10. Harley #2
Well, hell, now what? We can shout at each other, I can try to figure out if he’s a total creeper, or just accidentally ended up where I was.
If he’s not a serial killer or whatever, what then?
Drag him to another seedy club? When he’s already obviously hurting.
I wonder what happened to him. That scar on his face…
The scar has a silvery shine when the light hits it just right, running from his eyebrow down past the edge of the patch and along his face.
Were there more scars underneath his pants and shirt?
Across his chest? His thigh? My fingers twitch at the thought of stripping him and finding out, tracing every mark until I understand what happened to him by touch if not by words.
The impulse is so vivid I almost slosh tequila over my hand.
The eyepatch should make him look harder, maybe even meaner, but somehow it only makes the visible eye more intense. Brown. Warm. Watchful. A man could get stupid over an eye like that, and I am already making a strong case for myself as an idiot tonight.
I apparently remember manners at the weirdest possible time, I offer my hand. “Harley,” I yell, then roll my eyes up toward the speaker mounted too close to our table. “Because apparently conversation needed a soundtrack loud enough to cause brain damage.”
My attention snaps back to him when his hand closes around mine.
His hand is much larger than mine, rougher too, his palm warm and callused in a way that sends something electric straight through me.
The handshake only lasts a few seconds, but I feel it all the way to my core, erotic and startling and familiar in a way that makes my breath catch.
Not familiar because I know him. I don’t. But my body remembers this current.
My hand on a comatose man’s fingers.
A hospital bed.
Machines.
Pale skin.
A pulse beneath my touch and that same impossible spark leaping between us.
My throat tightens.
“Val,” he says.
I don’t think I hear the name so much as feel it land somewhere under my ribs.
The club is too loud, the lights too erratic, the air too thick with sweat and alcohol, and still everything narrows down to the shape of his fingers around mine.
I withdraw my hand because if I don’t, I might do something embarrassing like hold on, but I keep my eyes locked on his face despite an internal debate about whether I’m supposed to look only at his right eye.
I settle on looking at both, patch be damned, because I can’t imagine wanting to be treated like I have something wrong or different about me if I were in Val’s shoes.
God knows I already feel like people can see the damage inside me when they look too closely.
I don’t sit.
Sitting feels too passive, too much like I’m committing to talking, and talking means questions. Instead I toss my drink back in one swallow.
Bad choice.
Whatever tequila the bartender poured me burns like a mother going down, sharper than the last stuff, or maybe my throat has had enough punishment for the night.
I sputter immediately, chest seizing while my eyes water.
Heat floods my cheeks as I cough, and I’m pretty sure embarrassment is choking me more than the liquor at that point.
Val rises fast.
The motion isn’t smooth. There’s a hitch in it, a flash of pain across his face quickly buried, but he is on his feet before I can wave him off.
One dark eyebrow arches perfectly as he looks at me, then he makes a sharp little gesture like he’s whacking something, and it takes me a second to realize he’s asking if I want him to hit my back.
“No,” I rasp, though it comes out more like a dying frog noise.
I want his hands on me, yes, but not like that.
Not in a public club while I’m coughing tequila fumes and looking like I can’t handle my own bad decisions.
I straighten up, realizing only then that I’ve slumped forward with one hand slapped on the table, and wave my other hand at him until I’m sure he gets the message.
“I’m fine,” I mouth, because shouting is out of the question while I’m wheezing.
Val starts to sit again, but I shake my head.
I point toward the entrance, then tip my chin at his drink, trying to communicate without words that he should grab it and follow me somewhere we can hear each other or not talk at all.
Either possibility seems better than standing beside a speaker while my body tries to crawl across the space between us.
Val frowns.
It’s not a soft expression. It borders on disapproval, which should make me defensive, especially after everything. Instead my cock leaks so suddenly I almost curse out loud.
There is no fear in me when he looks like that and it confuses me more than the desire does.
What the fuck is wrong with me? He looks almost angry and it turns me on, after…after everything?
It shouldn’t be true, but it is. Val’s expression doesn’t frighten me at all. Maybe because I don’t think he’s angry. There’s nervousness there too, tucked beneath the scowl. Conflict. Restraint. He looks like a man fighting himself instead of one looking for a way to hurt me.
“Can’t hear ya,” I say, adding what I hope are obvious hand gestures toward the exit.
His frown deepens into an actual scowl and my knees nearly give out.
Slowly, Val pushes himself fully upright.
The movement draws my attention down before I can stop myself, and that’s when I notice the bulge at his groin.
The faded denim does absolutely nothing to hide the length of him, and the darker patch near the tip makes my mouth go dry, then wet, then useless for anything except imagining.
Val seems to realize where I’m looking at the exact same moment, because his hand starts to drop as if he intends to cover himself.
“No!”
I dart forward and catch his wrist before he can hide from me.
The word comes out sharper than I mean it to, but I don’t take it back.
My gaze stays glued to the hard shape behind his zipper, and my mouth waters so much I have to swallow.
My ass clenches on nothing, a small involuntary pull that sends heat shooting through my body.
I think of that cock stretching me open, slow or hard or both, and the fear I expect to rise up simply doesn’t.
Maybe it’s there somewhere, buried under the swarm of butterflies tearing through my stomach, but it isn’t strong enough to stop me.
I start to reach for him with my free hand.
Val steps back before I make contact, literally cock-blocking me with his own restraint.
Disappointment flashes through me so hot and immediate I don’t bother hiding it when I look up at him.
His visible eye is dark, almost black in the club lighting, and his whole body has gone taut.
His throat works when he swallows. His nostrils flare.
He wants me. There’s no way to mistake that and knowing it sends a dangerous little spark of triumph through me.
Then he shakes his head and nods toward the dance floor.
I turn enough to follow the gesture. Men and women dance in pairs and clusters beneath flashing lights. But this isn’t Scoundrels and the crowd here doesn’t have that same loose, open queer energy I was counting on. Val doesn’t have to spell it out. We aren’t somewhere safe for what I want.
For what we both want.
I take two deep breaths and force myself to release his wrist. My fingers resist for half a second, which is mortifying.
Before I turn away, I adjust myself as subtly as I can manage, because my dick aches so badly trapped in these pants that it’s starting to feel personal.
Then I pivot toward the exit, take two steps, and immediately spin back around like my body refuses to move too far from him without checking.
I slam right into his chest.
“Umph!”
God, it’s like walking into a brick wall.
A warm, breathing, painfully attractive brick wall.
I should step back. Instead I take advantage, grabbing onto his hips and rubbing against him just a little.
The hard ridge of his cock presses against me, and whatever worry I had about him keeping up disappears beneath pure filthy interest. At least one part of him is working just fine.
I tip my head back and look up through my lashes. The lighting is too bad to read him properly, but I can feel the tension in him, every muscle locked like he’s one bad decision away from losing control. “Sorry.”
I’m not sorry.
Val doesn’t call me on it, though. He just steps back and puts space between us.
I don’t like giving up the feel of that firm body, but pouting would waste time, and I am very aware of how much I don’t want to waste any more of tonight.
So I turn again and head for the door, feeling his gaze on me the whole way.