Dario barely gags as Charlie thrusts into his mouth. Charlie clutches the threadbare fabric of his work shirt in the center of his chest. He looks forward to stripping it off one final time and instead of throwing it in the hamper, throwing it straight into the trash bin.
Dario grips Charlie’s covered ass, tugging him toward him, faster and harder. The tip of Charlie’s dick pummels the back of Dario’s throat.
Dario glances up with an innocent and pleased glint in his eyes. It is preposterous how handsome the chocolate maker looks with a mouthful of dick. He ruffles Dario’s hair, delighting in the unwashed silkiness of the strands.
Dario stands to pull his well-proportioned, uncut cock free. Charlie lines up their dicks so they are one on top of the other. He slicks them with spit and, using both hands, creates a tunnel for them to thrust into. Back and forth like a double-cut saw.
They kiss, and Charlie can taste both the Amorina chocolate and his own cock on Dario’s tongue. If only it were appropriate to package and market that combination of flavors. He’d fucking buy in bulk.
“Don’t miss your snack,” Charlie says as a general warning.
Dario bends down and works the swollen, sensitive head of Charlie’s cock into his mouth again. In under a minute, Charlie shoots four pent-up ropes of protein down Dario’s throat. The candy man gulps it all down without wasting a single drop.
Smiling, Dario stands and starts putting his cock away.
“What about you?” Charlie asks through his post-orgasm fog, to which Dario shakes his head.
“I got what I wanted,” Dario says. “Andiamo. There’s a hotel bed waiting for us. Maybe you’ve got another round in you.”
Charlie wraps a possessive arm around Dario’s waist and nips at the tip of his warm, pink ear. “There’s no maybe, Candy Man. I’ve got as many rounds as you need.”
Dario twirls inside Charlie’s arm so they are chest to chest. “Time to clock out?”
Miraculously, it is.
“Have your driver pull out into the lot so I can close up. I’ll be ten minutes, max,” Charlie says.
Dario smushes the tips of their noses together. Charlie has never been more certain that those are the eyes he wants to see every night before he shuts off the lights and goes to sleep. Those are the eyes of his dreams.
Loath to have Dario anywhere but at his side, Charlie makes quick work of shutting down the machines, locking the fridges and counting out the register. The little red lights on the motion-sensor security cameras blink each time he passes as if giving him a final salute.
After unpinning his name tag and dropping it on the desk, he grabs a piece of computer paper from the funky printer. It takes him three tries before he grabs a working pen, but once he does, he has no hesitation about writing the date and time, and then:I quit, effective immediately.—Charlie Moore
Before exiting, he takes an empty envelope from the box under the desk. He hums Loretta Lynn as he exits the garage and pulls the gate down. Once locked, he slips his keys into the envelope and sails his past through the mail slot.
TWENTY-SEVEN
CHARLIE
When Dario emerges from the bathroom in the hotel room the next morning, Charlie lets out a gasp. He barely recognizes him. “You’re wearing…jeans.”
“Too casual?” Dario asks, checking himself out in the mirror affixed to the wall opposite the bathroom. Charlie gives him his own once-over. He has on a button-up shirt, a seafoam green blazer, jeans and…cowboy boots.
“Not at all, but maybe let’s lose the boots? This isn’t horse country,” he says with an unflattering laugh.
“Will loafers do?” Dario asks, pulling a pair of shiny brown leather shoes from a travel bag inside his suitcase.
“Loafers are perfect. Is the driver outside?” Charlie asks, slipping into his own orange Vans. He texted his family after his shift last night and his mom offered to bring him stuff if he needed, but he refused, not willing to waste a second of his private evening with Dario. Today, he borrows one of Dario’s T-shirts that is too short and a pair of his underwear which is too luxe, but who cares?
As the town car pulls away from the chain hotel several towns over, Dario muses, “America looks different than I remember. In my mind, America is the Empire State Building, the Golden Gate Bridge, and that strange Bean out in Chicago that never fails to make me think of a robot’s…” He blushes without finishing his sentence.
Charlie’s hands turn clammier the closer they get to the house on Cemetery Street. Last night, it was easy to shuck his clothes and reservations, but today his two worlds collide. The results better be warm and fuzzy instead of fiery and devastating.
“What’s in the bag?” Charlie asks to distract himself. Dario brought a zipped-up, designer messenger bag with him.
“You’ll see,” Dario says, the corners of his lips moving upward.
Five minutes out, Charlie psychs Dario up. “Don’t be nervous, okay? I mean, I know that’s bad advice, but seriously? They are such kindhearted people who have been through a lot. I swear they are going to be chill. The house has been cleaned within an inch of its life.”
