I whimper; my brain already gone. “Please, May. Please. I need you so bad. I’ll do anything.”
He finally sinks down, taking me into that perfect mouth, wet and hot and relentless. May doesn’t go slow. He knows exactly how I like it and gives it to me, sucking hard and working me with his tongue in a rhythm that’s filthy, devastating, and perfect. The second his lips seal tight around me, I lose whatever scraps of composure I had left. There isn’t a single part of me that isn’t tuned to May’s mouth, the heat, the urgency, the way he makes me feel like I’m the only thing in the world worth ruining his makeup for.
I gasp his name, or try to. I’m not sure what actually comes out, but May rewards me for the effort, humming deep in his chest. The vibrations tear straight through me, turning my bones to molten sugar. My hands fist in the cushions, useless except to keep me from floating away entirely.
He doesn’t let up. If anything, he goes harder, bobbing his head, working me until my hips are jerking helplessly off the couch. I can’t look away. The sight of May, all glam and glitter, letting go of that perfect control just to wreck me, is obscenely hot. His lashes are clumped, cheeks streaked with heat and shimmer, lips shiny and red and stretched around me.
I want to say something clever, or romantic, or at least coherent, but all I can do is beg, desperate and breathless. “May, fuck. I’m gonna. I can’t hold it. Please. I need to come so bad.”
He pulls back just enough to smirk up at me, lips slick. “Then don’t.” And with that, he takes me all the way back down, swallowing like he’s been waiting all day for this.
That’s it. That’s all it takes.
I come hard, so hard it’s like blacking out, pleasure zipping down my spine and lighting up every nerve. I twitch and shudder, moaning embarrassingly loud, and I don’t even care. May doesn’t let up, swallowing everything, licking up every last drop as my hips jerk and I gasp for air.
When I finally slump back, boneless, May releases me with a filthy pop and grins, licking his lips with slow satisfaction. “Messy boy,” he teases, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks completely wrecked, and so proud of himself I could cry.
I manage a shaky laugh, reaching for him before remembering the rules. “Holy shit,” I breathe, reverent. “You’re unreal.”
May laughs, warm and genuinely happy, and climbs back into my lap, skirts billowing around us again. He kisses me deep, lush, and a little greedy, like he wants to taste himself on my tongue. I melt into it, clinging to him, totally undone. My brain is pudding, and my body’s even worse, but I’ve never felt more blissfully alive. I loop my arms around his waist, holding him close. Thankfully, he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he melts against me, letting out a small, contented sigh.
Eventually, I find my voice. “You’re really fucking lethal, May.”
He laughs, warm and soft, resting his forehead against mine. “You’re not so bad yourself, handyman.”
We collapse into each other, tangled and giggling, velvet and glitter everywhere, and for the first time in years, I actually feel at home. Even if my jaw is probably going to hurt for a week. Worth it. I’d do it all over again if he asked, and, fuck, I really hope he asks.
I stay there, blissed out, cradling May in my lap while he traces slow, absent loops in my chest hair. It’s ridiculous andperfect, and I never want to leave. I could get used to this. I could get used to him.
And if the rest of Sleighbell Springs hears about how I got absolutely ruined in the Sleigh Queen lounge today, so be it. Worth every second.
Chapter Seven
May
To the surprise of absolutely no one, it takes less than a week for Miles Dalton to worm his way under my skin again and, if we’re being honest, right back into the soft, gooey center of my heart. But I’m determined to do this differently this time. No grand gestures, no falling for the first self-effacing apology and a crooked smile. This time, we’re going to do it right.
Which is why I’ve spent all week on my best behavior. Almost. A closet blowjob is technically the opposite of “best behavior,” but in my defense, the man should not be allowed near a supply room with that mouth if he doesn’t want to be jumped. But otherwise? Practically a paragon of restraint.
We’ve met for coffee every morning at the corner bakery before I duck into the chaos that is Sleigh Queen by noon. Little moments stolen in the alley behind the Brew House, where the hot press of his hands makes everything else fade away. During the day, my phone buzzes with a new text from him every time I so much as blink. Every night, he’s there at the bar, eyes on me, full of that old Miles mischief and something new, a kind of hope I don’t remember from before. I told myself I’d keep it light. That I’d be the queen of boundaries, impervious to dimples and sweet-talk and the way he looks at me like I hung the moon.
I am not. Not even close.
But tonight? Tonight, I’m going to do the thing. Talk about the past. Get it all out on the table, ugly and unvarnished, and see if we can actually build something real here. No pressure. Just the future of my heart at stake. Perfectly casual.
I’m taking a break from the glitz and the spotlights. Patti is handling emcee duties for the night, and I’m floating around as Mason, still dramatic, obviously, but with the drag dialed down and the gender dial…somewhere in the middle, as always. My black shirt has sheer, billowing sleeves and is unbuttoned halfway down my smooth, freshly waxed chest. My gold jewelry is slightly excessive, and my bald head is buffed to a glossy perfection that would make RuPaul weep. I’m wearing my favorite glasses, the ones with the cartoonishly thick black frames, and a subtle smoky eye that says, “I’m not trying to seduce you, but if you’re already undressing me with your eyes, I won’t complain.”
Patti’s voice booms over the sound system. “Alright, you beautiful chickies, are you ready for a night of sequins, songs, and some questionable audience participation?”
The crowd howls. The floor vibrates with energy. My found family, all gathered under one roof. I love this place. Every sticky, sparkling inch of it. Which is why my palms are sweating right now, even though I’m technically off duty. Because tonight isn’t about the show. It’s about being Mason. And finally talking to Miles Dalton without the protection of a crowded bar or the plausible deniability of a flirtatious text.
Did I mention I’ve been stress-cleaning my apartment for two hours? Because I have. There’s not a speck of glitter anywhere. Even the succulents look nervous.
I check my phone for the tenth time in as many minutes as I pace in the upstairs lounge, attempting to work off some of my nervous energy as I wait.
Miles:On my way. Should I bring snacks or just my devastating good looks?
Me:The latter. I can’t compete with snack foods tonight.
