30. Lance #2
George takes a slow sip of his whiskey. “I’m not.”
The guy glances at me, amused.
“You’re right,” I say immediately. “He looks worse than he actually is.”
George gives me a flat stare.
The guy chuckles, resting his chin briefly against his hand while openly admiring George like a painting in a museum.
“Seriously though. You’ve got intense top energy.”
I nearly choke on my drink. My friend doesn’t even blink.
The guy grins at me, his eyes lingering on my face a beat longer than they do on George. “You’re cute when you short-circuit. Exactly my type.”
Excuse me?
I open my mouth, but nothing intelligent falls out. George stirs beside me—barely anything, just a slight adjustment of his shoulders and a slow turn of his head.
But the change in energy is immediate. The air around him thickens with unmistakable possession. His hand rests casually on the bar, but the look he burns into the guy makes it crystal clear that, whatever this man might be hoping, he and I are not compatible in any way.
The man straightens up fast, like some ancient survival instinct just screamed at him that he’d wandered too close to another man’s territory. And that the short-circuiting cutie he’s talking to is very much claimed by the big, silent one.
His smile turns polite and still friendly as he backs away smoothly.
“Pleasure,” he mumbles, already retreating with impressive grace.
I slowly turn toward George.
“Did you just ward off my potential new friend with sheer eye contact and aura?”
George grunts into his whiskey.
“You looked at him like you were deciding where to bury the body.” I point accusingly. “That man wanted me.”
“That man wanted free drinks.”
“He can want two things.” I insist.
And then, because apparently the universe enjoys balance and dramatic irony, two gorgeous little twinks approach George about ten minutes later.
They’re not subtle about it either.
The bolder one actually reaches out and touches George’s forearm, his fingers lingering. “God, your shoulders are insane,” he exclaims, voice bright.
George handles it with his usual polite but slightly awkward grace.
He gives one-line, to-the-point answers the way he always does when people openly flirt with him and can’t escape into an engine bay somewhere.
He’s not rude, just…George. A little out of his element in the face of overt admiration.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting there and abruptly become emotionally involved, against my will.
The smaller one laughs at something George says, tilting his head with clear interest.
I narrow my gaze immediately.
George notices, of course. Slowly, he turns his head and looks over at me. And the bastard smirks, as if saying he knows exactly what I’m doing.
“You done glaring?” he asks, clearly amused, after the two men finally drift away. “You should see yourself looking primed for a fight.”
“You seem overwhelmed. You have the social instincts of a raccoon trapped in a Home Depot bucket.”
George pauses, then he laughs. I feel weirdly victorious about it.
The night settles around us after that. Music pulses warmly through the room. Glasses clink. Men dance beneath amber light. Someone sings badly near the back booths while his entire friend group boos him with loud affection.
And sitting there half-drunk beside George, I realize something important.
This place feels both foreign and familiar at the same time.
That’s the good part. It feels like finding a community in your own city you somehow never knew existed. Same world, same map, but different gravity.
I watch two older men slow dancing near the edge of the floor, smiling at each other like they’ve been doing this for a lifetime. Nobody stares. Nobody cares. They just exist—easy, open, free.
And maybe I’m still standing slightly outside all of it, not fully sure where I fit yet, but for the first time in a while, that uncertainty doesn’t feel frightening.
It feels exciting.
Beside me, George nudges my shoulder lightly with his own.
“I think,” I tell him honestly, “I could get used to this very fast.”
Then, I stop thinking. I just grab the moment.
“G. Dance with me.”
“No.”
“Come on,” I coax, leaning in. “Just one song. I’ll be gentle.”
He gives me the flattest look known to man.
“Fine,” I say, standing up. “I’ll go alone, but I’m going to look tragically hot out there and you’ll have to live with that.”
I head for the dance floor. The music wraps around me, warm and inviting. I don’t go far, just enough to move with the beat and feel the energy. Another man dances near me, friendly and smiling, but he doesn’t touch me. No one does. I keep glancing back at George the whole time.
He’s watching me, and the look on his face makes my entire focus stutter for a second. I dance for another minute, feeling bold and a little giddy, before I make my way back to the table.
George hasn’t moved. His expression is the same grumpy-neutral it always is, but his eyes are darker.
I slide back onto my stool, a little breathless. Then George reaches into his pocket.
The first pulse hits me without warning.
A deep, rolling vibration blooms inside me, right against my prostate. A low, helpless moan slips out before I can cover my mouth. My knees nearly buckle. I grip the edge of the table so hard my knuckles go white.
“Fuck—” The word escapes. My drink sloshes dangerously in my glass.
Here’s the thing: I know. And I fucking know I was being stupid.
Earlier tonight George sent me one single growled text telling me to put the anal vibrator in before we left.
I’d actually been planning to wear the plug instead—something to keep me nice and prepped for him when we got home, like the eager idiot I apparently am.
And I had to be a helpful little slut and left the remote sitting right on the console of his truck, like it was my phone or sunglasses.
Now this evil, smug mechanic is remotely bullying my prostate in public, as if it’s his new favorite stress toy.
George takes a calm sip of his whiskey, acting perfectly innocent. The corner of his mouth tugs as if he’s fighting a smile.
The vibration deepens into a steady, rhythmic thrum. Heat floods straight to my cock. I lean forward, elbows braced on the table, trying desperately to look normal while pleasure rolls through me in heavy waves.