by Vicki Tharp
Demetri and Niko stepped into Premier, the most prestigious art gallery in the San Fernando Valley.
As the prize for winning a local art contest put on by the Cory Center, Tavi—Sebastian and Grant’s foster kid—won a showcase of his artwork at the gallery.
From what Demetri had heard, the kid was some kind of an art protégé. Now that Demetri was at the gallery, he was glad Niko had made him come. In his world, art always made things better. And he needed to get it through his sometimes-thick skull that life goes on. Even when you’re poz.
“Hey, you made it,” Vin said as he greeted them at the door.
Niko leaned in and gave Vin a lingering kiss. Niko’s smile was more genuine than Demetri had seen in a long time. And it had everything to do with Vin.
Demetri was happy for them. And if he had to force a smile onto his face, he’d do it. He could go home and feel sorry for the sad estate of his own love life later.
Maybe over a glass of single malt scotch.
Demetri pulled Vin in for a hug and said, “You look good.”
Vin chuckled and straightened his turquoise tie. “Niko says I clean up well.”
“It’s not the suit. It’s the grin. I’m glad you two found each other. I really am.”
“But?”
“No buts.”
“You’re going to find someone.” Fuck if Vin didn’t know exactly what Demetri was thinking. Vin leaned in. “Hey, with the new semester starting up soon, I’m sure you’ll have a whole crop of hot college guys to choose from.”
Demetri cut him a look that would have left a lesser man abraded and bloody. “I don’t date my students.”
Vin laughed. “Yeah, Niko had that rule about dating employees, and we all saw what happened there.”
A waiter wandered by with a tray of champagne flutes. Vin grabbed two and passed one to Niko. He took another and held it out for Demetri. “Want one?”
When you’re feeling sorry for yourself, a little bubbly is not the classic drink of choice. Only something stronger would do. Demetri bobbed his chin in the direction the waiter had come. “I’m heading to the bar. I’ll catch up with you guys later.”
But before Demetri could make it to the bar, the crowd shifted and parted, and he had a direct line of sight to Tavi standing next to his art hung on one of the walls. The kid looked stiff in his rented tux and tugged at his too-short cuffs.
Demetri detoured. The whiskey could wait.
One of the gallery’s patrons finished up their conversation with Tavi as Demetri stepped up. Tavi tugged at the collar of his shirt, a fresh razor cut on the edge of his jaw. He was a lean fifteen-year-old with a messy mop of hair who would have looked much more comfortable behind the counter of the tattoo shop he apprenticed at than gracing the halls of a gallery.
“You hanging in there?” Demetri asked.
“I think.” It came out more like a question as if Tavi weren’t sure how he was doing. “When I won the art contest, I figured when the exhibit came, I’d be pacing an empty gallery counting the minutes until it ended. I never expected people to come and want to talk to me about my art.”
Tavi raised his hands out to the side. “I mean, I’m a kid and—”
“And naturally gifted and talented,” Demetri added. “Seriously.”
He glanced at one of the drawings on the wall—an enlargement of Tavi’s winning illustration. The emotion in each line, each stroke, couldn’t be taught. It had to come from within. Demetri would love to get this kid into one of his classes when he was old enough. “You’ve got the stuff.”
Tavi’s eyes dropped to the floor, and the color rose to his cheeks, looking nothing like the defensive, hard-knock kid Grant and Sebastian had pulled off the streets not so long ago. “Thanks.”
An older couple approached, and Demetri knew they would have questions for Tavi. He took a step away. “Enjoy your night. You deserve this.”
Demetri backed up and leaned against a pillar, taking in the drawing from afar. He couldn’t take his eyes off it. The contest prompt had been ‘family,’ and Tavi had nailed it in the scene of him, his boyfriend, Grant, Sebastian, and his Nana in a booth at a local pizza joint.
The way Tavi had captured the love in Sebastian’s eyes as he glanced over at Grant brought a lump to Demetri’s throat that only whiskey would be able to wash down.
Demetri turned and started a determined walk toward the cash bar set up at the back of the gallery. He pointedly avoided Grant and Sebastian as they stood hand-in-hand beside Grant’s grandmother, talking to a couple Demetri didn’t know. He’d swing back through the gallery and speak to them later, but not before he had a drink.
Demetri waited in the short line, watching the twenty-something bartender work. He watched the play of the man’s biceps as he mixed and poured drinks, appreciating how the white shirt hugged the man’s chest.
He belonged naked under the lights on the dais in Demetri’s live drawing class, not behind a bar.
The line shifted, and Demetri found himself at the front of the line, staring into the greenest eyes he’d ever seen.
“What can I get for you?”
‘An EKG,’ Demetri wanted to say because he thought his heart had just stopped. The bartender’s emerald green eyes had the depth and clarity of a triple-A-rated gemstone, and Demetri got lost in their natural beauty. “Um... I...” He couldn’t spit the word ‘whiskey’ out. Instead, he said, “Surprise me.”
The man grinned, and Demetri’s heart jolted, thumping against his sternum. Guess you haven’t died and gone to heaven after all.
“Enjoying your night?” the man asked as he pulled out a stainless-steel shaker and poured in different liquors, and a mixer Demetri didn’t immediately recognize. He added a few cubes of ice and gave it all a good shake.
“It’s improving.” Demetri held in the eye roll at the cheesiness of the line. He’d take his drink and find Sebastian. The bartender was here to work. Not flirt.
The man poured the colorful drink, put a wedge of lime on the rim of the glass, and set it on the narrow bar top, his smile impossibly wide. “Funny, I was going to say the same thing.”
Demetri handed over his cash along with a healthy tip and took a sip of his drink. It had a bite and a tang, and the alcohol slid down smoothly. If he weren’t careful, he could quickly get drunk and never see it coming. “What do you call this?”
“Why don’t we call it The Spice of Life.”
“Never heard of it.”
“That’s because it’s a one-off I made only for you.”
The bartender probably said that to all the guys he served drinks, even if he’d made Demetri feel as if he’d been the only one.
Demetri held up his glass and started to leave. “Thanks for this.”
“Come back and see me,” the man said. The flirtatious tone had Demetri thinking he might be interested in more than another generous tip. Or maybe that was dickful thinking on Demetri’s part.
Demetri returned to the main gallery, nursing his drink as he circulated among his family and his colleagues from the art department, his attention divided between the conversation, the drink in his hand, and the captivating man who’d made it.
As the evening wore on and the crowd thinned, Demetri found his way back to the bar. The bartender was stacking dirty glassware into bins to return with the caterers.
Green Eyes glanced up and smiled as Demetri approached. “If it isn’t Mr. Spice of Life. I thought you’d forgotten about me.”
Forgotten about him? Demetri hadn’t stopped thinking about him all night, and he sported a semi behind the flat front of his suit pants to prove it. “What was in that drink, anyway?”
“My little secret. Everyone needs a little mystery in their lives, don’t you think?”
“Maybe.” Was the bartender flirting with him?
The man leaned his arms on the bar top and gave Demetri a glance up and down. “Want more?”
They weren’t talking about drink
s anymore.
Definitely flirting.
“Does anyone tell you no when you ask that?”
“I’ve never asked anyone that before.” The bartender’s voice dropped low, an intimate growl meant only for Demetri’s ears. “At least not while I’m working.”
From somewhere behind him, Demetri heard Niko laugh, reminding him he hadn’t come to the gallery tonight looking to hook up. But then again... “What time do you get off?”
What time do you get off?
Looked like Roman might get off sooner than he’d thought. Roman smiled, and Mr. Spice of Life smiled back, the fine lines at the corner of his eyes crinkling. He pegged the man to be in his late thirties, maybe. A ten-ish year age difference wasn’t such a big deal. Especially in Gayland.
Which was a lot like Disneyland, only more colorful and gayer and a hell of a lot sexier.
“I should have been off the clock ten minutes ago.” He glanced around the gallery. The crowd had thinned to a few stragglers. Those who were left were hugging and shaking hands and telling their friends goodbye. He bumped his chin at the glass Spicy set on the bar. “I can make you another one if you like.”
“No. I’m good.”
“Dude,” Sherry, Roman’s supervisor, swept by on her way to the gallery’s small kitchen in the back. “The van’s waiting on those dirty glasses.”
“I was just taking them out,” Roman said to her retreating back. To his potential hookup, he said, “Sorry, I’ve got to—”
“You want some help with those?” Spicy took off his suit coat and laid it across the bar.
He had a stack of plastic crates full of dirty glasses. He would need multiple trips if he were going to get them all into the waiting van. If he said yes, he could finish the job quicker and spend a little more time with a man he’d like to get to know a little bit better.
“Sure.” Roman picked up the top crate and handed it to him. “Follow me.”
On their last trip back to the bar to get the remaining two crates, Roman’s eyes stayed glued to Spicy’s ass. The man had left his suit coat back by the bar, and Roman appreciated the view. What would it take for him to get his hands on that ass?
Just your hands?
Well, he’d start there and see where things went.
They loaded the last of the crates into the catering van. Roman slid the door closed and thumped his hand on the side, telling the driver it was safe to leave.
As the van pulled out, Roman turned to Spicy and said, “Thank you.”
“You bet.”
“Hold up.” Roman caught his arm before the man could disappear back inside the gallery. Just because they were done loading the van didn’t mean he was finished with him.
The man stopped. “What is it?”
“I didn’t get to thank you properly.”
The man’s brows went up, and he smiled, stepping into Roman’s personal space. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Roman kicked the doorstop out from beneath the door and let it close. He didn’t know if he’d locked them out, but right then, he didn’t care.
He put his hands in the middle of Spicy’s chest and stepped him back until the brick wall brought him to a halt.
“You mean here?” The man looked equally cautious and tantalized.
Roman glanced both ways down the alley. For an alley, it could have been worse. No dumpsters were overflowing with stinky garbage and cats screeching and clawing over the contents. There was a weak security light above a door a couple of units down, but now that the gallery door was closed, they were in relative darkness.
“Here’s good for me.” He leaned in and pressed his lips to Spicy’s. Spicy’s hands immediately fisted in Roman’s shirt and pulled him closer. Fucking hell.
Roman broke the kiss. “What’s your name? In my head, I keep calling you Spicy.”
The man laughed, and it made Roman’s heart stutter and trip. “Spicy will do. After all, it was you who said we all need a little mystery in our lives.”
Roman couldn’t help the grin from spreading across his face. “All right, if that’s the way you want to play it. No names then.”
He angled his head as he stepped closer, straddling one of Spicy’s thighs and pressing his semi against the man’s hip.
“Mmm,” Spicy groaned, his hands going to Roman’s hips and hitching him up against him. “Fuck, you’re hard.”
Roman took advantage of the open mouth and slipped his tongue inside. He liked a man who gave as good as he got, and the man he had plastered against the wall in a back alley proved no exception. He deepened the kiss, goosebumps skittering down his arms despite the warmth of Southern California in August.
Reaching down, Roman cupped and stroked Spicy’s hard dick through the soft, thin wool of his pants. Spicy’s head lulled back, his eyes rolling closed as Roman kissed his way across the freshly shaven jaw and down over the Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down.
Earlier, the man’s intoxicating cologne almost had Roman pulling him over the top of the bar for a kiss and something more, but beneath that scent, Roman thought he caught a hint of paint thinner in his hair.
As a part-time artist, the scent was some kind of a crazy turn-on.
Spicy ground against Roman’s hand, looking for that friction, chasing that slow burn. But fuck slow. He promised Spicy a thank you, and he damn well wanted to give him one.
With steady hands, he unfastened Spicy’s belt and had the pants undone and the zipper down in one fluid motion. Spicy’s thick cock stuck up through the waistband of his underwear, and Roman ran his thumb through the slick precum gathering there.
Spicy groaned, but his hand came down over Roman’s, stopping him before Roman could slide his hand inside the man’s underwear.
“Is there a problem?”
Spicy huffed out a breath, his glazed eyes coming back into focus. “I want to suck you off.”
Roman’s dick flexed in his slacks. His dick didn’t seem to have an issue with the proposition. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be thanking you.”
“Is that a ‘no,’ then?”
Bracing his hands on the brick on either side of Spicy’s head, he ducked his head and kissed him again. Roman tasted the lime on Spicy’s tongue from the custom drink he’d made. Roman couldn’t keep his lips off him, and he was having a damn hard time keeping his hands off too. But if the man preferred to blow Roman instead of the other way around, he wasn’t stupid enough to argue.
“No.” Leaning in, he whispered in Spicy’s ear. “I’d love to have those lips wrapped around my cock.”
In seemingly one motion, Spicy spun Roman around. His back hit hard against the bricks, the rough edges digging into his back, but that only made it hotter. Spicy wasted no time stripping Roman’s pants down low on his hips, his rock-hard cock springing free.
“Jesus Christ,” he thought he heard Spicy mutter, but a motorcycle zipped by on the side street, and Roman couldn’t be certain.
A warm hand slid beneath Roman’s shirt and up his abs as Roman fisted a hand in Spicy’s hair. It was soft and thick as it slipped through his fingers. Then that hot, sexy mouth came down on him. And oh, sweet baby jeezus...
Spicy’s tongue grazed the underside of Roman’s shaft, tracing a warm, wet line up to his sensitive tip. His balls drew up, as a couple walked by the alley, shoulder to shoulder, holding hands and glancing their way as they passed.
Had they been seen?
Roman didn’t panic. The chance of getting caught only made the blowjob more thrilling. It wasn’t often that he’d had sex in an alley, but the times he had were fucking hot.
And the guy on his knees in front of him knew what the hell he was doing.
Score one for the older guys.
Roman pressed harder on the back of Spicy’s head, encouraging him to take him deep. Spicy didn’t disappoint. In one long, languid slide, he took Roman to the back of his throat.
“Umph.” Roman’s brain went offline for a flash
, the words in his head disappearing before flickering back. “Fuck, don’t stop.”
Spicy chuckled as he stroked Roman’s cock, using his hands and his mouth, his tongue working the tip, the suction enough to shift Roman’s soul. He’d never had head this good, and he knew it had nothing to do with the heightened sense of danger and everything to do with the man himself.
Things shifted. Now he wanted, needed, a name. The base of his spine tingled as the first inklings of his orgasm built. With his oxygen-depleted, coherent thought became a precious commodity. The building held him up as his knees grew weak and indecipherable groans clawed their way up the back of his throat.
“I’m coming,” Roman warned as the first pulses of his orgasm hit. Somewhere in his mind-melting pleasure, he became vaguely aware that his phone vibrated against his thigh. He ignored it.
Instead of pulling off, Spicy took him deep one last time. His climax slammed into him, and he shot his load. Spicy’s throat worked as he swallowed and swallowed again. The man didn’t pull off until Roman sank against the wall, aware of little besides Spicy’s satisfied hum and the lazy stroke of his hand down Roman’s quickly softening cock.
Spicy stood and pulled Roman’s pants up over his hips. Roman had never seen a man with such a smug, pleased look on his face. Now it was Spicy’s turn to box Roman in with his hands on the wall, going in for a kiss. Roman opened immediately, tasting the saltiness of himself on another man’s tongue. As soon as he could stand without support, Roman planned on returning the favor because as hard as he’d come, he wasn’t done with this man yet. And by the erection pressed up against him, Spicy was far from done either.
Roman thought about inviting him back to his place. Moses would be gone most of the night, and even if he came back at some point, it wouldn’t be a big deal. They had rooms on opposite ends of the apartment. Not that he cared who heard. Not when he had a man like Spicy in his bed.
Roman’s phone buzzed, then buzzed again with an incoming text. Fuck. Spicy broke the kiss, a softer, sweeter smile on his face. “Maybe you should get that.”
“If it’s important, they’ll call.” Roman cupped the back of Spicy’s neck, bringing him in for another kiss. His phone rang in his pocket.