by J. M. Snyder
After Jamal had left, Mitchell had had enough and there’d been no one else since.
He’d stopped looking.
So maybe it was him after all, despite whatever Jamal claimed. Maybe it had been him all along.
* * * *
The bell above the door tinkled quietly as someone entered the bar. Mitchell looked up from the floor and frowned at the young black man standing just inside the double wooden doors. Should’ve locked those.
The man was Mitchell’s age, maybe a few years younger, and wore a bulky winter coat he held closed at the neck with one hand to keep the snow out. His cheeks were a dark red, like cherry-tinted cappuccino, flushed from the bitter wind. As he surveyed the empty room, his dark eyes glistened. When his gaze settled on Mitchell, he grinned, revealing straight, white teeth that almost shone in the dim light. Then he tugged off the striped cap covering his head to reveal a head full of long, tight curls that sprang free above a heart-shaped face. Running a hand through his hair in some attempt to tame it, he called out, “Hey there.”
Despite the late hour and the weariness clinging to his bones, Mitchell found himself smiling back. The stranger’s skin was a smooth, dusky shade the color of heavily creamed coffee. Those eyes reminded him of Jamal’s, but it was his hair that made Mitchell look twice. “Hey yourself,” he replied, leaning on the broom handle. “Sorry, but we’re closed.”
“I figured.” The man looked around again with interest. “My car won’t start. I just wanted to know if maybe I could use your phone?”
His smile brightened, making Mitchell’s heart skip nervously. Damn. He stared as the man unsnapped his coat. Now he’d never get to sleep tonight, thinking of the way that hand ran through those curls and imagining it on his own body, clenching in places he hadn’t been touched in a long time. He wanted to dip his fingers into that hair, feel it in his hands and see those dark eyes staring up at him, hooded and sated, sweat pricked along that smooth brow, those ruddy lips curled around his….
Stop it! He thrust the images away. He didn’t need to think that, didn’t need to make it harder for himself, not tonight.
The stranger cleared his throat and asked, “Do you mind?”
“Mind what?” Then Mitchell realized the man had asked to use his phone. Shaking his head slightly, he grinned. “Oh, sorry. The phone, right?”
The man nodded, and Mitchell leaned the broom against the bar as he walked around behind it. Without taking his gaze off his guest, Mitchell pulled the phone out from beneath the register and set it on the countertop. “Here you go.”
He leaned on the bar, watching the way the man’s tight jeans pulled along his thighs as he approached. The man had strong legs, and when his coat was open all the way, Mitchell saw narrow hips and a slim frame that hinted at more strength. Dear Santa, strike that last wish. You want to leave something under my tree tomorrow morning? This one will do just fine.
Flashing Mitchell those pearly whites again, the stranger said, “Thanks.”
Where have you been all my life? Mitchell wondered, staring at the faint auburn highlights that twined within the stranger’s curls. They shone like copper streaks in the light above the bar. As the man dialed a number, the receiver held against his ear, Mitchell studied the curve of his thick eyelashes, his fleshy lips, his well-manicured fingernails, and wondered who was at home waiting for this one to arrive. Someone had to be upset he wasn’t with them on Christmas Eve. Someone had to be worried sick, wondering where he was and why he wasn’t home yet.
He was probably calling that someone now—a pretty girl maybe, or a sexy boyfriend, someone who would answer the phone breathlessly and drive all the way over here just to pick him up and take him home. If he were mine, Mitchell thought, watching the consternation play across the man’s face as he listened to the ring of a distant phone in his ear, I wouldn’t let him out of my sight. I’d fly over here and snatch him back and hug him close, and his car would never break down. His life would be breakfasts in bed and long nights full of kisses, and there’d be a dozen expensive gifts under his tree just waiting to be opened tomorrow….
“Hello?” The man glanced at Mitchell as he picked at the buttons on the phone. Mitchell held his breath, waiting. “My battery’s dead. Sure, I’ll hold.”
Hold? Mitchell thought. That was odd. “You calling home?”
The man laughed and shook his head. “The dog wouldn’t be any help to me now. I’m calling Triple A. This is why I have them, right?”
Mitchell felt that skip in his heartbeat again. So you’re alone too. Before he could think about it, before he could stop himself, he reached across the bar and touched the stranger’s hand.
The skin was cold beneath his fingertips, so soft but oh so cold. “You’re frozen.”
“It’s chilly out there.” The stranger’s voice was a whisper, and his eyes widened as he watched Mitchell’s fingers play across his knuckles. His other hand relaxed its grip on the receiver.
Surprising himself, Mitchell asked, “Would you like me to warm you up?”
Slowly, that dark gaze rose to meet his, and the look Mitchell saw in those eyes gave him the answer he needed. As the man swallowed with an audible click, Mitchell reached under the bar and pulled out a shot glass. Without looking away from that blazing gaze, he filled the glass with whiskey. “What’s your name?” he asked, pushing the glass towards the man.
“Romy Lariner,” the stranger replied. “It’s short for Romeo.”
“Romeo.” Mitchell rolled the name over on his tongue and decided he quite liked the way it sounded in his voice. “I’m Mitchell. Are you still on hold? I can give you a ride, if you want.”
“A ride?” Romy asked, as if he’d never heard the word before. He dropped the receiver back into its cradle, his gaze never dropping from Mitchell’s. “You sure?”
Shrugging, Mitchell nudged his glass closer. “If you want.”
Romy snagged the shot glass and threw it back. Mitchell watched Romy’s throat work as he drank the alcohol, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow. When he set the glass down again, drops of the liquor beaded on his full lips, and Mitchell bit the inside of his cheek to keep from leaning over to lick them away.
Jesus. What’s gotten into you tonight? One minute you’re Mr. Lonely Heart, then he walks in—poof! You’re ready for action. With those curls and those lips, and that hard, tight body that would feel so good pressed against his? Hell, yeah.
“I can take you home,” Mitchell offered again, moving to refill the glass.
Romy covered the glass with one hand. The hint of a wicked grin played across his face. “Yours or mine?”
So he wasn’t the only one thinking such sordid thoughts. A small smirk toyed at the corner of Mitchell’s mouth. “Let me finish cleaning up here and then you tell me where you want to go. How’s that sound?”
“Promising,” Romy admitted. He leaned back against the bar as Mitchell came around the counter to retrieve his broom. Romy’s gaze trailed openly down Mitchell’s body to linger at his waist.
Suddenly Mitchell appreciated the dim lighting that hid the blush creeping into his cheeks. When he turned his back to Romy, he felt the man stare at the way his jeans hugged his buttocks, the denim pulling tighter with every brush of the broom across the floor.
It’d been forever since he’d felt like this, this hard, this horny, for someone he’d just met. Someone like Romy, watching him with such audaciousness, as if he wanted Mitchell just as bad as Mitchell wanted him. Sure, there had been a few offers here and there, drunk patrons looking for a quick fuck or a free drink, but Mitchell never mingled with the customers. He’d met Jamal that way, and look how that had ended.
He wondered if it were just loneliness making him feel this way—as if the world were aflame, the edges of his vision on fire and crinkling with lust. Or maybe it was something more, some sort of deeper attraction, something that might make it past the tinsel and the mistletoe. Mitchell didn’t know, but h
e was dying to find out.
As he swept, he tried to concentrate on the steady skritch skritch of the broom across the floor, but it was difficult with the heat of Romy’s smoldering gaze burning his backside, and damn if he didn’t hear a small groan behind him when he bent over to pick up a discarded quarter from the floor. Like what you see?
Apparently Romy did, because when Mitchell stood up again to pocket the quarter, the man was right behind him, hands on Mitchell’s hips, voice soft as it curled into Mitchell’s ear. “You almost ready?”
“Almost.” Mitchell side-stepped easily out of Romy’s reach. One hand trailed over his ass, catching in the back pocket of his jeans and giving a playful tug before it fell away.
Was it so bad they had just met? Mitchell didn’t think so, and he couldn’t wait to lock the doors behind them and lead the way to his car. Maybe on the way home—whose home, he wondered, mine or his?—maybe he’d let his hand drift to Romy’s knee. He could imagine the warm denim beneath his palm. Maybe Romy would curl his fingers into Mitchell’s, and maybe they’d make it as far as the bedroom before they gave into this sudden attraction between them….
A million maybes filled his mind, but he had to finish here first. Nodding at the jukebox in the corner, Mitchell suggested, “Why don’t you put on a song?”
Romy caught his hips again and pressed against him. A hardness pushing between his buttocks told him he wasn’t the only one aroused by their encounter. “I don’t have any change,” Romy murmured, his lips so close to Mitchell’s ear that his breath fanned along his neck, leaving a trail of flame in its wake.
“I’ve got some. In my pocket.”
He held his breath when Romy’s hand eased into the front pocket of his jeans. Fingers fumbled through a jingle of coins before finding what he wanted, and Mitchell closed his eyes at the gentle touch along his budding erection. With a soft moan, Mitchell leaned his head back to rest on Romy’s shoulder as those fingers worked in his jeans, stroking his hardening length with an almost forgotten caress that brought a gasp to Mitchell’s lips. A warm mouth kissed his neck, a hot tongue licking down his throat before hard teeth nipped at his collarbone, just a tiny bite, just enough to make the dick in his jeans a little thicker, a little more rigid.
“Romy,” Mitchell moaned. Because he liked the way that sounded, he sighed the name again. “Romy. God, please don’t stop, whatever it is you’re doing, don’t stop now.”
“You like that?” Romy whispered into Mitchell’s neck. Through the double padding of his pocket and underwear, Romy’s hand closed over the aching tip of Mitchell’s dick, squeezing gently.
Mitchell gasped, the broom gripped tight in both hands, all thought of sweeping or playing a tune on the jukebox forgotten. “Yes,” he sighed. “God, yes.”
With a flurry of little kisses just under Mitchell’s jaw, Romy asked, “What’s a pretty boy like you doing out alone on a night like this? Christmas Eve, and you’re stuck sweeping a bar. Who’s waiting for you to come home?”
“No one,” Mitchell managed, leaning back as Romy eased his free hand into the other pocket of his jeans. Strong arms hemmed him in, and firm fingers worked at his hidden erection. The broom fell from limp fingers to clatter to the floor; Mitchell placed both hands over Romy’s, massaging them through his jeans.
Romy’s coat hung open, and Mitchell leaned against his chest, enveloped in the warm, musky scent of a cologne that wafted around them, rising like steam from their heat. He arched his hips back to grind the solid erection against his ass. With nimble fingers, Romy reached into the depths of Mitchell’s pockets, rubbing soft skin with a maddening rhythm. Mitchell hadn’t felt this touch in so long he’d forgotten how good it was to have hands other than his own pleasing him. The thought of his body naked and sweating against Romy’s, the scent of their sex heavy in the air, this hardness against him thrusting in, again and again, his hands fisted in those curls, his lips swollen with kisses from that pretty pout….
Forget cleaning the bar, he was finished here. They’d be lucky if they even made it as far as the bedroom. “Come on,” Mitchell sighed, hating himself when he stepped out of Romy’s embrace. Turning, he let his gaze travel brazenly down the hard, strong planes of the body hidden beneath Romy’s clothing. “I’m not going to lie to you, Romy. It’s been years since I’ve had a lover, and I want you so bad right now, you just don’t know.”
Romy smiled that toothy grin of his. “Maybe we don’t need to hurry out just yet,” he suggested, reaching out to catch the front of Mitchell’s jeans in his hands. With a quick jerk of his wrist, the snap on his fly opened, and gentle fingers eased the zipper down slowly. One forefinger trailed after the zipper, tracing Mitchell’s cock through his underwear. “Maybe I’m just as turned on as you, and maybe I have a suggestion or two on how to take care of this.”
He poked at Mitchell’s open crotch, eliciting a gasp. His fingers dug down into the base of Mitchell’s zipper and, with a tug, Romy pulled him closer.
“That’s a lot of maybes,” Mitchell whispered as Romy’s hands slid into the front of his jeans. His hands eased up Romy’s arms, kneading the unyielding muscles beneath his palms. “Maybe things are moving too fast.”
Romy brushed his nose against Mitchell’s cheek, lips soft against his skin, breath feathery and humid. “Do you think so?”
Before Mitchell could answer, Romy’s mouth closed over Mitchell’s own, tongue licking across his lips before diving inside, exploring, tasting, hungry.
Mitchell moaned into the man, hands caressing Romy’s arms and up, over his shoulders, to plunge into the mess of curls and press him into a deeper kiss. Releasing his hold on Mitchell’s crotch, Romy ran his arms around Mitchell’s waist to cup his buttocks, squeezing lightly as their erections rubbed together. “Oh God, please,” Mitchell sighed. As far as he was concerned, they weren’t moving fast enough.
Losing himself in Romy’s kiss, Mitchell took a step back, his hands on Romy’s clean-shaven face now, on his chin and jaws and cheeks. As he stepped away, Romy’s hands slid around his waist and caught onto the front of his jeans again, keeping him from going too far. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Please,” Mitchell started, but that was all he managed before Romy kissed the tip of his nose, then silenced him with another kiss, a sweet crush that left them both breathless and wanting more.
Mitchell took another step back and Romy followed him, the shuffle of his sneakers loud in the empty room. “This way.” Mitchell took both hands in his and led the way to the large pool table in one corner of the darkened bar. The green felt looked like a manicured lawn, with cue balls racked at one end in a perfect triangle, waiting for the next game. When they reached the table, Romy tugged at the waistband of Mitchell’s jeans, pushing them to his knees in one fluid motion.
Mitchell hooked both thumbs into his briefs and bent as he pulled them down. The moment his pale butt cheeks cleared the fabric, he felt hands on his hips, his ass, then a wet tongue licked the cleft between his buttocks. Mitchell’s cock went from semi-rigid to omigod YES as Romy parted his cheeks to plunge his tongue between them. Forgetting his underwear, Mitchell fell heavily against the pool table, nails clawing at the wooden veneer as that devilish tongue swirled at the center of his being.
“Yes,” he sighed, as Romy nipped at tender skin, his tongue licking between Mitchell’s legs to touch the back of his balls before returning to rim the clenched skin of his anus. “Yes, God, please. Yes. Yes.”
Romy took his time, tracing the puckered flesh, chasing each lick with a little bite. Mitchell stood on his tiptoes, back arched, butt in the air, legs splayed as far as the jeans still around his ankles would let them go. His knees threatened to buckle at any moment, dropping him to the ground. Sensations crashed through him, sweeping him away, blinding him until all he knew were those hands on his ass and that tongue, sweet Jesus Christ, that tongue, tasting the very core of him. His buttocks flexed, his cock wept, and it looke
d as if Santa had heard his Christmas wish after all.
One hand strayed to his dick to relieve the ache there. Romy must’ve seen the movement because he took one last nibble on Mitchell’s tenderized hole before kissing his way up between his buttocks to the small of his back. As he continued farther, nosing Mitchell’s shirt up, he wrapped his arms around Mitchell’s waist and hugged him back.
Mitchell glanced down—dark hands crossed over the flat of his pale stomach, a familiar image he hadn’t seen in quite a while. He loved the way a black man’s hands looked against his white skin, so primal, so decadent, so different from his own flesh, like shadows dancing over light. Below Romy’s fingers, the tip of Mitchell’s hard dick pointed at the pool table. One of Romy’s hands slipped lower, entangling in kinked blond hair, before grasping the base of Mitchell’s shaft.
Yes.
Quickly Mitchell stomped in place, stepping out of his jeans and underwear. He turned and caught Romy in a hungry kiss, his hands fumbling with the buttons on Romy’s fly until he had it open, and then Romy was in his hand, his own jeans joining Mitchell’s on the floor. With long, even strokes and demanding kisses, Mitchell brought Romy’s half-mast dick to a thick hardness between his palms.
Now it was Romy’s turn to gasp. “Please.”
Without further encouragement, Mitchell squatted in front of him and took the hard length into his mouth. The tip was already salty and weeping—they were both so damn close. Mitchell twirled his tongue down around the tender skin, the heat of his wet mouth causing Romy to thrust into him as his knees trembled slightly. His hands fisted in Mitchell’s hair as Mitchell held Romy’s thighs for support. “Oh God, please,” Romy sighed, the words tumbling from him in a rush. “Please, oh please, oh Jesus Christ, please.” His voice dissolved into a breathy moan as his fingers clenched into Mitchell’s hair, pushing himself in deeper.