Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
JEREMY
Despite the obvious rejection I should feel from the mysterious man’s quick departure, he looks so good walking away that I can’t really be mad.
Despite what people think, I don’t normally just suck off random guys in secluded corners, but he was exactly my type—masculine to his core with dark, thick hair and a beard barely more than stubble that spoke of late nights working in an office.
A manly treat if I ever saw one.
He looked vaguely familiar, and I watched for a while before he noticed me. I could tell when I saw him staring at me wide-eyed from across the room that he was new to this scene—and I don’t mean the gay nightclub scene. The queer scene, in general.
He definitely thinks he’s straight. I’m telling you right now that he’s not.
He looked confused, but he watched the crowd with genuine interest.
I wipe my eyes, stand, adjust my very hard dick, and walk back into the club.
The music reverberates through my body, the bass way too deep.
It’s making my temple throb painfully. I spot Marion by the bar, her arm slung over her girlfriend’s shoulders.
I met Marion at an LGBTQ event in college, and she has been my ride-or-die ever since.
She nods as I approach, giving me a smirk as she pushes her short blonde hair from her eyes. “What did you do back there? Or should I ask who?”
I side-eye her, and my gaze wanders to the coat check where the man is shifting from foot to foot while he waits for his jacket. Poor guy didn’t even say goodbye to Tristan.
Yeah, I know Tris. We’ve been friends for a long time.
Marion follows my gaze and frowns. “Him? I mean, he’s your type, for sure, but he looks spooked. What did you do to him?”
I give her a lazy smile. “A gentleman never tells.”
Marion snorts. “You’re hardly a gentleman, J.”
“I can be a gentleman,” I retort.
Elsie, Marion’s girlfriend, giggles at her side. “I wouldn’t call whatever you did with that poor baby gay very gentlemanly.”
“Whatever.” I look back at the coat check, but the man has vanished. I sigh. “I’m going home, babe.”
Marion’s lips fall into a pout. “It’s early.”
“I know.” My fingers drop to my hip, feathering over the edge of the scar there. “I’m just not feeling it tonight. I’ll call you later, okay?”
Concern flickers across her face when her gaze drops to my hand. I force myself to stop the movement and hug her close. She smells like vanilla, cherries, and vodka, and I breathe her in, feeling a bit more centered.
“I promise I’m okay, Marion,” I whisper, and she nods against my shoulder.
I walk outside, wrapping my arms around myself in a poor attempt to ward off the November chill.
I pick up my pace, heading up the street toward my apartment.
I get catcalls as I go, but it’s not surprising given my attire, and I respond the way I always do: with smirks, flirty winks, and middle fingers. But my heart isn’t in it tonight.
I can’t stop thinking about the dark-haired stranger. The way he tasted. His noises. His thick, perfect cock. His face when I sucked the orgasm right out of him. The way he looked down at me like he already knew me. That part gave me a sense of unease.
He was definitely out of his element at The Pegasus even though he showed up with Tristan Sellers, of all people. I’m definitely going to give Tris hell when I see him on Monday about keeping that gorgeous man under wraps.
I climb the steps to my apartment and pull out my keys. I live in an old building, so the hallway has a certain eau de moldy carpet scent. I pause when I reach my apartment, staring at the new neighbor’s welcome mat.
It’s a hot dog.
I wrinkle my nose as I unlock my door and almost trip when a sleek, black furry body weaves its way through my legs to greet me with a sharp meow.
“Aww, hey, T.” I bend down and run my fingers between his ears. “Did you see their new doormat?” I whisper while I continue to pet him. “It’s hideous.”
These neighbors moved in a few months ago, and the first thing they did was pull up my herbs from the communal garden and replace them with their own shit.
Rude.
Marion said I should talk to them, but I’m not great with confrontation, so I just give them passive-aggressive side-eyes when we happen to see each other at the mailboxes, much to my therapist’s dismay.
I walk inside and empty my pockets into a bowl on the table by the door and pick up Toothless, pressing my face into his thick black fur. He tolerates my nonconsensual cuddling for a minute before wiggling away and running to his food dish. His meow is expectant and a little annoyed.
“Sorry, T. I should have filled it before I left.”
After I feed him, I walk into my bedroom and shed my clothing with a relieved sigh, then walk back to the hallway bathroom in my boxers where I turn on the sink and attempt to wash the glitter from my face.
My mind wanders, unprompted, back to the man at the club, and my dick hardens.
I pat my face dry with a towel and I stare down at the tent in my underwear with an annoyed huff.
I need to get off. No way I can actually relax until I get that man out of my head.
I palm myself and close my eyes, thinking about his brown eyes and dark body hair.
The musky smell of his skin. The way his legs shook when I wrapped my mouth around his thick length.
I moan loudly and push down my boxers, tugging on my dick with sudden need.
I brace my other hand on the edge of the sink as I come with a loud grunt—unexpected and hard—the orgasm leaving me lightheaded and breathless.
I crack open my eyes and take in the sticky mess.
Jesus, there’s even some on the mirror.
“That’ll get him out of my system.” I use a washcloth to clean up my release, then toss it in the hamper.
I need to stop thinking about him because I doubt I’ll see him again.
I leave the bathroom, grabbing an oversized T-shirt from my dresser to throw on, before I pad into the living room, snag my laptop, and tear open a bag of Twizzlers I left on the coffee table. Then I get settled, tugging a blanket over my lap.
T jumps up next to me with a chirp and starts kneading my thigh, his purr a gentle rumble in the silence.
I run my fingers through his soft fur as I pull up my files on Brothers’ Beer & Bourbon, studying pictures of the pub in Vancouver.
There’s plenty of information on the Conner brothers and their success in the Vancouver community, and it’s an impressive story: despite coming from money, the pair managed to open and run the pub without help from their father, one of the wealthiest property investors on the West Coast.
I should know.
I grew up in Brighton, Washington, the same small town as Marcus and Sebastian Conner, and there isn’t a soul living there who hasn’t heard about Skynet Investment Group, which was founded by Martin Conner and his partner Ryan Michaels, when they were in their early twenties.
So when Tris told me Marcus was looking for an interior designer, I couldn’t say no.
This is the kind of publicity my career needs.
I’ve worked freelance design jobs for years, designing healthcare facilities and office buildings, but those spaces are my target niche—and they aren’t particularly inspiring, either.
I’m really tired of clean lines, simple accents, and black and white.
I want the spaces I design to evoke emotions.
I want them to feel personal and intimate.
And I’ve discovered over the last few years that the only way to do that is to open my own firm.
Of course, that requires money and recognition. I’m hoping Brothers’ Beer & Bourbon will be just the stepping stone I need.