“Hey guys, guess who I found!” Owain calls out, yelling over the thud of the bass.
A couple of shrill “Sammy!”s ring out in reply.
Sam loves the fans.
A strobe light flashes, lighting the area in bursts. His eyes travel down the couch with each pulse, documenting where thehottest girls are sitting. He bookmarks a couple of spots before registering something out of place.
Sam does a double-take just as Thomas turns away, ducking towards Rafael.
So these are the plans, huh? Too busy tonight—not because his family is in town, but because he wants to go clubbing with Rafael.
Even when Sam wins, he’s only ever second best.
“Sam’s been avoiding us!” Owain says to the group, shaking him for emphasis. “But he won the race today, so… a round of shots on him!”
“On him?” some drunk girl in a too-tight dress asks. “Or off him?”
The girls scream and Owain laughs with fiendish glee as he turns to Sam for his reply.
He knows this. He knows what to do next. He understands how to navigate this situation—he’s been in it enough times before.
Yeah, Thomas is here, but that doesn’t change anything. If Thomas doesn’t give one flying fuck about what Sam does tonight, why should his presence matter?
Sam came to the club for hard alcohol and an easy lay, and he’s not leaving until he checks both off his list.
He steps out from under Owain’s arm and unbuttons his shirt. “Both.”
Owain whoops. “Clear the table, clear the table! Fuck, where’d that bottle girl go?!”
Sam tosses his shirt over to an empty section of the couch as some of the girls clear the table. Usually the groupies sit back and let other people wait on them, so their enthusiasm is a pleasant surprise.
Then again, who in their right mind wouldn’t do a body shot off a Form 1 driver? Even if he was one of the uggos—it’d still be a good story.
Sam cautiously lowers himself onto the short table to judge whether it can support his weight. Once he clears it for stability, he leans back, propping himself up with his elbows and tensing his muscles.
Rafael and Thomas are the only people who don’t move. They pretend they don’t notice him, huddling together on the couch and talking low. Their stubbornness backfires, and they end up with front row seats.
Sucks for them.
Club lights love Sam, and they caress each curve of his abs, drawing attention to his impressive physique. He lets his head hang back, exposing his throat, and asks, “Who first?”
They decide on shot glass, salt line up his abs, and the classic lime wedge in the mouth.
The first two are relatively tame, but the third girl seems to sense there’s a bigger prize to win. She takes the shot and drags her tongue all the way up his torso, between his pecs, and up the column of his throat. She removes the lime with her fingers, opting instead to kiss him.
Sam doesn’t mind at all, licking into the seam of her tequila flavored lips until they open, dumping a bulk of her shot into his mouth. He swallows on instinct, surfacing with a hiss, and she sticks the lime back between his teeth, fruit first.
“You looked thirsty,” she says.
“Fuck.” Sam laughs and gives her the once-over. Green dress, the brunette in the green dress.
He makes the mistake of rolling his head to the side and catches Thomas’s surprised stare. What Thomas thinks doesn’t matter, but his eyes seem glued to Sam’s slicked lips.
Well, it’s not Sam’s fault they don’t kiss when they fuck. It'd ruin Thomas's fantasy of him being Rafael, after all.
“Who’s next?”
The next girl pushes a little further, tonguing his belly button and lightly pinching his nipples. Not his thing, but okay. The next palms his cock before dipping down to lick his abs.
