Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Remy
The club is packed and fulfills every single one of my assumptions of what a gay nightclub would be. The music is pumping, colored lights swooping over the dance floor, which is packed with bodies. The clothing ranges from exotic to barely there—I’ve noticed at least two people who are less covered than some beachgoers—but nobody is wearing as much as Grayson. Zolkov, scanning the room, grins and elbows him.
“You see?” he asks. Grayson looks at him, eyes narrowed as though he already knows where this is going. “You fit right in with all the tax men who are here.”
“Look,” Grayson replies, pointing to his chest. “I’m unbuttoned. What more do you want from me?”
I laugh even though my cheeks are a little hot and Grayson’s finger is drawing my attention back to where his chest hair is peeking out. The fact that it’s distracting is blowing my mind. I want to run my hand from his neck down to his belly button. I want to know how it feels to touch him. Instead, I turn away from them under the pretense of scanning the dance floor. Grayson and Zolkov continue to bicker until we’re interrupted by a man wearing a sparkly shirt and leather shorts. His hair is so white blond it is practically glowing in the dark room.
“Hello,” he purrs, extending the O into a lazy drawl. He’s sidled up to Zolkov who grins but shakes his head.
“My friend—” he starts, pointing at Grayson. The man sighs and interrupts him.
“Is not my type.”
And just like that, he’s gone. I almost laugh—Grayson looks like he can’t decide whether to be relieved or offended. He settles on an expression that looks like he might be constipated instead. I put a hand on his shoulder.
“Drink?”
“Christ, yes.” He sighs. I look over at Zolkov, but he shakes his head and looks down at his phone.
“I will meet you. Natalia is arriving.”
“You’re meeting a girl here?” Grayson asks, and then scowls as something else occurs to him. “Why couldn’t you have ridden in with her?”
“Because you would have missed me,” Zolkov answers, in a tone that conveys he is speaking an obvious truth. He doesn’t wait for a reply from Grayson, but melts into the crowd on his way to the entrance. I put a hand on Grayson’s elbow, not wanting to lose him in the crowd as we head for the bar. Of course, losing him would be nearly impossible seeing as he is a good four inches taller than every person in here, but still I don’t let go of his arm.
We order a couple of drinks from the bartender who gives Grayson a very appreciative once-over, which is wasted when he doesn’t even notice. Leaning an elbow on the bar top and keeping my body turned toward Grayson, I can see at least two other guys behind him checking him out. When one of them starts walking toward us, I take a step closer to Grayson and put my hand back on his arm. The guy turns around and goes back to his friend, leaving me feeling a little badly. It had been automatic—staking my claim on him even though he’s not mine in any sense of the word.
So, take your hand off of him, Remy . I snatch my hand away and reach for my drink instead, not even remembering what I’d ordered. It doesn’t matter. As long as there is alcohol in here, I’ll be okay. Grayson surveys me over his own glass, which is just plain soda water. Funny how I can remember that just fine.
“You good?” he asks, leaning so close to me that his breath coasts over my ear. It’s loud in here—I can barely hear the words over the noise from the dance floor.
“Yeah. Are you sure you don’t want to dance?” I’m desperately hoping he’ll change his mind. Suddenly, the idea of wading through all those bodies by myself seems daunting.
“Is it okay if I just watch?” He closes his eyes as soon as the words leave his mouth as though he’s wishing for them to disappear back down his throat. “I just meant, is it okay if I sit this one out? I’ll just hang out here.”
Well, I’m certainly not going to force the man to dance. I smile and try not to betray my nerves. Throwing back my drink, I blink away a grimace. Y ep, definitely alcohol in that. Grayson looks between the glass and my face, blue eyes widening. Seriously, blue eyes and black hair—how is that even genetically possible?
“You good?” he repeats. I nod .
“I’m going in.” I nod toward the dance floor and his eyes track over the writhing mass of bodies.
“Better you than me,” he replies, raising his glass in a salute and settling in against the bar. “Go have fun. I’ll be here when you need refreshment.”
Taking a deep, fortifying breath, I step away from the bar and toward the dance floor. Zolkov still hasn’t returned with his date, and I have little hope that I’ll see him again tonight. You’re on your own, Stone.
It’s been a while since I’ve frequented a club and I’ve never been to one outside of California, but a club is a club. The moment I walk into the mass of dancing bodies, I’m swallowed up—hemmed in on all sides by grinding men and women. Mostly men. Mostly half-naked, sweaty men. I turn back around but I can no longer pick out Grayson’s tall form from here. You’re here to dance, I remind myself, after I’ve been standing motionless in the center of the dance floor for an embarrassing amount of time.
Closing my eyes, I listen to the song. I’m honestly not a bad dancer. Don’t ask me to do a tango or a salsa, but I can hold my own in a place like this. Even though I don’t recognize the song and I’m alone, it’s not long before I relax enough to move with the music. I keep my eyes closed for now, just trying to enjoy the beat.
Hands land on my hips. Big hands—hands that definitely belong to a man. I keep dancing and keep my eyes closed as someone leans in close enough to me that I can feel their chest brushing my back. Stubble scratches across my ear and my blood heats at the contact. Grayson .
“Hi,” a scratchy, male voice says into my ear. Not Grayson.
Ice water dumped over my head wouldn’t have cooled me off faster. I don’t pull away from the man, but it’s close. My movement falters enough that he notices. Chuckling, he presses closer and tightens his grip, one arm sliding around my stomach.
“You here alone?”
“Mm,” I agree, and it’s apparently enough of an answer because he grinds against me a little more forcefully. If the voice hadn’t clued me in, his body would have: hard and unmistakably male, but too slim to be Grayson.
The song changes and so do we, automatically adjusting the roll of our hips to the new beat. He’s not touching me in any overtly sexual way and seems content to keep doing what we’re doing for the time being. Opening my eyes, I look down at the hand splayed across my stomach: long fingers, pale skin, and blond arm hair. Definitely not Grayson .
We dance together for the next couple of songs, and with each minute that passes, my stomach sinks a little closer to my toes. This isn’t sexy at all. I might as well be dancing alone for all my body reacts to the presence of the man behind me. He, on the other hand, is definitely enjoying himself. There is a very unmistakable erection pressed against my ass, and as much as I try to encourage my dick to take notice, it stays dormant.
The guy I’m dancing with leans forward, hand sliding up my stomach and pulling me backward into him. Thinking he’s going to say something, I tip my head back to put my ear closer to his mouth so that I can hear him over the thumping bass. Instead of speaking, he takes this as an invitation to swoop down and press his mouth to my neck. I flinch at the contact and immediately pull away.
“Sorry,” he says, holding his hands up in front of him in a conciliatory manner, as though he expects me to throw a punch. My hand is on my neck, fingers covering the spot he kissed. I drop it down to my side.
“No worries,” I tell him.
Somebody bumps into my back, pushing me forward a couple of steps. My dance partner has already gone, melting back into the crowd to find someone else. I look around, trying to see over the heads of the dancers. Somebody touches my arm and I yank it away immediately. I’m suddenly disoriented, unable to figure out which way leads to the bar or the front door. Hell, I’d take the nearest wall at this point, because at least I could follow it until I found an exit.
I start pushing through the crowd as a spike of anxiety unfurls in my chest. Has the fucking ceiling always been that low? A young guy careens into me, knocking me sideways and I barely pause to mumble an apology before I’m pushing forward again. I need to get out of here. I need space to breathe.
By the time I make it to the edge of the dance floor, I am covered in sweat and about five seconds away from a panic attack. It doesn’t feel any less crowded out here, and if anything, the walls feel closer. I know they aren’t moving—I fucking know —but I also know this room was a lot bigger an hour ago than it is now. I need to get outside.
Blindly choosing a direction, I start walking only to be stopped by a firm hand on my shoulder. Like before, I immediately try to shake it off. Unlike before, whomever is touching me doesn’t let go. I turn around.
Grayson. Oh, thank god, it’s Grayson.
“Remy?” he yells, leaning in and trying to be heard over the music.
“Outside,” I yell back, because explaining the slowly shrinking room will take too long and we need to leave fucking now . “I need to go outside.”
Instead of answering, he uses his grip on my shoulder to steer me around. I’m wholly reliant on him as he forcefully guides me through the room. The club is busy and the going is slow. At one point I close my eyes and just trust Grayson to not let me run into anything. When we finally reach a door with a glowing EXIT sign above it, I’m so relieved I could cry. Grayson reaches his free hand out, pushes open the exit, and together we walk outside.
The moment we step out I take a deep breath, tipping my head back and reveling in the cold night air on my face and in my lungs. Grayson’s no longer touching my shoulder, but I know he’s still behind me. I keep walking forward, away from the building, until I’m far enough away that I can’t see the walls in my periphery. Slow, deep breaths. Time to calm down.
Bending over and resting my hands on my knees, I close my eyes and try to fight back the claustrophobia. Grayson is so silent I might have forgotten he was there if I wasn’t so damn responsive to him. My skin prickles with awareness, the sweat cooling rapidly in the evening air. Eventually, I straighten back up and turn around to face him, trying like hell not to feel embarrassed. He’s standing there, hands in his pockets, calmly watching me.
“Sorry about that,” I apologize. “I’m a little claustrophobic and it got away from me for a second.”
“No need to be sorry,” he says, voice deep and masculine, and way sexier than the voice of the guy I’ve been grinding on all night. “Do you want me to step back inside and get you some water?”
“Nah, I’m good now. Just needed to get out of there before I was crushed to death by the walls. You noticed they were moving, right?”
His lips quirk up into a smile. “You know, I did notice that. Good thing we got out when we did.”
“Too bad Zolkov got left behind. Can’t save ’em all.”
Grayson laughs and the sound zings through me like a jolt of electricity. He removes one hand from his pocket and uses it to scratch idly at the opposite forearm. Big hands and dark hair on his forearms—also sexier than the guy I was dancing with. Jesus Christ, what is happening to me?
“Were you having fun, though?” he asks, in a slightly more wary tone of voice. It’s dark out here, but light enough for me to see the way his eyes keep dipping below mine and trailing down my chest.
“Uh, yeah,” I hedge. “I was having a good time.”
He laughs again, louder this time, tipping his head back and exposing the long line of his neck, lightly speckled with five o’clock shadow. When he looks back at me, his eyes are shining.
“Remy, that was the most unconvincing thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Well, Gray, this has been an eye-opening experience in many ways.” I pause, enjoying the easy way he’s grinning at me, hands tucked back into his pockets and shoulders relaxed. “First off: I am definitely not into guys. Absolutely no action.” I wave my hand around my crotch. “Even though I was being dry-humped for four songs.”
“Well,” Grayson says, but doesn’t take it any farther, evidently unsure of what else to say.
“The second thing I realized? Remember before, when I told you I thought maybe I was only attracted to you ? Yeah, that’s true. That is definitely, unequivocally, no doubt about it, the truth.” I pause, giving Grayson a moment to process this information before I continue. “So, yeah, the experiment failed, I guess. I’m straight until I can find myself a giant, off-limits hockey player.”
“Remy...”
I hold up my hands. “I know, Gray, I know.”
Silence, other than the thumping music from the club, which can be heard even out here. Grayson looks away from me, turning his head to the side and biting his lip as he stares out across the parking lot. I pick at my shirt, cold now that all my sweat has dried and I’m no longer feeling claustrophobic.
“I’ve never been a casual-sex kind of guy. I think I’m a serial monogamist at heart,” Grayson says, drawing my gaze back to his with a snap.
“So was I until I separated from Amanda. Then I pretty much had sex with any girl who approached me in a bar,” I admit. His mouth curls into a small, amused smile.
“That’s what you’re looking for, then, I’m assuming? You want to get your dick wet in the gay end of the pool? And then what?” He doesn’t sound pissed or even annoyed. Just curious, like he’s trying to figure me out.
“Shit, I don’t know. Alex tells me the number one rule post-divorce is to not make any big life decisions. No shotgun marriages, no career changes, no spending all of your savings on fancy sports cars.”
“Alex?”
“My best friend and lawyer. He’s also the one who suggested that I should try new things to liven up my sex life.” I wave a hand toward the club and then at Grayson. “And so, here we are.”
“Got it. So—just to clarify—if you and I sleep together, you’re not going to fall in love with me, marry me, or make career decisions for me.” He takes a couple of slow steps toward me, stopping when he’s little more than an arm’s distance away. “And no gay panic?”
I laugh, taking a step of my own toward Grayson. We’re close enough now that I can smell him. Close enough that I notice he’s re-buttoned two of the buttons on his shirt.
“Nope, no gay panic from me. I was raised a good old California boy—love is love.”
“Mm,” Grayson hums. The air feels alive between us, crackling with energy as though it’s about to thunderstorm. There is so little distance between us now, I have to tip my head back to keep my eyes on his. If I were to look straight ahead, all I’d see would be those buttons he’s done up. Maybe I should loosen them again.
When Grayson’s fingers touch the bare skin of my neck, his skin feels shockingly warm compared to the cool of the night. His palm rests gently where the curve of my throat meets my shoulder, fingers curling around to my nape. After one slow stroke, his thumb goes still. My heart is thrumming wildly and my body sways toward his, blindly seeking more contact. I want that other hand on me.
“I thought this was a bad idea?” I whisper.
“It is,” he murmurs, trailing his thumb across my throat again. A slow burn comes alive in my pelvis—the simple touch doing more for me than anything that happened on the dance floor.
When he leans down to kiss me, he stops little more than a hair’s breadth away from my lips. If he thinks I’m not going to close that distance, he’s got another thing coming. Bringing both hands up to cup his jaw, I tip my chin up, lean forward, and kiss him. The very first thing I notice is the facial hair, and the way his stubble scratches across my palms and the smoother skin of my face. The second thing I notice is his mouth. Soft , I think, brushing my lips across his gently.
I step closer to him, wanting to have a better angle on his mouth, and press our chests together. He’s so unlike anybody I’ve ever touched in this way—solid and so much bigger than me. My heart has kicked up another notch, beating so fast I could be running wind sprints. I can’t even remember the last time kissing has been this exciting.
Grayson is barely moving. Only one hand is touching me and he’s kissing me carefully, like he’s tiptoeing over boundaries and trying not to freak me out. When I tease my tongue through the seam of his lips, I’m rewarded with a small gasp and a tightening of the fingers on my neck. It’s masculine and sexy, and I think my stance on finding Grayson attractive has been made very clear.
He’s the first to pull away and I embarrass myself by rising up on my tiptoes to chase after him. I’m not done kissing him. I don’t think I’ll ever be done kissing him.
Because it would be strange to keep my hands on his face when we’re not making out, I slowly slide them down over his shoulders and arms, all the way to his hands. Regretfully, I let him go even though what I want to do is shove him back against the wall of the club and eat his face.
“Well, fuck me,” I breathe, looking up into Grayson’s blue eyes.
“Not here,” he quips, and I smile up at him.
The back door of the club opens, music spilling out before the door slams and it’s cut off again. Grayson looks over his shoulder toward the noise, his face falling at the reminder that we’re in public. There goes any hope I had of picking up where we left off.
“Gray,” I whisper, not wanting to raise my voice and ruin the integrity of the moment.
“You good?” he asks warily.
“Sure, except now I’m a little worried that was a one-time thing. It wasn’t, right? We’re going to do that again?” I’m proud that I don’t sound half as desperate as I feel. I want to rub my cheek against his scruff again. If everyone knew how fucking good that felt, nobody would kiss a woman again. “Because I’ve got to tell you…that was nice. That was really fucking nice.”
“Nice,” he muses. “Well, after glowing praise like that, I suppose we’ll have to do it again.”
I laugh. “Shut up, you can’t expect me to trot out five-dollar words after introducing me to my gay awakening. Give me a damn minute.”
He smiles, shaking his head and looking down at his hands as he shoves them back into his pockets. He looks a little bashful. Before I can open my mouth and suggest we ditch Zolkov and head back to his place to fuck like rabbits, his phone dings with a notification.
“Dating app?” I ask lightly. He gives me a wry look.
“I deleted that.”
Good , I think, but manage not to say it out loud. Pump the brakes, Remy, you’re not looking for a relationship and this shit is fraught with issues.
“Z is leaving,” Grayson says, tapping out a message on his phone. “He’s riding with Natalia.”
I’d be lying if I said this disappointed me. Evidently this is clear on my face, as Grayson smirks at me .
“So, that means we can leave too, yeah?” I ask, and he nods as he puts his phone back into his pocket.
“Yeah,” he replies. “We can go home.”