Beach tipped the bottle toward the man, then brought it to his lips, suggestion in the way his mouth covered the rim. Without losing any of his smirk, the man turned back to his pool game, lining up his shot. Beach didn’t know much about pool, but he had a fair understanding of physics, and the shot was at a difficult angle.
When the man spread his arched fingers on the felt to make a bridge for his cue, the strength on display from fingertips to shoulder made Beach’s mouth water. He barely refrained from fanning himself in an imitated swoon. A dip in the music let him hear the sharp click of the colliding resins, the softer thud of ball on bumper. The resurging volume of music couldn’t drown out the groan from the man’s opponent. Beach’s target lined up another shot, and with a shake of hands, the game was over.
As the man rounded the table, Beach transferred his weight to his good leg and contemplated leaving the blasted cane against the bar. He already felt hard muscles under his palms, heard the slap of their flesh as their bodies pounded together. The itch that had driven him here rushed to his cock, pulsing hungry and insistent. Catching the man’s eye, Beach tipped his head in the direction of the bathrooms.
The smirk grew more promising, more pronounced on the man’s handsome face, leaving Beach more determined to see the man follow through on it.
Then the man plucked the plastic triangle off the wall and began racking the balls for another game. He might as well have racked the ones hanging heavy under Beach’s dick. The bastard had turned him down in favor of another game of pool. It was a damned sorry state of affairs when men came to Grand Central to fondle billiard balls instead of each other’s.
Beach dragged his bad leg back up onto the barstool and had almost opened his mouth to order several double Maker’s Marks when the ankle shackle on his other leg caught the footrest. Right. Even that consolation was denied him. And nothing but the threat of the absolute loss of freedom was enough of a deterrent to keep him sober.
With a disgusted sigh, he slammed down the bottle he’d been using as a prop and placed a different order. “Bourbon and soda. Hold the bourbon. And keep ’em coming.”
Beach grew aware of a few other approaches as he drank his utterly impotent soda. But he wasn’t interested. All he could see was that damned smirk. The mesh-and-block-patterned tattoo on the solid shoulder. He had developed a craving, and nothing else would satisfy, though his wounded pride kept him from glancing back toward the pool table.
When three glasses of soda made another need equally insistent, he clamped a straw between his teeth and slid off the stool, propping his cane under the bar. Affecting the rolling stride he’d developed to mask his limp, he headed for the men’s room. He should probably get it checked out again, but a few weeks in a coma and then surgery to put a rod on his snapped tibia had exhausted his tolerance for doctors for the foreseeable future.
The day he needed support to stand long enough to drain the snake was the day he went off a bridge headfirst on purpose. He was shaking himself dry when he heard the door open, but before he could tuck and zip, a hard body clamped around him, and a hand covered Beach’s on his cock.
There couldn’t be two men in the bar with a chest like the one Beach felt against his back. But he snuck a glance at the arm around him to be sure. There was the same intricate tattoo, ending at the elbow.
He felt the voice before he heard it, gravel-rough and smoky-smooth like the best bourbon. The voice alone could harden a man’s cock at ten paces.
“Give you a hand?”
Beach’s dick had never had much pride. It was all ready to forgive the earlier insult, jolting forward at the offer. “Near missed your chance. Thought you weren’t interested.”
“Like hell.” Sweet Lord, the voice was sin. “But I make the first move.”
“You can move it anyway you like if your cock can cash the check your mouth is writing.” Beach pulled his own hand away.
The hot grip was all his cock needed to shift from leaping to lunging for attention, dragging his hips forward in search of friction.
An arm wrapped around Beach’s hips and pinned him back, denial and promise in the press of a cock against his ass.
Beach’s friend Gavin would probably be able to predict the exact inches and circumference from that brief grind. All Beach knew was it was solid, hot and thick, and felt damned good. He pushed back to indicate he was on board with the plan. All he got for an answer was a grunt as he was dragged backward into the end stall. The wider one with the rails. The man wasn’t rough—not by Beach’s standards—simply forceful as he shoved Beach face-first against the tiled sidewall. There was a stone window ledge to lean on, or to grip if things got as wild and fast as he hoped they would. That the other man wanted to take charge was no hardship. The more responsibility someone else took, the more Beach was free to focus on how good everything felt.
Except there wasn’t any feeling good at first. Beach had been ready to go since he set his eyes on his prize, but a hard dick didn’t automatically make his ass soft. He hadn’t been fucked since before his coma. This was where chemicals were so damned useful, right here when he was trying to trade the discomfort of a thick callused finger jamming lube into him for the tingle he knew would happen if that finger curled the right way.
It didn’t.
His jeans were snug enough to stay bunched under his ass after the man had shoved them out of the way, and they made it tough to spread his legs to accommodate the added stretch of another finger. Beach wiped his forehead on his forearms where they rested on the window ledge and tipped his ass up, looking for that good pressure, the way the muscles would give and the nerves would start singing praises louder than the sanctuary choir on a Sunday morning.
He didn’t get it.
He shifted more of his weight onto his whole leg, wondering if he wanted to turn around and see the size of what the man behind him was sheathing in latex before it went up his ass. Then the man grabbed one of Beach’s hands and put it on the smooth, covered flesh. Maybe the guy meant to prove to Beach the condom was on, maybe it was to give Beach some lube on his hand to help him work his own cock, but as Beach’s hand closed around the dick a few inches from his hole, all he could think of was the heft and the width spearing into him. The strain that had been balanced between a throbbing hunger and a gut-churning tension snapped. Beach spiraled into a hot, dizzy space where pain and pleasure were all part of the same beautiful sensation to send him out of his head, better than any drug ever could.
He released the man’s cock and held himself open, rocking back onto the blunt head, wanting to push them faster into the rhythm of the fuck, those few moments of perfection where nothing existed but pleasure.
Beach wanted to rush them, rush himself past the first moment of I-can’t-take-this, but a bruising pinch on the swell of his ass made him lurch forward. Before he could spin around with an affronted remark about not being a cocktail waitress, the man wrapped an iron-muscled forearm around Beach’s waist.
“I make the first move, remember.”
It was a statement, not a question, but Beach nodded. Beach didn’t know how he could forget anything said in that voice. He should have had it available to read him his textbooks in school. Should hire the man to record the latest board of directors’ update.
He wished there’d been a need for more negotiation, the kind of dance he’d come here to avoid. Because then the voice would roll over them, fill the air like fog, the kind thick enough to grab on to. He waited, hoping he’d get rewarded with more of it.
When it came, it curled inside him, an added sensation to build the agony of waiting. “Good.” The voice trailed over him, a hand stroking down his back, rubbing the pinched spot for a soothing instant.
Then the arm around Beach’s waist pulled him back, forcing his hips out so torso and legs made a comfortable angle. Beach smiled, imagining the man lining himself up with the same care he used on his pool shot, and hoped his skill translated.
It
did.
It really did.
The first push had the head in, smooth and easy at first, until the man held them there. Beach’s nerve endings, his pulse, his muscles all screamed the reminder that they were doing this without any of the usual enhancements, that this was the only part about getting fucked he wished he could skip, the sting of too tight focused right there in too small a spot, straining tolerance to the limit. This was the part so easy to forget once everything was friction and heat and pressure.
A harsh breath stuttered, echoed into the tiled space, and the rasp in Beach’s throat let him know it came from him. He’d half a mind to tell this smirking prick what he could do with his first moves and weird pauses. But they were almost there now, and hell if Beach would back down from a challenge.
The man moved, finally, but it seemed to take forever for him to work it in. The scrape and burn had faded, leaving an even emptier craving. The damned bastard better have stamina to make up for the torturously slow entry.
Beach gripped that window ledge with all the strength in his fingers as his ass swallowed up the thick length. By the time the man’s balls swung into Beach’s, his manicure was shredded.
Beach shifted a bit under the grip keeping him tight against the other man’s hips, wanting more, more room in his ass, more movement between them, every bit of sensation. One of the man’s hands was flat on Beach’s chest, the other pinning them together at the hips. Beach was sure the man felt the leap of his heart as someone came into the bathroom, letting in a blast of music before the door swung shut, muffling it again. A scrape of shoes, the sound of a zipper.
No patron of Grand Central would be shocked to stumble over men fucking in the bathroom, so Beach couldn’t explain why tension had his muscles locked, his teeth clenched to hold back any sound. After all, fucking had been about the only item not on the list of things forbidden until his trial.
As the stream splashed into the urinal, the man behind Beach used his mouth to shift aside the hair from Beach’s neck, kiss away the sweat, then draw the already tight skin into teeth, sucking a burning mark to make Beach’s ass throb harder around the rigid heat inside it.
The chuckle the man outside the door gave as he washed and shook dry his hands made Beach’s cheeks flush, as if this was the most outrageous thing he’d ever done—instead of something mildly impulsive.
His exhale as the door closed behind the other man was full of relief.
“What’s the matter? Didn’t want to share?” The voice purred against Beach’s back, across the bite on his neck and into his ear.
Something insaner than usual had gotten into Beach since he’d glimpsed the crinkle of eye above tanned cheek, leaving him damned near broken to saddle, but he found his footing.
“Starting to think there’s nothing here to share. You all talk? Have to go that slow to keep from shooting soon as you get it in?”
Beach expected a rough, if not violent reaction, a quick withdraw and a slam forward, finally getting the pounding he’d been looking for, what he’d known he needed when he parked his car down here on Eager Street.
But despite an even tighter clamp from the man’s arms, it was only a long, smooth, and—damn him—perfect stroke. He shifted Beach, lifting him up and back a bit more. No wonder the guy was so good at pool. He knew his angles, that was for hell sure. And Beach didn’t care if the guy was playing Beach’s body like he owned it; that was what Beach had wanted. This, all of this, was the answer to the itch that had been driving him out of his skin. Steady, deep pressure, exquisite burn on the back stroke. The hand on his chest found a nipple under Beach’s shirt and pinched until Beach gasped, hand dropping to work his cock. He could manage to whisper all kinds of sweet things to a partner when he was the one driving his dick into them, but right then all he could handle was an endless repetition of harsh breaths and moans.
The build inside made his lips and tongue start to shape the word please, as if he couldn’t manage his own climb. It was like he’d forgotten his dick was in his hand. He shivered and started working it, hand and fingers providing all the friction he needed to turn the pressure inside into one hell of an explosion.
The grip of fingers around his wrist was as tight as a handcuff but warm and alive. It didn’t bruise as it tugged, dragging his hand back up to the ledge to join the other, leaving his cock bobbing and pushing on nothing but air.
“No.”
Beach considered himself a pretty open-minded individual, but if there was one word he was downright prejudiced against, it was that one. The barest hint of it had him either openly defiant or looking for a way to dance, charm, or twist his way around it.
He chalked up his reaction to the voice. Had to be the purr of it that made him suck in a gasp as his balls grew tighter, instead of the word creating the urge to tell the guy to fuck himself from now on in.
He didn’t even yank his hand free, although the pressure of the other man’s hand atop it wasn’t enough to keep it resting on the ledge. Since he hadn’t been disappointed this far, he’d see what the guy had in mind.
“Better be worth it.”
The answer was a faster thrust, a renewed sting of skin against teeth on his neck, and a drag of nails against his nipple as a hand found its way under Beach’s shirt. All of it drove electric jolts to spike into his cock, without the answering friction of his hand to ease him through it, to give it a place to build to.
Too much and not enough. But damn, it felt good. He rocked back to meet the thrusts, not caring anymore if the angle was perfect. He needed. Needed rougher and harder to hold back the hunger to come, spilling from his cock and balls, shaking into his hips and belly and arms and chest until he trembled with that much want. The sensations kept building without a crest to ride them out.
What was the plan here? Because Beach was pretty sure orgasms were the endgame, and he was more than ready to collect his and say thanks and good night.
He started to tug his hand free, and the man’s fingers interlaced with his, cock still slamming into his ass deep and hard. It wasn’t that Beach couldn’t get himself off with his left hand; it just wouldn’t be as much fun. And as much as he wanted to defy the bossy son of a bitch, his curiosity won out. Maybe the guy would come and then suck Beach off, which was an appealing scenario.
Beach tightened his ass against the thick pressure, earning himself a gasp that heated his ear.
“Yeah.”
Okay. Beach worked his muscles and drove back harder, increasing the burn of friction for himself and earning the pleasure of constant strokes over his gland. So hot, melting with it, drowning in it. He gave up trying to free his hand, breath whistling out of him.
“Come.” That voice.
He wanted to. Fuck, how he wanted to. But he couldn’t. Not without—“Now.” There was a threat curling under there.
It sparked something inside him, cranked the urgency way past the red line, and still Beach couldn’t. He’d fucked guys who could. He didn’t happen to be one of them.
“I can’t.” The admission dragged at him, sinking him into a chill of disappointment and shame. His body remembered there was a big fat cock in his ass, that both his nipples hurt, that his balls were aching and full.
“Don’t have a choice.” Despite the harsh command, the man’s hand soothed and petted across Beach’s chest, soft lips and soft beard teasing at his neck under his ear.
The man released Beach’s hand and laid a hot palm low on his belly, so damned close to where it would be of some help, and kept fucking him.
Beach looked at his freed hand with fascination, wondering why he didn’t simply grab his dick and finish, then shut his eyes as the man’s rhythm shifted, short quick hard.
“Now.” The man growled it.
Tension and yielding in a giant tangle. Straining for it, knowing one thing would be enough to free him, but he didn’t know what it was until the solid punch of it shocked him. It was everywhere. In his ass. His balls. His dick. Oh
God, so sweet and hot and electric in his dick. A powerful jerk wrung the first shot out of him in a burst of light behind his eyelids, and then all the aftershocks, each one its own slice of heaven as he came back down. Beach found himself wishing their audience had stuck around, because that certainly deserved a round of applause. He’d clap himself as soon as he got his coordination back and got what now felt like a cannon out of his ass.
His bad leg was shaking with exhaustion. Hell, everything felt shaky. Still, he could manage a hand job, though, or even a suck if he sat on the toilet to do it.
The pleasure faded away. There was no high on earth like an orgasm, but the price was that you didn’t get to stay there long, and there was no way to up the dose right away. That was the only downside to sex. The sorry, sagging aftermath. He leaned forward in an effort to get the man’s dick out of his ass and found himself wrapped up in something between a hug and a restraint.
“No.”
There was that word again. “I could—”
“No.” He stretched Beach’s hands back out to the ledge and fucked him.
It hurt. Not in a God-I’m-dying-get-it-out way, but it definitely wasn’t comfortable. And there was no reason Beach couldn’t stop it. The man obviously could have won in a battle of strength, but Beach knew the man would let him go if Beach made it an issue.
No. It had never been a sexy-sounding word before. And even if there was no way Beach was going to be getting off from it, something about this felt good, despite the scrape of the cock in his ass. The man’s hands trailed down his arms, his shoulders, the sides of his chest to land on his hips.
“Good,” he murmured in Beach’s ear, following the comment with a choked groan. “So good.”
Beach’s dick ached as it tried to get back in the game, but he had to content himself with the tingle from the man’s pattern of caresses, the way his breath and beard tickled Beach’s neck. The surprising warmth from listening to the man’s control began to shatter. Beach put a hand back, urging the man closer. Faster.
Bad Influence Page 29