Rhys treated him to a wet grin. “Have at it.”
Dylan didn’t need telling twice. He claimed his place at Angelo’s feet, and Angelo tasted amazing. Dylan slid his mouth up and down, flicking his tongue like a precome-crazed lizard, and it was only the need for oxygen that forced him to pull back.
He drew his mouth from Angelo with a pop and gazed up at him. Angelo returned his stare, his eyes hooded as Rhys feverishly sucked his cock, his cheeks stained with a heady flush. He leaned back on the bar and raised an eyebrow, the challenge clear. What ya got next for me?
Dylan smirked. Wait and see.
He stood and relished the distant buzz that came with the sensation of dozens of eyes on him. The thrill of being watched wasn’t as sharp as it had been when he’d first come to the club a few years ago, but he made a show of retrieving a condom from his jeans anyway—for Angelo, as much as their audience.
Angelo’s eyes widened, and Dylan winked, even as his pulse jumped in anticipation of what he’d had in mind since he’d spotted Rhys sucking cock on the other side of the room.
Dylan tugged Rhys to his feet and brought his lips to his ear. “Can I fuck you?”
Biting down on his slick bottom lip, Rhys nodded. “Condom?”
Dylan dangled the rubber between them. Rhys plucked it from his fingers and took Dylan’s hand, leading him to a nearby couch. The leather was cool against Dylan’s heated palms as he bent Rhys over the arm of the sofa. He closed his eyes and imagined that he was sliding his dick into Angelo. His balls jumped, and his soul cried out for the man he was fast becoming utterly infatuated with.
Like Dylan had called his name, Angelo was suddenly behind him, his chest to his back, urging Dylan on as he started to fuck Rhys with long, hard strokes, giving Rhys everything he craved from Angelo.
“Yeah,” Angelo murmured. “I’ve been dreaming of watching you fuck someone, and you’re even hotter than I thought you’d be.”
Consumed by Rhys clenching tight around his dick, Dylan didn’t have it in him to be so coherent. He pulled out of Rhys and tugged him over onto his back. He drove inside him again, and Rhys threw his head back. “Fuck!”
Angelo chuckled and smacked Dylan’s arse. “Damn, my dick’s so hard I’m gonna bust all up your back while you fuck him.”
Dylan imagined Angelo’s hot come splattering on his skin and a bolt of raw pleasure shot through him. He threw a hand out and clawed at Angelo’s muscular thigh. “Do your worst.”
Angelo made an appreciative noise in Dylan’s ear and then disappeared, taking his leg—and all that was tying Dylan down to the world—with him. Dylan clenched his teeth and fucked Rhys faster, bending over him so that their sweat-slicked chests slid together.
“Where did your friend go?”
“Dunno,” Dylan gritted out. “He—”
But Angelo returned before he could finish, pressed up against the backs of Dylan’s legs, his slicked, condom-covered cock probing Dylan’s hole. The intrusion was sudden, and it burned, and the pain was everything. A sharp cry escaped Dylan and he fell forward as Angelo chased him down and seized his hips, fucking into him and pushing him deeper into Rhys.
The sensation of Angelo taking control and fucking them both was mind-blowing. His rhythm started slow but built to a rough ride. Dylan matched his pace, and Rhys came quickly, shooting on his belly before rolling away.
Dylan was absently aware of his goodbye kiss, but with Angelo still nailing him, it didn’t resonate. He bent his legs to take Angelo deeper. Angelo hit his prostate and all bets were off. Dylan moaned and clutched uselessly at the leather sofa. “Harder.”
“What was that?”
“Harder.” Dylan grabbed Angelo’s leg again, pulling him impossibly closer. “Make me come.”
A gravelly groan escaped Angelo. “So fucking hot. I could bang you all night.”
I wouldn’t stop you. But speech was beyond Dylan. He let go of Angelo’s leg and threw his arms out in front of him, flattening his torso and raising his hips. Angelo’s response was instant, and the brutal dig of his cock was blinding. The club melted away. White noise filled Dylan’s ears and snow obscured his vision. His hole clenched, and the first strains of release rocketed up his spine.
“Jesus Christ!” Angelo steadied him, his voice cracking. “You gonna come?”
Dylan could only gasp and finally—finally—grip his own weeping dick and jerk it desperately in sync with Angelo’s spearing thrusts.
Heat sluiced through Dylan like a rampant wildfire. He shouted, arching his back, his nerves as tight as an archer’s bow, and come shot out of him, spurting all over the already slick couch. “Oh!”
The masochist in him cried out for more, and Angelo responded with a flurry of final strokes before he pulled out and ripped off the condom.
Red-hot splatters of come hit Dylan’s back. Angelo’s guttered exclamations were half drowned out by the carnival going on in Dylan’s senses, but Dylan absorbed every grunt and moan like they were his own and was pretty much catatonic by the time Angelo yanked him upright, wrapping his arms around Dylan’s trembling body so tightly that Dylan forgot how to breathe.
“Open your eyes,” Angelo whispered. Dylan obeyed, and Angelo’s strong hand gripped his chin, his fingers digging into Dylan’s jaw, nails scratching through the fine layer of fair stubble. “Look . . . everyone’s watching.”
Dylan stared at the dozens of eyes trained on him. Where their rapt attention had seemed distant before, now it seeped into him, throwing a last handful of kindling on the fading flames. He searched for Rhys but couldn’t find him in the dancing shadows of the club. Would he recognise him after tonight? Did it matter? As Angelo bit down on his earlobe, he lost the ability to decide.
The heat faded eventually. Angelo half carried Dylan to the showers and washed him like they’d been lovers for years while Dylan stared, mesmerised, and tracked a bead of water as it trickled down Angelo’s strong chest. There was so much he wanted to say, but he didn’t speak a word until they were dressed and outside. “Are you hungry? I could murder some dodgy chicken.”
Angelo shook his head. “I’m pretty much done for the night.”
“You sure?” Dylan tried to temper the flare of disappointment. “King Chook is on our way home?”
“On your way home, maybe.”
Angelo’s expression was hard to gauge, and he didn’t give Dylan much chance to try before he dropped his gaze to the floor. They started walking to the junction where they would go their separate ways if Dylan couldn’t persuade Angelo to come home with him. Dylan thought about taking Angelo’s hand, but it didn’t seem to fit. Their only physical contact had been in the club, and away from its safe embrace, Angelo seemed a different man. Angel melted away with every step, and Dylan didn’t know how to bridge the gap. “Are you sure you’re not hungry?”
Silence. Dylan slowed and realised Angelo was already trailing behind. “Angelo?”
“Hmm?” Angelo glanced up from his apparent preoccupation with his shoes. “Sorry, what?”
Dylan stopped walking entirely. “What’s the matter?”
“What?”
Dylan reclaimed his place in Angelo’s personal space. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m fine.”
“Really? ’Cause you look like you’re about to keel over.”
Angelo’s lovely face twisted into a scowl. “Piss off.”
It was nothing Dylan hadn’t endured from Sam, but Angelo’s sudden change in mood still stung. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” Angelo pushed past Dylan and stalked to the taxi rank that was just beyond the junction.
With better ideas in short supply, Dylan followed and joined him at the kerb. “Do you want to share a cab?”
“Nah. I’m going to walk.”
“Walk?”
“Yeah. I’m not going the same way as you, remember?”
“Um. Okay. I’ll call you soon?”
“Sure.”
It would’ve been easier if Angelo had slapped him. The night they’d shared had been fucking magical, and the cold sullenness marring Angelo’s features now made no sense. The date had been his idea, and he hadn’t protested when Dylan had suggested moving things to the club. They’d left in high spirits, and nothing had happened to explain Angelo’s sharp mood change.
A million questions danced on Dylan’s tongue, but the moment to ask them passed as Angelo flagged down a black cab and opened the door, jerking his head for Dylan to get in. Fuck no.
Dylan ripped the door from Angelo and slammed it shut. “Are you taking the piss? That’s all I get? A club blowout and taxi for one?”
Angelo shrugged, his once-expressive eyes dull and devoid of any emotion. “What do you want? We’re not married.”
Wanker. Embarrassment washed over Dylan. Had he completely misread this? Had Angelo’s only motive for asking him out been a third go-round at the club? Ten minutes ago, Dylan would’ve been sure that the answer was no, but as Angelo thrust his hands in his pockets, he wasn’t sure of anything except the need to get as far away from this bullshit as possible. “You know what, mate? Fuck you.”
Chapter Seven
Angelo staggered to a nearby bench as Dylan stormed away, his biker boots thudding against the damp pavement, and every step like a kick to Angelo’s gut. He watched Dylan disappear into the drizzly night and then dropped his head into his hands.
It was a while before he found the energy to take stock of the fatigue that had hit him like a train the moment he’d stepped outside. The wrong kind of heat had spread up from his toes and into every joint, and suddenly it was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other.
Pathetic. He took a deep, shuddering breath and considered standing up, but the thought of what would come next kept him down. With no money for a cab, his only option was to stumble back to the club and beg Carl for a lift home, but it would be hours before Carl was done working.
So he dropped his head again and fell into the kind of doze unique to the illness that was burying him alive.
* * *
“Angelo? Mate? You awake down there?”
The unfamiliar voice roused Angelo, and he looked up to find himself staring into the earnest face of the rugby player Dylan had nailed in the club. His name escaped Angelo, but whoever the man was clearly had a better memory.
“Angelo?” he said again. “You okay?”
Angelo licked his dry lips. “I’m fine.”
“Sure about that? ’Cause I’m a paramedic with the LAS, and you look like shit.”
“LAS?”
“London Ambulance Service.”
It didn’t mean much to Angelo, and the desire to be left alone gifted him a faint surge of resilience. He found a grin from the pit of his miserable existence and plastered it on his face. “I’m all right, mate. Honest. Just had a skin full.”
Dylan’s fuck buddy didn’t seem convinced, but Angelo had run out of energy to care. He uncurled his aching arms and retrieved his phone and made a show of absorbing himself in absolutely nothing until his would-be rescuer moved on.
Silence enveloped Angelo again. His phone slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground. He stared at it, searching for the drive to pick it up and see if the screen was cracked, but nothing happened. The throb in his joints amped up, and nausea crept into his dulled consciousness. He straightened his legs and tried to picture them extended and strong, stretched out behind him as he flew through the air. The scenes that came to him seemed a lifetime ago—a lifetime that held someone else’s dreams.
“Angelo?”
Angelo blinked. His fatigue-fogged brain had been known to play tricks on him, but never with anything pleasant. He shook his head, and a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a sigh escaped him. As if Dylan would come back for him. As if he’d ever speak to Angelo again, let alone kneel in front of him and take his hands.
“Angelo.” Dylan squeezed Angelo’s hands hard enough to bend the bones. “Seriously, if you don’t talk to me, I’m going to get someone from the club, okay? You can’t stay here like this.”
The white spots obscuring Angelo’s vision cleared, and he met Dylan’s wide eyes almost by accident. “What?”
“Come on,” Dylan said. “Talk to me. You can’t just sit here.”
Angelo laughed, but the lack of humour in it apparently alarmed Dylan enough for him to scramble to his feet and put his arms around him. The sensation was beautiful, and Angelo leaned into him, chasing down the warmth that skimmed the edge off the cramps seizing his tired muscles.
Dylan held him close for a long moment, his fingertips grazing the back of Angelo’s neck with feather-light strokes that almost sent Angelo to sleep, but then he pulled away and took Angelo prisoner with his earnest gaze. “What’s wrong? Are you ill?”
“I—” Angelo shook his head. “I can’t move.”
Dylan cupped Angelo’s face, his thumbs now working their magic on Angelo’s temples. “Why can’t you move? Do you need an ambulance?”
“No! No—I just—I need to get home.”
“Okay.” Dylan released Angelo and stood. He said something that Angelo didn’t quite catch and then disappeared.
Angelo slumped down, prepared to accept that he’d never been there at all, but then Dylan was back and draping Angelo’s arm around his shoulders and helping him stand.
“There’s an Uber over there. If I help you, can you walk?”
Angelo honestly didn’t know, but short of spending the night on the bench, he had little choice but to try.
* * *
Dylan unlocked his front door and manoeuvred Angelo inside. The bedroom was the closest place to deposit him, and Angelo didn’t react at all until Dylan had eased him onto the bed.
He gazed around Dylan’s bedroom with a bewilderment that made Dylan’s heart weep. “I don’t live here.”
“I know,” Dylan said. “But you didn’t answer me when I asked you where you do live, so I brought you to my place.”
“You know where I live. It’s on all those forms I filled in.”
“I don’t have those forms. I’m not your guy for that anymore, remember? And even when I was, I didn’t memorise your exact address.”
Angelo braced himself on the bed and leaned forward. Dylan wondered if he was going to be sick, but only a shuddering sigh escaped him. Dylan unzipped his boots and kicked them aside and then went to Angelo and took his hands again. “I can call another cab if you want? Get you home? Or you can stay here for the night and I’ll look after you.”
“Look after me?”
“Yes—if you’ll let me. Whatever’s going on, Angelo, you shouldn’t be by yourself.” Angelo said nothing, and Dylan took his silence as acquiescence. “Lie down, mate. I’ll get you a cuppa.”
Dylan retreated to the kitchen and pottered around with the kettle, leaving Angelo to acclimatise. He hadn’t seemed particularly averse to sleeping in Dylan’s bed, but the possibility that he was too fucked up to protest didn’t leave Dylan’s mind. Absently, he brewed strong sweet tea and took it back to the bedroom with a packet of Jammie Dodgers.
Angelo hadn’t moved and was staring at his feet. Dylan set the tea and biscuits on the bedside table and knelt at his feet again. “Need some help?”
“I don’t know.”
“How about I help you anyway?”
Angelo sighed. “How about the ground just swallows me whole?”
“You’ve fucked me seven ways from Saturday three times now. The world isn’t going to end if I take your shoes off for you. I’ve got plenty of trackies you can sleep in; we’re about the same size.”
“Will you stay with me?”
It was Dylan’s turn to blink. “Hmm?”
Angelo mauled his bottom lip with his teeth. “I don’t want to be in your bed without you.”
Dylan hadn’t given his own sleeping arrangements much thought, but le
aving Angelo alone hadn’t crossed his mind either. He squeezed Angelo’s leg. “Of course I’ll stay.”
He helped Angelo out of his shoes and jeans and then dressed them both in soft sweatpants. Crawling into bed together felt a little surreal, but once they were settled—facing each other, hands clasped—reality kicked in, and the reason they were huddled up in Dylan’s bed returned in the form of Angelo’s soft, pained groan.
“Shh.” Dylan rubbed his shoulder. “It’s okay.”
Angelo shook his head slightly. “It’s not.”
“It is. Just tell me how to help you.”
“You can’t help me.”
“I can try.”
“It won’t work.”
“You won’t convince me of that until you tell me what’s wrong.”
Angelo closed his eyes. For a while, Dylan took it as his cue to mind his own business, but then Angelo apparently returned to the present with another soft sigh. “I have ME.”
“ME?” Dylan’s brain worked to recall where he’d heard the term before. “Is that like chronic fatigue syndrome?”
“It’s the same, as far as I know. Just a different name.”
Dylan scanned his brief encounters with clients who suffered from CFS. He hadn’t had one for a while, but the last woman he’d had to visit at home because she’d been unable to get out of bed. “How long have you had it?”
“A year or so. I’ve got some rare, fucked-up version of it that comes and goes . . . relapsing and something or other. I can’t remember.” Angelo’s words slurred together, and he closed his eyes, his face a study in pained concentration. “Relapsing and remitting. I suppose I’m lucky. Most people with ME are like this all the time.”
“Do you feel lucky?”
Dream_A Skins Novel Page 7