Fuck, would it be nice to have someone desperate to run their hands all over me, burying their face in my neck and breathing me in like I’m all the oxygen they need, their hard cock against my ass…Phew, is it hot in here, or is it just me? Maybe I can understand the appeal of dancing alittlebit. I squeeze my legs together and fan myself with my free hand as I take another deep gulp of my drink.
With my glass still to my lips, a sturdy body crashes into me from behind. My glass clinks against my tooth and then slips out of my hand, spilling the remaining half of my drink down the front of my shirt before crashing to the floor.
“Shit, I’m so sorry.” The voice is familiar, but over the pulse of the music and the din of other voices, it’s hard to place it right away.
Sure, I’m invisible, no big deal. I swivel in my seat to snap at whoever it is to watch it, but the words die on my tongue immediately at the sight of a pair of big blue eyes. They widen a fraction in recognition, and his lips twitch from a frown to a smile and back to an apologetic grimace in a matter of seconds.
“Rocky, hey. I didn’t expect…” He looks down at my wet shirt and the glass on the floor, then back to my eyes. “I’m so sorry. I’m such a clumsy moron.”
“It’s fine,” I assure him. He stoops to pick up the glass while I grab a wad of napkins from the dispenser on the bar top.
“Here, let me help with that.” Butch takes the napkins from me and starts patting down the front of my shirt.
His large body towers over me, even with the extra height the stool gives me. He smells faintly of beer and something spicy, and the warmth rolling off of him makes me start to sweat almost instantly.
“It’s okay,” I say again. “If anyone asks, I’ll just say I’m getting a jumpstart on the wet T-shirt contest.” I laugh weakly and he stops uselessly blotting my shirt to bark out a chuckle too.
He wads up the damp napkins and tosses them onto the bar, then stuffs his hands into his pockets, drawing my attention to the fanny pack strapped around his waist. I’m not one to judge anyone else’s wardrobe, and I know they’re very “in” again right now, but I can’t help but laugh at how unexpected the accessory looks on his massive frame.
Butch follows my gaze.
“Snacks,” he says.
“What?” I’m sure I heard him wrong. I don’t know what he could have said, but he definitely didn’t say he brought a fanny pack full of snacks to the club with him.
He tugs his hands back out of his pockets and unzips the pack, pulling out a couple of protein bars and holding them up proudly.
“In case any of my friends get hungry or too drunk and need something to soak up the booze,” he explains.
“That’s…” I cock my head and smile. “Smart and weirdly sweet.”
He beams, and my body heats all over again. No one his size should look that fucking cute when they smile. He has to be at least six-five, and probably two-fifty of almost pure muscle. He should be intimidating, notcute.
“Thanks,” he says happily, stuffing the bars back into his pack and zipping it back up. “Let me buy you another drink at least.”
“Oh, that’s okay, my roommate actually bribed me to come out by offering to pay for all of my drinks.” I start to wave him off, but he’s not listening. He leans over the bar and flags down the bartender.
“Can I get another of whatever he’s drinking?” he shouts over the music.
The bartender nods and turns to pour my drink, and Butch leans on the bar near me, crowding into me and inadvertently bringing his extremely large pecs inches from my face. My cock aches and I imagine what it would be like to lean forward and drag my tongue along the curves of his muscular chest.
“So, why are you sitting over here all by yourself?” he asks.
I snap my head up so I’m looking at his face instead of staring directly into his man-cleavage.
“As opposed to?” I grab my fresh drink and take a sip.
“Dancing, flirting, parading that cute little ass of yours around the club.” He rattles off some suggestions with a grin, and I sputter a laugh into my drink, the vodka cranberry stinging as it comes out my nose.
It would be way too pathetic to tell him I’m going to need several more drinks before I’m confident enough to flirt or parade my ass anywhere, so I go with a different truth instead.
“I’m dying.”
Butch’s eyes widen in alarm.
“No, I just mean I wish I was dead.” I hurry to clarify, but that doesn’t seem to relax him at all. Apparently, my brand of dramatic sarcasm is lost on him. “Some sadist made me use my muscles for something other than lifting a textbook and I’m in excruciating pain.”
His expression finally smooths out and he smiles again. “That’s the lactic acid buildup,” he explains. “The best thing for it is to keep moving.”
