“I’m definitely a Top,” he says, his finger still tracing along my flesh, a trail of scorching heat following in its wake.
No one’s ever touched me like this before. Ever. Visions of him bending me over right here jolt into my brain, and I realize I need to watch myself.
“We’ll start slow,” he assures me. “We’ll go back to your room, or mine, andtalk first. We won’t do anything you don’t want to do. We’ll leave it open for further discussions. I’m here all week, you’re here all week.”
Staring into his green eyes, I see the flecks of gold and emerald emblazoned in their depths. He’s about four inches taller than my five-eleven, and his broad shoulders taper toward his hips.
The man is fucking gorgeous.
I can’t think as his finger tracesfeather-light lines up and down the back of my hand and fingers. It’s impossible not to wonder what that same touch would feel like all over my body.
“I have condoms and lube,” I say. “I stopped at the store.”
When he smiles, the outer edges of his eyes crinkle. Like he thinks I’m adorable.
“No pressure,” he says again. “Even if all we do is have a pleasant dinner and talk later, then it’sbeen an evening well-spent.”
From his earnest tone, it sounds like he means it.
“What’s it like being in the Secret Service?” I ask.
His finger hesitates on my arm before resuming its path. “Lots of training. Lots of practice. More training.” His smile fades as he moves his hand, turning it palm up on the table next to mine. “Not a fraction as sexy as in the movies, believe me. Makes it hardto have a relationship.”
I spot calluses along the outside of his index finger, a faint scar along the heel of his palm, what looks like an old burn scar just inside his right wrist. He wiggles his fingers at me, the invitation plain.
Around us, the restaurant fades away as I lay my hand on his.
“Do you like tiramisu?” he asks.
I nod.
His fingers curl around mine, and he leans in, bringingmy fingers up to his lips, where he kisses them. Heat sears me and I shiver, a frisson of desire washing through me and leaving me and my screaming cock squirming on the stool I’m perched on.
I can’t help but think about what those lips will feel like tracing the contours of my body.
Those green eyes never leave me as he does it.
In my chest, my breath catches, my heart thrumming in a way Ican’t remember feeling before. I’m about to burst into flames and I want him to consume me.
“We’ll get our dessert to go,” he says, tugging on my hand to coax me to lean in.
I do, unable to help myself.
He brushes a kiss over my lips, and in this moment, if I died, I’d be happy.
Complete.
For the longest time, before I realized I was gay, I thought there was something wrong with me. Becausewhen I slept with women, it didn’t feel…special. There wasn’t a connection, for me.
It wasn’t that they weren’t nice, or beautiful, or that they were even bad in bed. I had the recipe, all the ingredients, and I followed every step exactly to prepare the dish, which tasted…okay.
Even though the women I’ve been with said I was fine.
All this time, though, there was a missing ingredient I didn’teven know I lacked.
And I’ve just found it.
* * * *
