15. Dirty Dancing is Now On The List
DIRTY DANCING IS NOW ON THE LIST
Mark
The tequila burns going down.
But it also burns off more of the noise in my head. The did-he-mean-it-didn’t-he-mean-it seesaw my mind has been riding for the last hour.
Or maybe this place has worked its dark and dirty magic. So many of my own fantasies are unfolding in front of me. Other men living out loud, putting their desires on the line with each other.
I haven’t made space in my life for the things I crave. But maybe I can have some of those things. Just for tonight.
But I might need one more drink to get there.
Like he can read my mind, Asher mouths want another? the second I set down the glass.
“Yes,” I say.
“I’ll get this one,” he says, then turns to the bartender, motions for a second shot with his left hand, and sets his right hand on my back.
Oh, fuck.
In a hot second, I go up in flames.
We’re facing the bar, and his hand slides across my lower back, and there is no way that should feel like the promise of dirty things to come.
But it does. Oh yes, it does.
Sparks fly everywhere. Along my skin. Under my skin. Ten thousand fires start in my goddamn cells.
He doesn’t take his palm off me either. He travels his fingers across the fabric of my shirt, and I can’t move.
My body lights up from this simple touch. He says nothing, doesn’t even meet my gaze, and I’m grateful for that.
I just need to exist in the thrill of this contact a few seconds longer. I swallow roughly, let out a low and smoky sigh. I doubt he can hear me, but that doesn’t seem to matter. He knows what he’s doing to me.
I stare at the liquor bottles behind the bar, but I can barely see anything, and it’s not because of my twenty-eighty vision.
My world is simply narrowing to his hand exploring my back.
Asher slides his palm around me, traveling to my hip, covering it with his hand, sending another jolt of pleasure through me as the shot arrives.
“Here you go,” says the bartender.
Yeah, here he goes, all right.
I don’t even grab the glass yet. I just stay like this, since it’s the best I’ve felt in ages.
Curling his hand tighter, Asher grips my hip, hard and possessively.
I groan under my breath. My God, how will I withstand reenacting a single Troliver kiss when a simple touch already turns me on this much?
Somehow, I manage to reach for the tequila and knock it back, then put the glass on the counter right as Asher circles the pad of his thumb over my hip bone.
“Oh hell,” I mutter, dipping my face for a few seconds, then meeting his gaze.
He licks the corner of his mouth, stares wickedly at me, then parts his lips like he’s about to say something.
Before he can speak, I jump off the cliff. “Dance with me.”
His grin is filthy and makes my cock throb. “I thought you’d never ask,” he says, and with his words, the last remaining smidge of nerves turns to ash.
I step toward the dance floor first, and he’s right behind me, his hand on my back again, and it’s borderline possessive, like he’s signaling to everyone else that I’m here with him.
We weave past patrons?they’re bumping and grinding, kissing and shaking?and find a spot near the edge of the dance floor.
In a heartbeat, he moves closer to me, his body swaying to the slow and sexy beat of the music. He looks good on the dance floor.
I’m not a dancer, but I don’t think I need to be. This isn’t a team sport. It’s one-on-one, and I can do that. I mirror him, my hips swaying, shoulders grooving.
Asher stares at me, mesmerized.
There are only inches between us, and that seems like too much. I edge closer, my thigh brushing against his.
“ Yes ,” he murmurs, but I can’t hear his words. I can just make out the shape of my new favorite one on his lips as we dance, slow and sensual.
His hands are back where he seems to like them—on my hips—and it’s probably a prelude to how he wants me, and that’s fine by me.
Everything is just so fucking fine right now.
I don’t touch him yet. I’m still not quite sure what to do with my hands, but I’ll figure it out soon.
As our thighs touch, our knees graze too, and we’re dangerously close. But not quite close enough. I want to erase that last bit of distance.
I take chances every day at work. Iron balls and all.
I lift my hands, and finally put them where I want.
On him.
Then he’s the one looking blissed out as his eyes float closed. I take that as my cue to explore him more. My hands coast down his arms, traveling over his smooth skin, hot from the club, covered with the faintest sheen of sweat.
I like his sweat.
I want more of it.
I get closer, my right thigh wedging between his legs as my hands travel up and down those strong arms. His eyes open and he stares like he can’t get enough of me.
Of the way I’m touching him.
It’s illogical to think I’m any good at this.
But logic has left the club.
I don’t need to be rational right now.
I can be . . . impulsive.
And Impulsive Mark listens to Captain Filthy Mind, who says to just grind against the superhot wingman.
Here I go.
As I press my crotch against his, we dance in a whole new way.
And it is insane.
We become all these other guys in the club, and I’m finally having what I want.
This wasn’t even on my spreadsheet. I never put dirty dancing on my list.
But already, this is the sexiest thing I’ve ever done in my life, as our hard cocks rub together through our clothes.
It’s mind-bending.
It’s circuit-frying.
It’s so fucking good, I hardly know what to do next.
I just don’t want to stop.
So I don’t.
I dance unabashedly, shamelessly, with a man in a club in Miami.
For the next few songs, our bodies collide, hands, limbs, arms, legs. But soon, it’s not enough at all.
I have to have more. I rope my hands around his neck, then bring my mouth to his ear, my jaw brushing along his as I go, electrifying me. He hauls my crotch closer to his, letting me know that whatever I’m going to say he’s already given me his yes.
But he speaks first. “Mark,” he says, loud enough for me to hear. He hardly ever just calls me Mark.
I pull back. “Yeah?”
“I wasn’t teasing you in your bedroom. Not one bit. I was dead serious. Still am.”
I needed that. “Good. I’d like to change my answer then.”
Then I show him my yes.
I smash my lips to his, and my world ignites.
Colors burst, my brain goes haywire, and my entire body thanks me for giving in at last. He tastes incredible, and I feel amazing.
Every. Fucking. Where.
It’s like my world has turned inside out as I kiss Asher St. James on a hot, sweaty dance floor in South Beach, music thrumming though my bones, pleasure humming in my cells.
And the best part of all this is that I know he wants this too. That I’m not fucking up too badly. The way his hands roam up my arms, strong and confident, says he wants what I have to give. The way he kisses me back, fevered and hungry, drives me on.
So do his hands that travel to my ass, curling over my cheeks as he jerks me against him.
All my nerve endings fire at once in a loud snap-snap, pop-pop in my head.
There is just too much happening in my body at once.
It’s a complete overload of the senses as we kiss harder, more desperately, our cocks pressing against each other.
I can’t get enough of his mouth. His body. And I need so much more. The kiss grows more urgent, hotter, hungrier as our tongues skate together.
Nothing about the way he kisses me says there is a single thing wrong with my lack of experience.
Everything about his touch says he wants to experience more of me.
As he deepens the kiss, my hands rope through his shampoo model hair that I want to tug and yank, then let go of while I travel down his body.
And just like that, I’m ready.
I wrench apart, panting, horny, and dead set on the next thing on my list.
2A.
“Let’s get out of here.”
We leave in seconds flat.