“I have an idea though. What size shoes do you wear?”
I smirk. “Big ones.”
He laughs. “Yes. I can tell. Because you have big feet. Seriously though. What’s your shoe size?”
“Twelve. US size.”
“Same. I have a couple of pairs of running shoes. You can borrow some.” He nods toward the end of the block. “Athletic store. Let’s get you some shorts, and we’ll run.”
“You really want to spend our last afternoon together going for a run?”
“It’s what you’d do at home, right? That’s kind of what we’ve been doing today.”
“That is true.” Maybe that’s why I’ve loved it so much, because it feels like a normal day in our normal life where we do all the things we want to do—eat, fuck, walk, run, play, talk.
Everything I want.
The man did not lie. Dean keeps pace with me at a fast clip as we run through the park. Only difference is he wears a T-shirt. I do not.
“Do you always run shirtless?” he asks. “Or just when you leave your clothes behind at the hotel?”
“Does it bother you?” I ask. “Or just distract you?”
“Yes, it bothers me terribly to see you half-naked.” He roams his eyes up and down my frame as we cruise along the path. “Correction: mostly naked.”
“And still all the way distracting,” I toss out.
“Yes, exactly. I can’t focus at all, which is why I’m keeping up with your NHL arse.”
“Cocky,” I say. “And I like it.”
“Thought you would. Anyway, tell me more about how that ice-defender thing works,” he says as we round the next bend.
“You want to know?”
“I want to understand hockey better. I truly do.”
And I swoon.
Then I tell him all about my favorite thing.
Except he might be my favorite thing now.
The golden hour is over. Twilight falls, and we’re in his flat again. I’ve got a towel wrapped around my waist, and my hair is wet, slicked back from the post-run shower. Dean’s the same, towel across his hips, and I stare at his reflection next to mine in the bathroom mirror. He slicks on deodorant, and then I wiggle my fingers in an unsubtle request.
He rolls his eyes and tosses it to me, even though I’m a foot away in this tiny space. He doesn’t have to say a word. I know we’re thinking the same thing, laughing at the same thing. We’re sharing all our shit.
Still, I just shrug as I slide it on. “What? TaskRabbit isn’t here yet with my stuff.”
His buzzer rings. “Guess it’s here now. I’ll take care of it.”
Dean unhooks the towel, lets it fall to the tiled floor, tosses me a feel free to stare look, then gives me a perfect view of his naked ass as he leaves the bathroom. I stare at him shamelessly as he grabs fresh boxer briefs and pulls them on, along with jeans and a polo.
This view. My God, I need this view in my life.
Need it badly.
I pick up his towel, hang it on a hook, then put mine there alongside his.
A minute later, he’s back with the delivery of my suitcase from the hotel. He sets it on the floor.
“Your valet,” he teases, and I open the suitcase and tug on briefs and jeans.
I look at the clock on his nightstand. It’s a little after seven thirty. Time is unwinding, but I’m going to make the most of tonight. And after today, and after last night, and after the other morning, I already have some ideas.
An agenda, if you will.
As I button a short-sleeve shirt, I imagine those things, how they might be. Things I need, things I want. Things that, even a few days ago, I didn’t think I wanted.
But now I’m pretty sure I do.
I’m pretty sure I can see them happening tonight. When I’m dressed, I catch his eye. “Want to hit the town, sexy bartender?”
“Let’s do it, cocky athlete,” he says, and we leave his place together.
When I look back at his flat before I shut the door, I have a crystal-clear image of what I’ll want when I walk back in here later tonight.
But first, food.
34
Dean
After dinner, we find our way into a night club I’ve wanted to check out.
“The drinks here are supposed to be fantastic,” I say as I order at the bar. “Classic cocktails. Good and strong.”
“Then pick something that’ll get me in the mood,” Fitz says with a wink, gesturing that he’s going to hit the men’s room while I order.
“So that’s . . . pretty much anything?”
He salutes me as he heads off. “You know me so well.”
I order the bar’s Snake Bite shot for myself, which is Canadian whiskey and lime juice, and the Godfather for him—bourbon and amaretto. I pick it because I know he’ll like the name.
I carry them toward the back and claim a circular booth as pop music emanates through the dark club. Seconds later, Fitz saunters over and slides in next to me, his hand on my thigh.
“Godfather for you,” I tell him, and he knocks some back.
“Excellent. Don’t forget, I still want your martini.”
“You’ll get it. Someday,” I say.
He takes another drink then drops his lips to my neck. “I want that someday, Dean.”
“I know you do,” I murmur as I take a swallow of my drink. It burns, as it should—a good burn.
He finishes his drink, then tells me he needs another. “Wait. I want something else. Another classic. Pick for me. Perks of dating a bartender.”
That goes to my head quicker than any alcohol. Because whatever happens tomorrow, it does feel like we’re dating.
Hell, it feels like way more than dating.
When the server swings by, I call her over. “We’d love some more drinks.”
She flashes a bright smile. “What can I get for you gentlemen?”
“He’s no gentleman,” Fitz mutters under his breath.
I roll my eyes. “Ignore him,” I tell the redhead.
She’s all pink lip gloss and straight teeth. “He’s hard to ignore. So are you.”
“Thank you. Rusty Nail for my . . .” I pause, then meet Fitz’s gaze, knowing what I say next will make the man ridiculously happy, and it’s a privilege to be able to do that. “My insanely hot date.”
She wiggles her brows. “He is.”
“And I’ll have an Irish Threesome.”
She sets a hand on my shoulder. “Excellent choice. And you’re just as hot.”
“Thanks, love,” I say, then return to Fitz as she leaves.
He stares at me with wide eyes. “‘Thanks, love’?”
I crack up. “Are you jealous again?”
He shakes his head. “No, but I’ve literally never heard you do that whole British thing—hi, love; thanks, love—and now you’re breaking it out with abandon?”
“I said it once. I wouldn’t say I’m ‘breaking it out with abandon.’”
He nods exaggeratedly. “That’s abandon, my friend . . .” He moves closer to me, even though there’s hardly room to get closer. “Also, did you get the feeling she wanted to have a sandwich with us?”
I laugh again. “I did get that distinct impression.”
“Who do you think she’d want on top? You or me?”
“Does it matter? I don’t think she’s getting either one of us.” Then I pause for a split second, a tiny bit of panic wedging itself into my chest. “Wait. You’re not saying you’d want that?”
Fitz rolls his eyes, then slides his hand around the back of my head. “Dude. Shut up. I’m not even going to dignify that with a response. Now get your lips on me, you sexy fucking man.”
I dignify that command with a hot, wet kiss that lasts until the redhead returns with our drinks.
“Here you go, gentlemen,” she coos as she sets them down. Then she lowers her voice. “And I’m Vicky. I’m off at one if you two want to make it a fun night.”
Fitz
clears his throat and wraps an arm around me. “Thanks, love,” he says in his Harry Potter accent. “But we’re going to pass.”
She wiggles her fingers. “Maybe another time.”
And when she leaves, he mouths, Maybe another time, my ass.
I lift my glass. “I will drink to that, for sure.”
He gestures to my cocktail. “Also, you think maybe your drink gave her the idea we’d take her home? What’s in that thing?”
I look at the glass. “Irish cream, Irish whiskey, Irish stout. The only threesome I want.”
My date clinks his to mine, then he dips into his accent again, muttering, “Thanks, love.”
And I imitate him when I say, “But we’re going to pass.”
We finish our drinks as the music slides into another round of pop, until “The Time of My Life” plays, and his blue eyes twinkle with mischief.
Fitz nods to the corner of the club. Men and women flock to the dance floor, some of them coupled up with arms around each other and some shimmying in groups, all of them eager to get their groove on to one of the most cliché dance songs of all time.
Fitz wiggles his brows in an invitation. He expects me to be one of those people.
“Not a chance,” I say.
“You don’t dance?”
“Not to this song. And not well.”
“Who cares? Not me. Not about either of those things.”
“I do,” I say, but Fitz has started making circles on my thigh, making it very difficult to argue my point.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s dance.”
“Let me guess—you’re a spectacular dancer.”
He shrugs with a cocky grin. “I’m not bad.”
“Liar,” I say. “You’re good at everything, with your perfect body.”
He leans in and whispers close to my ear, still making those circles that move dangerously high on my thigh. “You’re one to talk, with your smoking-hot bod,” he says, and the song shifts again. The DJ used a crowd-pleaser to lure more clubgoers to the floor, but now the music shifts to a slow but steady beat.
Leon Bridges.
“Now you have no excuse,” Fitz insists, standing up. “Even you can dance to this.”
“Do you always get your way?”
“I got you, didn’t I?” he says wolfishly.
“Maybe I’m easy,” I tease.
“Maybe you’re hard,” he fires back.
“Around you, that’s an accurate assessment.”
He glances down to where he was tracing those maddening circles on me. In an imitation of my accent, he says, “Why don’t you let me assess it right now?”
I groan, trying to suppress a laugh at his humor, his insistence. “And you think that’s going to get me to dance with you?”
He leans in and nips my earlobe. “I want to dance with you, babe,” he whispers, then flicks his tongue against me, letting out a low, husky “Please.”
And that’s enough. I’m evidently powerless to resist him.
I take his hand and let him lead me to the dance floor. His arms circle my hips. Mine land on his shoulders as we sway together.
Around us, some of the groups of friends have peeled off, but most of them have paired up. They lean into each other, some more closely than others.
Fitz nods at the couples around us. “Do you care if someone looks at us?”
My brow knits. “Because you’re famous?”
He laughs, then turns serious again. “Do you care because we’re two guys?”
“We are? News to me,” I say, being cheeky.
He yanks me closer. “Smart-ass. But do you?”
I laugh, shaking my head, but I’m truly shocked that he’s asking something he must know the answer to. “Is that a real question? You kissed me in the booth ten minutes ago. The server propositioned us. You have your hands on me constantly. You’ve been kissing me in public since I met you. You kissed me on the street outside that wretched softball bar, and on Tower Bridge. You had your arm around me on the boat. We made out in the doorway of my building. All we do is touch all the time. You think I’m suddenly shy?”
He smiles, almost like he’s embarrassed. “I know, babe. It just makes me happy to do it. It makes me happy to know you like it.”
My heart stutters. “Just being ourselves?”
“Yeah. It’s like a reminder of why it’s good to be out. To be open, you know?”
I nod, more serious now. “I do know. I get it.”
For a moment, we just dance, then Fitz asks, “When did you come out?”
“I was sixteen. And you were fifteen, you said?”
“Yup, and when I was seventeen, I went to prom with Brian Levine. A real catch at the time.”
I smile, loving that he knew then. That he was confident. That his family supported him.
“Lucky Brian,” I say. “How did that come about?”
“I asked him with one of these cheesy signs, and he said yes.”
“And your school was cool with that?”
“Benefits of growing up in San Diego, I guess. When I told my mom I was gay, she hugged me and said, ‘I’m so happy for you,’ then she asked me to mow the lawn.”
This thrills me—the lack of drama, his certainty—and not just for fifteen-year-old Fitz. I’ve been the first for some guys. The experiment. That’s dangerous and sexy. It’s intoxicating for the ego but hell on the heart.
“That’s perfect. And sounds just like my father. He said something like ‘Great, and did you finish your essay?’ then asked if there was anyone I had my eye on, and it’s been that way ever since.”
“We’re lucky,” Fitz says, a massive understatement I don’t take for granted.
“We are.” I tip my head toward the redhead. “Have you ever been with a girl?”
He shakes his head. “No. Never even kissed a girl. You?”
“Same. Unless you count Louise Abernathy during Seven Minutes in Heaven when I was fourteen.”
He growls.
I toss my head back, laughing. “You’re jealous of a girl I didn’t even enjoy kissing, an experience that helped me realize I was and am very, very gay?”
“Fine, when you put it like that,” he grumbles.
“Don’t worry. It was pretty clear she was not my type.”
Fitz smirks. “And your type is?”
“Just this inked, bearded, cocky, charming, and addictive hockey player.”
He smiles, a crooked, delicious grin that makes my heart flip. “Good. Because it turns out I’ve got a thing for this sexy, sarcastic, strong, and stubborn British bartender.” He takes a beat, then adds, “But I’m actually glad you knew nothing about hockey.”
His tone is vulnerable, and I latch onto that sound, asking, “Why’s that?”
“Because my job never factored into this thing between us,” Fitz says.
There’s a look in his eyes telling me he needs something from me. He needs me to answer the question he didn’t ask. Because this fact, this underpinning of the night I met him, is part of what’s happening between us. This is part of the why of what’s happening.
My fingers play with the ends of his hair. “This thing between us was never about that. It was never about a name or a number on your jersey. I don’t even know what your number is, and I’ve never watched a hockey game. You could run a sandwich shop, and I’d still want to see you. You could collect rubbish. You could be the head of a company, or you could work in the post room. I don’t care.” It’s an unexpected rush of words tumbling from my lips, but it feels important to say them, to tell him this truth. “None of this is about what you do. All of it is about you.”
For the first time since I met him, the man is speechless. Maybe I’ve stunned him. Maybe I’ve said too much. But he’s never quiet for long, even if he’s speaking with his body.
Fitz slides his hands tighter around me, and there’s a rumble in his throat, an appreciative sound that seems to say thank you in some wordless language
.
He’s so close to me right now, so unbearably close, and yet I still want him closer. I don’t want this moment to end. I don’t want any of this to end.
He slams his mouth onto mine, and it’s heady and wild, and we need to leave really fucking soon.
Fitz breaks the kiss, clearing his throat. “I’ve been thinking about something all night,” he begins in a rough voice full of intent.
“You have?” I ask.
“Been thinking about this since the shower yesterday morning. What you did to me.”
The moment slows. The music warps. Everything comes to a pause with this man and his hands on me and the words he’s saying. What they might mean.
“Yeah?” My mind is buzzing.
“And since last night too. What we talked about,” he adds, a little breathless, a lot hot and bothered.
His blue eyes are intensely focused on me. His hand wraps more tightly around my hip. My skin sizzles.
“Tell me,” I say, desperate to know.
He takes a breath, like it fuels him. “Remember what I said about how I’d let you fuck me?”
All my nerve endings come alive, flickering with possibility, with promise, and the promise of pleasure rushes through me. “I remember it perfectly,” I say in a voice like smoke.
His hand slides up my back to my neck, gripping me. “I want that.”
My mouth is dry. My head is hazy. My entire body is an electric grid lit up.
The prospect of fucking Fitz is going to make me lose my mind.
“I want it now. Tonight,” he says.
In seconds, we are gone.
35
Dean
The door to my flat barely has time to shut before we’re tearing off clothes. We stumble our way to the bed.
Fitz strips off his boxer briefs, the last of his clothing. I watch him greedily as he sinks down on my bed, looking like he belongs there.
He lazily strokes his cock as I shed my boxer briefs and grab the lube and a condom, setting them next to him.
I straddle him, then bend closer to ask something important. “When was the last time for you? Like this?”
A Guy Walks Into My Bar Page 22