Chapter 2
TWO
JESSE
I didn’t do this. Or rather—I never had before.
Finn’s shirt hit the carpet in a silky puddle. In the distant glow that washed in through the windows, he was all angles and lean muscle, more shadow than light, torso a shade paler than the suntanned rest of him. Real.
“Take the pants off, too,” I told him, and he shot me a quick, bright look from underneath his lashes.
“That’s the usual definition of naked, yeah.”
I arched a brow at him, heavy want twined with something lighter, easier. “Sassy.”
“Problem?”
“Not at all, or we wouldn’t be here.” I grinned and motioned for him to continue. “C’mon, then. We don’t have all night.”
“As you wish.” He made it sound like a challenge, but his hands went right to his waistband, then hesitated for a moment so brief I barely caught it.
“Shoes first,” he said, almost like he was asking for permission, and waited for my nod before he toed them off along with his socks.
Jeans next, then his boxer briefs, all practiced economy rather than the coy performance I’d half-expected.
God, he was… breathtaking.
Not a word I’d ever use out loud, not one I’d ever really felt before—but fuck, it fit. Undeniable like gravity, unexpected like this whole damn night.
For a few beats, he let me look my fill—arms by his side, posture proud and open yet chin dipped down just the slightest bit. Beautiful. “What’s next?” he asked.
Jesus.
Okay. All in.
I patted my thighs. “Come here.”
He stepped between my legs, feet soundless on a carpet turned gray by the absence of light. I curved my hands around the backs of his legs and traced a path up—over the gentle swell of his ass, the dip at the small of his back. Warm, smooth skin. He watched me with slightly parted lips, waiting.
When I pressed down on his shoulders, he sank to the floor with easy grace, shoulders slotted between my legs. Surreal—an hour ago, I’d ordered a lonely drink to drown a day that’d been more paperwork than patients, and now a living fever dream was kneeling by my feet, pupils blown wide.
He was hard. Performance art or authentic? Fuck if I could tell the difference.
I dragged a thumb along his lower lip. “Comfortable?”
“Fine.” A flash of mischief. “Decent view.”
“Good. Then keep your eyes on it.” My fingers briefly tangled in his hair before I unbuckled my belt—slowly, buying time to watch him.
His expression flickered with something, then he glanced up at me and raised his hands to help, touch warm and sure, deft with the zipper.
I freed my cock, pants hanging open, boxers shoved down just enough to bunch underneath, and his breath hitched enough to register.
Real or not? God, who even knew. I’d always thought it mattered, that being wanted was half the fun. He made me forget to care.
“Hands behind your back,” I said.
He obeyed as if he wanted to, wrists clasped, chest lifting as he inhaled. The position bared him, vulnerable in a way that pulled at me like gravity.
So. This was why people dropped hundreds on a single night, then.
I swept the thought into a darkened corner of the room and focused on now, him. “Beautiful,” I told him, more honest than I’d intended.
His smile made it worth it—pleased, surprised, as if he didn’t actually hear it all the time. He tracked it when I stroked my cock once, twice, then tapped the tip against his mouth.
“Open.” Not a question, not quite an order.
The first slide of his mouth made my brain white out. Oh, fuck. Wet heat, a hint of teeth, clever tongue. No porn theatrics, no fake moans, just a slow and thorough focus. His shoulders gleamed, skin paled by the shadows that wrapped us up. He met my gaze and held it.
I kept one hand around the base of my cock and cupped the other around the back of his head—guiding but not forcing anything. His cheeks hollowed as he set a rhythm. When I brushed a thumb through the soft hair at his nape, he hummed gentle approval. I felt it vibrate in my stomach and spine.
Who are you?
I didn’t ask, not even sure where it had come from. “Touch yourself,” I said instead, my voice the weight of gravel.
He was quick to obey, one hand slipping down to his own cock. I couldn’t see clearly, only caught his rhythm in the flex of his arm, timed to echo each move of his mouth on me. But—God. It sent curling heat through my chest, spiraling higher and faster.
Deeper. I tightened my hold on him, just by a fraction. “Close,” I warned—him or me, wasn’t even sure.
He pulled off with a wet slurp, fucking obscene in the quiet room, his lips shining. “In my mouth or on my face?” he asked, voice hoarse and pupils so wide they nearly swallowed his irises. Couldn’t fake that. Could you?
“Mouth.”
A tiny grin, as if he approved of my plan.
Then he tilted his chin up and I slid back between his parted lips, stopped fighting the pull.
Two thrusts, three—deeper now so I could feel his throat working, his breath coming out in half-choked gasps.
Reality blurred and narrowed into a white burst of static. Yeah. Oh.
“Finn.”
He pulled back just long enough to mumble, “C’mon, yeah,” and that—yes. He sank back down. Game over.
Not sure what sounds I made, words or just noise. He took it, swallowed around me as I slumped back onto the bed like a melting puppet. Strings cut, thoughts a shambles, the ceiling tilting through my vision. Vaguely aware he kept stripping his own cock.
I wanted to see. Needed to see.
I eased out of his mouth and managed to prop myself up on my elbows. He looked up at me, smiling a little, so slight it was more like a faint tug to the corners of his spit-slick lips, hand going still.
“Show me,” I said, nodding down at his fist.
He raised his head, smile growing. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” I hunched forward to slide a hand halfway down the curve of his spine, the other on his elbow to urge him up onto his haunches. “Let me see you.”
He sucked in a deep breath, then angled his hips, hand moving quick and efficient, a clever twist at the end of each stroke.
His eyes held mine, dark and open, and fuck, this was…
I’d done hookups and dated, even tried the whole friends-with-benefits thing.
And yet this—a bar encounter with a stranger, cash in my wallet—felt more intimate than everything I’d had before. Hormones. Just hormones.
I watched his muscles tighten, breath coming out in little stops and stutters. He leaned against my thigh, and I reached for him, carding gentle fingers through his hair. “That’s it. Come on. Come for me.”
He did—his body drawing taut as he spilled over his fingers, face opening up into something beautiful and raw. A moment later, he sagged against my knee, eyes shut and laughing on a soft breath. “Jesus.”
Agreed.
I gave his sweat-damp hair a gentle tug that damn near counted as a caress. “Still with me?”
“Give me a second. Just…” He tilted his head for a dizzy grin, and yeah, same. “Blood gone south, you know?”
I chuckled. “You a doctor or something?”
One corner of his mouth ticked up, wry. “Nailed it.”
We let the silence breathe, the AC gently wheezing in a corner of the room.
I let my gaze skim over the rest of the space—a tiny desk and a chair, a wooden wardrobe, far from glamorous.
Did he usually go home with clients rather than bring them here?
A lone suitcase sat in a far corner. Supplies?
Maybe, no, probably. Reality pressed in around the cracks of my mind.
Right.
I squeezed his shoulder, didn’t allow myself to linger. “Okay if I shower?”
“Okay if I join you?” he asked, and, oh. Not over yet. Well, my hour wasn’t up.
“It’s your room,” I said, and he laughed, then rose on slightly wobbly legs. I shucked my clothes and followed him into the bathroom, squashed the ridiculous notion that right now, I’d follow him just about anywhere.
Jesus, I wasn’t usually the type to trip over pretty boys, both literally and figuratively.
Growing up surrounded by cornfields and conservative sermons had taught me not to linger, to want quietly and move on fast. And he wasn’t even pretty, not exactly—nose a hint too proud, mouth a shade too wide.
Mid-twenties maybe, tall and lean, blue eyes striking.
Not pretty, no. But beautiful. I’d noticed him as soon as he’d walked into the bar, and so had everyone else. I hadn’t even been looking tonight.
Best-laid plans, huh?
Steam curled as I joined him under the shower, light filtering in through frosted glass.
He tipped his head back under the spray, eyes closed, lashes stuck into wet clumps.
Throat exposed like an offer, and God, yes.
My hour isn’t up. It isn’t. Felt strange and unusually desperate even as I thought it and still reached for the curve of his hip to drag him close. He came like it wasn’t even a question.
Taste of water between us, warm skin and the bumps of his spine. Lower. I nudged my thumb against the tight ring of muscle, and he pulled back for a lazy grin. “Round two?”
“If that’s okay.”
“Very okay. Let me just—” He jerked his chin toward the sink and then stepped back, dripping water across the tiles as he went to grab a condom and lube.
Smart. Most on PrEP skipped latex now, but HIV wasn’t the only thing out there, and in his line of work, condoms might double as liability insurance.
He returned with a smile that left me oddly breathless and unsure why.
Because the clock was ticking, minutes slipping through my fingers?
Only he didn’t act like it. Well, yeah, he’d said he took cards.
It didn’t quite fit.
The thought dissolved when he slotted back into my space.
I kissed him like we had time, water in my eyes and pulse thudding in my ears as I mapped the lines of his back.
When he turned for me, palms flat against the tiled wall, water painted rivulets down ridges of muscle.
Gorgeous. I sucked in a breath, stepped close, and tasted spun sugar at the back of my throat.
“You were right.”