
I make a mental note to thank my sister for canceling on me tonight.
At some point during the evening—don’t ask when, because I’ve completely lost track of time—I’d angled my body toward his, slipping my leg comfortably between his thick thighs.
His pants are stretched across an even thicker bulge, and how I manage to keep up with our conversation is miles beyond me. It’s a miracle really.
Everything about him is fascinating—and thick. His accent, his lips, fingers, thighs, even his motherfucking cock is thick.
Trust me on that one.
I lean in, closing the space between us, and rest my hand lightly on top of his.
My gaze drops to his mouth as he’s speaking—and I catch the exact moment his words falter.
His lips still.
His eyes flick to my lap, then slowly rise back to meet mine.
He slides his hand further up my leg—my own hand going along for the ride.
Swallowing my nerves, I thread my fingers through his.
“Have you lost your voice?” I murmur, teasing.
His gaze dips again to where our hands lie—dangerously close to my growing arousal.
“I think I’ve lost my mind,” he says on an exhale.
He’s not the only one.
I’d like to blame the alcohol for my sudden departure of defenses, but I’d be lying. The truth is, my guard started slipping the moment I laid eyes on Elijah.
If someone had asked my sexual orientation when I walked into this bar, I would’ve said—without hesitation—that I was straight.
And I was.
I mean… am.
Ugh.
But now?
The way my body is reacting to his touch, his voice, his goddamn broken English…
Yeah.
I am so fucking not straight.
I want him.
The air thickens. My pulse kicks. It’s suddenly harder to breathe.
He reaches for his glass of bourbon.
I reach for my throbbing dick, pressing down to relieve some pressure. I don’t even try hiding it.
“Alex…” he groans into his glass.
Jesus.
Say my name again.
“Alex…”
Fuuuck.
I pick up my glass and it’s empty, but I hold on to it anyway.
“Mm-hmm?”
“Would you like to come home with me?”
And there it is.
The million-dollar question.
Would I?
Would I?
Oh, who am I kidding? I so fucking would.
Even though I’m not gay…
Right?
My hand trembles slightly as I set the empty glass down, heart pounding louder than I’d like to admit. I look straight into those ridiculously dark eyes.
And for once, I don’t look away.
Yeah.
I definitely could be gay.
“Yes, Elijah. I’ll go home with you.”