by Daryl Banner
“Hey, there are gay people here, too,” Elijah assures me. “You aren’t all alone. In fact, that’s sort of the point.”
“The point?”
“Yeah. I want you to get laid.”
I blink at him—and not just due to the eye-watering smoke drifting through the air I’m desperately trying to breathe. Also, I’m trying not to notice a bearded guy getting what I presume to be a lap dance from a woman in a miniskirt halfway down the bar. The sight is very distracting and not in the spank bank way.
“Don’t give me that face, Trevor. You are too uptight, and this internship is going to break you unless you untie those panties—”
“We’re going home. Now.”
“Nope. Denied.”
“Then I’m going home.”
“Half an hour,” he begs me. “Give me just half an hour, and if Trevor’s not having even a tiny bit of fun by then, we’ll go home and order a large pizza with lemon garlic wings.”
“Ten minutes. Teriyaki wings.”
“Fifteen. Half-and-half.”
“Deal.” I cross my arms and sit on the stool next to him.
This is a little game he won’t win, and my unfinished planner waiting for me on my desk at home is proof of that. Even sitting here at this bar where we each nurse a totally-innocent Coke—which takes ten of our precious fifteen minutes to even get—all I find myself thinking about is which color tie will go with my slate-colored slacks. Maybe red is too desperate, too “look at me”. Do I go for a pink one to indicate sophistication, or something more saturated to convey my focus and passion?
Looking good is hard work.
“That one,” Elijah says, pointing.
He’s been doing this too for the past ten minutes, pointing out every guy in the club who seems to not have a half-dressed woman rubbing their lady bits all over him. “Straight,” I blurt back, just like the last four.
“How about that one?”
“Straight, too.”
Elijah smirks at me. “How can you tell?”
“They’re all straight or taken. All of them. Can we go now? I think I left your stove on.”
“Four minutes. You promised. And no, you didn’t.”
I slurp on my Coke. “We really should be spending tonight and tomorrow researching marketing strategies and preparing for—”
“We have a whole summer to do that. Tonight, all we research is dude butts.” Elijah lifts an eyebrow. “That’s what gay guys are into, right? Butts? You’re a bunch of puppies running in circles smelling each other’s holes, right?”
I shove Elijah for that, earning a hearty laugh from him as he nearly falls off his stool.
Then, across the room, I catch sight of a man standing at a tall bar table all by himself. He looks strangely out of place wearing a clean, fitted blue suit jacket with a slight shimmer to it and crisp slacks. Through the haze of people and smoke, his eyes are aimed my way.
Oh. At me.
He’s looking right at me.
Damn, his eyes can pierce like a spear. His hair, golden brown, is sharply combed, save for a chaotic tuft in the front. His chiseled face sports a bit of beard at the chin that tapers off like a razor’s edge down his strong jawline toward a set of smooth, shaven cheeks and high cheekbones.
Fuck, what a gorgeous face …
And his body. Wow. Even through the haze, I spot a button-up shirt beneath his sexy blazer that hugs a big, muscular chest. The sleeves of his jacket enwrap arms as thick as footballs, which immediately makes me think of him doing naked pushups for some reason. Even his legs are big and strong. The shape of his body is present through the thin material of his clothes, which hug his form exquisitely. I can only imagine what those slacks are doing to his ass. I kinda wish he’d turn around so I can know.
And all of that smoldering sexiness is looking right at me.
Then, quick as a storm rolling in, the aisle of nothing that existed between me and that man closes in, filling with dancing bodies and half-fucking couples on the floor.
My view of the sexiest man in the world is obliterated in the blink of an eye.
“Besides,” Elijah is going on, oblivious to any of this, “you do realize we’ll probably be gofers for a good portion of the summer. I hope you’re good at taking coffee orders.”
I lean one way and then the other, desperate to regain eye contact with the man. Too many people are in the way. “I’m sure we’ll be put to much better use than that,” I retort distractedly.
“Doubt it. How about that one?” he asks, gesturing.
“Straight.” I didn’t even look. “And I don’t doubt it. You and I were chosen for a reason.”
“Yeah. We’re local. We’re young. We’re gofers.”
“We’re smart,” I state, “and we’re qualified, and we’re driven. And we got recommendations from our professors.” I give him my full attention suddenly. “I mean, have you really considered what this’ll do for our fourth and final year at the university, Elijah? Working for Mr. Gage?”
“The Gagency,” he quips.
I elbow him hard. “Gage Communications. Don’t be caught dead calling it anything else, dude. You saw how strict that supervisor is. Rebekah. She’ll whip you in half. Two minutes.”
“If you think she’s strict, she’s got nothin’ on Mr. Gage himself. He’s a downright bossy control freak with an attitude. Or so I hear. Three minutes.”
“So you hear. Two minutes.”
“Two and a half actually, according to my iPhone. Gotta pee. Hold my seat.”
As Elijah gets up to go, I call after him, “Better not take longer than two and a half minutes!” But the words are lost to the storm of loud, hypnotic music and screaming chatter already washing over the room.
I push away my watered-down Coke and continue staring through the crowd, wondering if I’ll find that man again. When I finally manage to get a view of the table he was standing at, however, I find it sadly unoccupied.
I slouch, deflated. He left. Maybe he was actually staring at a girl near me before. Or he was lost in a thought and wasn’t even looking my way at all, staring off into space. Or some hotter guy or gal snatched him up while I sat over here discussing minutes.
I shouldn’t be discouraged. It’s not like I had an actual shot anyway. I’m not seriously considering Elijah’s advice of hooking up with someone here. What he doesn’t realize is that I’m not the casual-sex kind of guy.
In fact, I’ve never even had serious-sex before.
Like, at all.
That may seem a bit hard to believe, considering I’m twenty, have three years of college under my belt, and while my looks may not rival a six-foot-four beauty on the runway, I’m certainly not the least attractive guy in the room.
I crane my neck once more, searching the club for the man in the sexy suit. Again, my search is in vain.
I can’t even begin to think about what would happen if a man like that actually approached me, told me I was hot, and had his way with me. How would I react? Would I seriously tell him, “No thanks, Captain Dreamy. See, I have this big important finally-meet-my-boss thing Monday morning and totally need to keep a clear mind for it. You were going to fulfill my every fantasy? Oh, well, thanks, but no thanks. The only thing I fantasize about are studies on whether social media compromises the very fabric of our humanity.”
No. I wouldn’t tell him any of that. I’d likely not be able to say a damned thing as he took my body and pulled it up against his.
Oh, that’s a nice image. I chuckle to myself, my thighs pulling together as I feel blood rushing below. Let’s think of another.
Wish granted. I’m choked for words as I imagine him standing over me, commanding my attention. He’d have every ounce of it. Statistics and staples and bewitched copiers would fall right out of my mind, replaced by a throbbing in my fast-tightening pants and a desperate, hungry need for my hands to be all over his body—and for his hands to be all over mine.
He has to have str
ong hands to match those bulging biceps.
I cross my legs suddenly. I’m getting so stupidly hard just thinking about what those muscles might feel like beneath my gripping fingers. I wonder what the meat of his body would sound like if I were to push him against the brick wall over there.
No, scratch that; he’d be the one doing all of the pushing into brick walls. Definitely him.
I close my eyes, the noise of the nightclub far, far away as I imagine my hands on his chest, sliding down his rippling abs. Let’s face it: Mr. Hot Stuff definitely has rippling abs to go with that huge chest. And in my dream, I can put my hands anywhere I want.
Even in his pants.
I bite my lip, my crossed legs squeezing harder to conceal my throbbing, aching boner.
Then at once, I flip open my eyes. What the hell am I doing? Am I really this pent up that I’m going to sit here in the middle of a bar and fantasize about some random guy who might or might not have been staring at me across the crowded room?
Maybe Elijah is right. Maybe I really do need to get laid.
But not tonight. I lift my chin, take a deep breath, and try to coax my furiously cramped hard-on to go away.
No hot man with muscles in a bar, nightclub, or anywhere for that matter is going to distract me from my goal. That includes the dumb, sexy boys at the office, none of whom like me, I’m quite convinced. And they don’t have to like me, I’ve also decided. I’m there for only one person: Mr. Gage. He’s the only one who matters. Not my coworkers. Not Elijah and his quipping. Not even our immediate supervisor Rebekah.
And not a hot guy in a bar. I’ve worked too hard and for too long to be addled by some muscled man in a tight suit who’s giving me tight situations in my pants. That’s a fact.
“Were you looking for me?”
I turn at the sound of that deep, sultry voice right behind me, and my eyes fall on a beautiful man.
It’s him. The man. From across the room.
Yes, I’m still hard as a rock. And now I’m getting harder. He’s twenty times more gorgeous this close-up. Oh my gay gods. Now my fantasy has relocated to right in front of me, and for a countless amount of excruciating seconds, I can’t say a damned word.
And then …
4
Benjamin has his eye on the prize.
“E-Excuse me?” the boy squeaks.
I hide a smirk of amusement. This kid just might be the cutest damned guy I’ve ever seen at this bar, and I’ve been here so many times, I can’t count. He’s got this cute, slightly upturned nose, and lips that are frustratingly kissable. I say “frustratingly” because I’m fighting a nagging doubt that this guy, in fact, wasn’t looking at me, and maybe he’s yet another one of those hot dorky straight guys I keep going after.
But from the panic my mere presence just struck in his eyes, I think I might be talking to my sure-thing midnight snack.
I repeat myself. “I asked if you were looking for me.”
He seems to have trouble speaking, which surprises me, since he seemed so confident sitting here at the bar by himself. It’s kind of adorable, how instantly flustered I’ve made this kid. He’s got dirty blond hair, a sexy little body, and a mouth I’m pretty sure can take every inch of my cock. He’s simply perfect.
He’s gonna need to take a lot of inches, by the way.
Fuck, I’m gonna peel you like a sweet, ripe, tasty banana.
“You … were staring at me,” he insists with an annoyed crease of his brow, his voice like liquid silk and cream.
I keep my face strong as I appraise the package that is this kid, my gaze severe and my expression hard. “Is that so?” I love toying with him. He’s so easily ruffled; I can tell. “I’m not so sure.”
“Well, I am,” he chokes out, a delayed response, but there’s a touch more assertiveness about it.
This kid is stubborn. I’m pretty sure that means he’s going to be a cum rocket and a few attitude grenades in the bedroom, which is the exact brand of hot I need after the week I’ve had.
I tilt my head and prop an elbow on the bar, letting my mere presence overwhelm him. “So what’re you doing over here all by yourself?”
He lifts his chin. “Having a drink,” he answers firmly. “As you can clearly see for yourself,” he adds, then his eyes go wide and he looks away, as if his own words just scared him.
Now he’s blushing five times worse than he was when I first approached him. I love this game he’s trying to play with me.
I clear my throat. “Let me get you another. What is it you’re having? Jack and Coke? Rum and Coke?”
He presses his lips together tight and clasps his glass like it’s about to grow legs and run away from him. “Just Coke,” he finally confesses, trying (and failing hard) to act all cool and flippant, “and I don’t need another. In fact, I … was just about to leave.”
He fidgets, his legs nearly squirming.
He turns his head away, but not completely.
I smirk knowingly. This kid is so into me, I have no doubt now. I can tell he’s concealing a boner. I swear, if he squeezes his thighs together any tighter, he’s going to turn his cock into a diamond.
“So no drink?” I fish one last time.
He doesn’t look at me, forcing himself to stare at the ceiling. “Nope.”
Hard to get is a game I know well when it’s played by cuties like this one. And it’s a game two can play. “Alright, no prob.” I let my gaze drop to his lap, give him time to notice, then flick my eyes back up to meet his, my forehead wrinkling innocently. “I hope you find what you’re looking for tonight, stud. Excuse me while I go … lick my wounds.”
He parts his lips as if to say something, then freezes. I don’t give him another chance. Turning, I saunter off to a table near the door where it’s a little less damaging to the ears, then claim a seat and stare at my phone. There’s two messages sitting there from Rebekah, but I ignore them, as I’m not really paying attention to the phone; I’m paying attention to whether or not my little ploy is going to work. When you play hard to get, you need complete and utter focus. To be fair, this game of mine has backfired before.
A shadow covers my screen. I look up.
There he is.
He folds his arms. “So you’re gonna leave? Just like that?”
“Do you see me leaving?” I counter.
He bites the inside of his cheek and stares me down. Then he says, “I don’t see you licking any wounds.”
“I’m a fast licker,” I quip back.
The joke doesn’t land. In fact, his crossed arms tighten and he looks off, as if searching for someone. Then, surprisingly, I see a genuine desire in his eyes to get the hell out of here. His whole face and body is tensed with discomfort. Why didn’t I let myself see it sooner? Maybe I was too busy entertaining the dirty thoughts wrestling through the bed sheets of my mind.
He isn’t like the typical cutie who churns through this place. He’s a fish out of his fresh water pond, and he’s drowning in air. The look in his eyes strikes me, reminding me of the first time I ever went to a club. It was long before I started working out, long before the tattoos, and long before the success of my company. I remember how terrified I was. I remember the constant feeling that I didn’t belong, that I should go home, that I wasn’t gay enough or hot enough or naked enough. Every single guy I looked at would turn away like I was nothing, and I hated them all for it—all those elitist queens who wouldn’t give me the time of day.
Am I doing that to this guy?
Am I now one of the elitist queens?
As fast as I see that glint of discomfort in him, I’m on my feet. “It’s really loud in here.”
My voice pulls his focus back to me. “Oh? Is that so? Nice observation. Next you’ll tell me it’s sweaty and smells like straight sex everywhere.”
I fight the laughter in my chest. This boy’s got a lip, and I love it. “You want to go somewhere quieter?”
His expression changes, softening.
He seems hesitant, perhaps weighing it over in his mind. He looks off toward the bar, fidgeting, then glances down at his phone. Just when I’m about to say something else, he looks up suddenly and blurts, “Yeah. Y-Yes. Let’s … get out of this place.”
Just what I wanted to hear.
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Have you read “Football Sundae”? It’s a standalone M/M romance set in the small town of Spruce, where a budding dessert chef finds his hot-fudge-glazed world flipped upside-down when the town’s college football star comes home for the summer.
Keep scrolling for a sweet & tasty sample of Football Sundae!
FOOTBALL SUNDAE
(Sample Chapter)
Daryl Banner
FOOTBALL SUNDAE
(The First Chapter)
M/M New Adult Romance
This book is a sweet & sassy standalone.
Copyright © 2017 by Daryl Banner
Published by Frozenfyre Publishing
All rights reserved.
CHAPTER 1
BILLY
Just when I thought my day couldn’t get any worse, Tanner Strong struts through the diner doors with his entourage of jock buddies.
Tanner Strong. Let’s take a minute to appreciate the lean slab of meat that was the high school quarterback of my horny, teenage wet dreams. When Tanner Strong enters the room, everyone turns their heads—and it’s not just because he’s something of a town hero. Tanner’s body is built to order—straight from the sex fantasy factory, apparently—and his crushingly adorable face matches the goods, framed by short, dusty brown hair that pokes and jabs in all directions. He has this chiseled nose with a tiny scar across it that gives him this tough I-beat-people-up-for-a-living look. His full, plush lips half hang open as he turns in circles, ignoring the loud shouts of his comrades as he drinks in the sight of my family’s diner, likely noting how much it’s changed in the past three years.