The sound that comes out of my throat is already ridiculously close to a plea. He grins devilishly.
“Anything you want to ask me?”
Jesus. I have no pride. I have only desire. “Please?”
His hand returns to groping my cock through my trousers. “Please what?”
His mouth is close to my ear now, so incredibly close, close enough to feel his hot breath on my skin, and I whine a little when his tongue sneaks out to trail a wet path from my collarbone to my earlobe. My neck is probably the second most erogenous zone on my body after my dick. I feel a little faint.
“Please touch me?” I manage.
“Just touch? I am touching you.” It’s true. His slender hand is slow but sure through the fabric. “I could fuck you so hard you forget your own name. I could make you cry by putting my cock in you, you realize. I could suck you off right now, and it would be sweeter than anything you’d ever felt. Look at me. Look.”
He grabs my jaw, forcing me to meet his eyes. I’m terrified and more than a little embarrassed, but I can’t resist his strong grip on my throat. I look. His eyes are like fire.
“Please fuck me.” Finally, the words are out there. They linger in the dark Chicago air around us. I’m not sure whether I want to scream them out for everyone to hear or take them back, I’m just sure they’re true.
“Not now.” His voice is casual, as though I’ve just offered him a snack instead of my ass. It’s arousing beyond words. “Wouldn’t want to satisfy you all at once, now, would I? A gorgeous thing like you should come back for more sometime soon.”
He grinds our hips together, and for one heart-stopping moment I can feel the outline of his cock through the silk gown. It’s impressive.
“I think a blowjob will do for now.”
Before I can protest, he’s actually down on his knees in the filthy alley and he’s unbuckling my belt with determination. As his fingertips graze the edge of my pubic hair, any objection fades from my mind. All I can think is yes. Yes. Yes. He yanks my boxers down and in the next moment, completely undoes my composure. He presses his face close to my length, inhales deeply as though he fucking loves the smell of cock, and slowly smoothes his tongue from base to tip. My mouth opens in a silent scream. There are no words for this. Then, suddenly, he engulfs me entirely in his mouth. He does an admirable job of taking the whole thing down at once, swallowing as he goes. It feels slick and soft and tight with suction all at once. He moans a little. I can feel the sound reverberate all the way down to my toes.
I daren’t touch his hair, although it is curly and luscious and thick, and some strands are glistening in the streetlight. Because this man is my every erotic dream come to life, and because apparently that position comes with mind-reading powers, he reaches up for my hands, clenched in fists by my sides, and leads them to his head. I was right; he has the softest hair in the world.
I struggle valiantly not to push him down and make him gag. I struggle in vain to stave of my encroaching orgasm. I can feel it start to tingle in my extremities and down my spine, and it’s almost frightening in its intensity. His mouth is still working steadily up and down my length. It’s so good. It’s so good.
He moans. I realize I’ve been muttering my praise aloud, but I don’t have the energy to care.
“It’s so good,” I mutter. “You’re so gorgeous. Oh, yes, baby, exactly like that. Oh, oh, I’m going to…”
And then I come, and he swallows it all down with ease. I look at the way his adam’s apple bobs. The sight almost gets me ready for a second round. He stands, grinning as though he’s read my mind again, and wipes the corner of his mouth with one dainty finger. His eyes are twinkling with delight.
“Can I?” I want to offer him something in return, but I also desperately want to find the nearest flat surface to pass out on.
“Nah,” he assures me. “I’m good.”
Then, to my astonishment, he pulls me closer with one arm around my waist and kisses me right on the mouth. His lips are skilled, delicate, gorgeous, with just the barest hint of tongue. The kiss tastes a little like my come, but that only gets me excited all over again. He winks at me, then turns around to go back inside.
I don’t even notice his business in my back pocket card until I’ve stumbled back to the hotel.
Chapter Three
Pixxie’s contract arrives early the next morning. My head is pounding with a hangover and Quentin’s card is burning a hole through my pocket. I’m beyond relieved to find that I haven’t blown it with Juniper Jeans, but as the alcohol has faded from my bloodstream my embarrassment has doubled. I daren’t even put his number in my contacts.
I sign everything and have the driver take me to Pixxie’s office. She’s there herself to greet me, looking ridiculously chipper for someone who had five cosmos last night.
“How was it?” she asks.
I raise my eyebrows. “You were there.”
“Yeah,” she sighs. “But how was it after I left?”
I think for a moment that this is a highly unusual conversation to have with your client. “Fine?”
“Did you run into him?”
Realization hits. “You set me up.”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course I did. Now, go text him.”
That’s when I lose every semblance of professional attitude. “What should I say?”
Impatiently, she grabs my phone out of my jacket pocket, Quentin’s card sticking to it with a mixture of sweat and last night’s liquor. I blush. When she gives the phone back to me the message in my outbox says: “Hey gorgeous. I had fun last night. How are you?”
The response is quick. Pixxie squeals when she hears my phone chime.
“I’m guessing this is bespoke trousers guy?”
How does one respond to that? “Yeah,” I type back.
My phone chimes again. Disappointingly, it’s my dad. “Did you get that promotion yet?” Charming. Typical of him not to enquire after his only son’s wellbeing. I don’t bother to respond.
Then there’s another message from Quentin. It says: “Sweet.”
I can’t think of anything to say to that. I’m still annoyed with my dad.
There’s another message as the driver takes me to the train station. Quentin says: “You okay?”
It surprises me a little. I didn’t think we were going to have that kind of conversation. Then again, I texted him at 9:30 AM. Not exactly the time for dirty talk.
“Yeah,” I type. “Just work stuff.” Three seconds later it dawns on me: “Shit, did I wake you?”
“Nope,” he writes back. Would he be the kind to pop his p’s, making them sound sharp and melodious? I can’t picture it. “I don’t sleep much. What work stuff?”
Is this the kind of story I want to tell a perfect stranger? The answer comes back to me: it’s the kind of story you don’t tell anyone, so why not confide in a stranger?
“My parents are unhappy about my career choice. I’m being pressured to do well because if I don’t I’ll just prove them right.”
The answer comes back quickly: “I think it’s amazing that you dare to follow your dreams.”
I don’t write back. All I can think to say is: “So why are you a stripper?”
Chapter Four
I do end up texting him again the moment I get home. “Back in Milwaukee. Have you always lived in Chicago?”
“Yes,” writes Quentin. “I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Milwaukee?”
That’s kind of cool. “I’m from Milwaukee,” I explain. “Not particularly fond of it, though.”
He sends back a smiley face. It makes me smile.
Over the days that follow, we keep exchanging messages. When I bake a delicious lasagna, I send him a pic. In response I get a photo of his ass in jeans. The caption says: “Wouldn’t you rather eat something else?” I’m eating the lasagna with my brothers when I get that message, being mocked for my supposedly “gay” or “feminine” hobby:cooking. I almost c
hoke on the pasta when I read the fucking caption. I have no reply. Fortunately, Quentin isn’t discouraged by my silence. I get another picture, this one of his ass in gray boxers.
Later that night, I send him a picture of the empty oven tray. “Will be in Chicago again next week. You want to meet up?”
In response I get another smiley face. I’ve never been so happy to see an emoji before.
“Let’s go to the zoo” he adds.
I send back a question mark.
He explains: “I need some inspiration.” As far as explanations go, it isn’t much.
“Inspiration for what?”
“I design jewelry. I’m working on a line inspired by wild animals.”
“That sounds awesome.”
He sends me a folder of pictures, each with a piece of elegantly designed, understated jewelry for men. This time it’s my turn to respond with a smiley. I’m crushing on this designer-gone-stripper so hard.
Of course I’m nervous on the way to the zoo. Just because we get along digitally doesn’t mean we will have any sort of meaningful conversation in person. Besides that I’m sure to be distracted by his gorgeousness and will probably say stupid things. He’s waiting for me when the driver pulls up at the gates of Lincoln Park. He’s wearing a knitted navy sweater under a long black coat. His hair looks the same way it did at Tease, curly and all over the place. Somehow the effect this time is casual rather than provocative. Under the harsh red spotlights I hadn’t noticed the color of his eyes; they’re the devastating greenish blue of the Chicago river. I feel myself go weak in the knees.
He greets me with a kiss on the cheek: it’s chaste and sexy all in one. I manage a weak “Hi.” The casual intimacy with which he slings an arm around my waist is startling but pleasant.
“I already got us tickets,” he says. I suddenly remember the sound of his voice whispering in my ear about wanting to make me beg, and I blush a little. He gallantly pretends not to notice.
“Any animals in particular you want to see?” I manage.
“I love all of them,” he admits. “I was mostly thinking of exotic birds for the jewelry though. You?”
“Sounds wonderful.” After a brief hesitation, I add: “If they still have those sloths I want to see them.”
This earns me a beautiful deep belly-laugh. “I’m pretty sure they still have those sloths.” Without hesitation, he starts leading me to the sloth exhibit.
“Did you have a pleasant journey?”
I’m a little dazed. “Yeah.”
He’s smiling. “Took the train?”
“Yeah.”
“Have a crush on me yet?”
Without noticing, I mutter: “Yeah.”
His laugh brings me out of the daydream where he and I are engaging in some heavy petting just outside the petting zoo.
“Hey, wait!” I say. “That’s not fair, you tricked me into saying that!”
“Couldn’t have tricked you if it weren’t true,” he teases, but then adds in a softer, sweeter voice: “I have a bit of a crush on you too, baby.”
I might be in deeper than I’d previously thought. It feels pretty great.
Before we say goodbye he kisses me. I’m startled, of course. I always am by those things. He just grabs me by the collar of my jacket and pulls me close enough that I can feel his breath on my jaw. I’m not breathing, myself. I’m just waiting for his next move. It comes, of course: he kisses me. I put both hands on the soft material of his sweater, under the coat but not quite against the warmth of his skin, and I let it happen. I’ve never been kissed like that before.
I’ve never been kissed like it mattered, and it’s intoxicating. I’ve spent enough time already staring at his lips, imagining what they would feel like on mine: thick and soft and sure. The reality is a thousand times better, because on top of all of those things I imagined there is a nimble tongue and two slender hands circling around my waist. He makes me feel small and safe. It’s not like our previous kiss in the alley; this time, there’s no rush. He kisses me and kisses me and kisses me as though there’s nowhere else he’d rather be and eventually, I start to believe it.
I’m also so incredibly, blindingly hard that it’s quickly becoming embarrassing. I try to hide my arousal by shifting my hips this way and that, but the grip of his arms around my midsection leaves very little wiggle room. As soon as he notices my writhing, he pulls his mouth away and I find myself chasing it like a lovesick teenager.
“Hey,” he says, taking care to meet my eyes. Oh God, but he’s gorgeous. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” my voice comes out hoarse and thick.
“Yeah?” He doesn’t seem convinced. “Then why are you wiggling?”
“Uh,” there is no good answer to that question. Instead, I blush.
“Oh,” he shoots me a wicked grin and pulls me close enough for his erection to brush mine.
Embarrassingly, I whimper. The fabric of our trousers isn’t all that thick and he feels gorgeous against me, beautiful, delicious. At the first contact I already think I’m coming. I hide my face in his neck. He smells wonderful; musky and salty and manly and dark.
“You’re so wonderful,” he mutters, “so responsive. Doesn’t it become too much for you sometimes?”
“Yeah,” I rasp.
“Yeah,” he repeats. “You just love it so fucking much, don’t you? Having me touch you? Having me say these things to you?”
He trails kisses down my neck.
“Hmm,” I manage.
“So what do you want now, then? I’ll give you anything, anything you want.”
My mind races with endless possibilities. I don’t dare to say any of them out loud.
Chuckling at my shyness, he says: “We’re going to the mens room.”
He’s not lying. Next thing I know, we’re smushed together in a single cubicle in the freaking restroom of the Lincoln Park Zoo. Unbelievable. There’s hardly any space to maneuver, but mercifully, Quentin takes the lead, pushing me with my back against the locked door of the stall and hoisting my legs up so they’re crossed in the small of his back. He’s not a huge guy, Quentin, but he’s apparently really fucking strong, because he’s holding up all of my weight effortlessly. Arousal shoots through me in a hot pulse. He’s still giving me the wicked grin; his natural confidence attracts me like a moth to a flame. I feel helpless, hopeless, when I’m around this man, and I love it.
I’m pulled out of my musings when he presses his palm firmly against the front of my trousers and starts opening my fly. Holy hell.
“You want me to…”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence because I’m already babbling over it: “Yes, yes, please touch me, yes.”
“So responsive,” he repeats, stroking firmly up and down my length for a few blissful seconds.
Still holding me up against the door, he removes one hand from my side and reaches down to get his jeans out of the way. I look down expectantly; I want to see his cock. I don't really get a full view because we’re in close quarters, but the feeling of having it pressed against my own is enough to be getting on with.
He tightens his fist around the both of us so that I’m encircled by his hand on one side and rubbing against his cock on the other. It’s amazing and filthy and easy and beautiful. He makes a thrusting motion with his hips, like he’s fucking me, and hey, there’s a thought. I try thrusting my hips agains him, but the motion ends up more like a pathetic humping because I have very little leverage.
That’s the moment that someone comes in.
Quentin, apparently more alert than me, immediately stills his entire body and moves the hand grasping our cocks to cover my mouth. I’d hardly noticed the keening little moans I was producing. I try to even out my breath, but it’s difficult with his skin touching me everywhere. Involuntarily, my tongue sneaks out to taste his sweaty palm. Predictably, it tastes like sex. This time it’s Quentin’s turn to moan, and I can hear the guy in the next stall stop his business for
a moment.
There’s someone not three feet away hearing me have the most intense sexual encounter of my life. There is a stranger on the other side of this plastic partition listening to us having sex.
I can’t help myself; my hand sneaks down to grab the head of Quentin’s cock, swollen and wet between my fingertips. He almost squeaks as I start twisting my palm around his tip, all the while giving me a warning look. This doesn’t deter me: I finally get to make this gorgeous, wonderful man come, and I can’t wait another second to see it. I work up a steady pace, more sure of myself than I’ve been up until this point, and Quentin comes before the guy outside is even done washing his hands. As his orgasm starts, he’s still giving me a wide-eyed look, a mixture of awe and surprise. Apart from a couple of harsh breaths, he’s almost entirely quiet. He doesn’t even drop me to the floor. He just falls apart in my hand, all the while keeping it together. It’s beautiful.
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