Raff-aye-elle.
Sam jerks back and gasps when it’s Thomas’s face that turns around, confused.
“Samuel?” The Frenchman squints, though the club lights aren’t that dim. “Where is?—?”
He looks around and Sam can tell the exact moment he spots Rafael across the room, still on the couch. Thomas does a double take and gulps. “You are not Rafael.”
“No shit.” Sam can’t breathe. Or he might be hyperventilating. Can he do both at once? “Well, you’re not Lucas, so I guess we’re both disappointed.”
He laughs, but there’s nothing to laugh about. It’s probably hysteria at this point. He’s hysterical.
Who could blame him? Sam just spent the last several minutes grinding against his biggest rival. His childhood nemesis. The bane of his existence.
Thomas is talking at him, but Sam spins and makes a beeline for the couch.
If he gets blackout drunk, maybe it doesn’t count. Maybe he’ll forget, and Thomas will forget, and then this tree that fell in the forest never made any sound. Without any memory of it, there’s no proof the tree ever got chopped in the first place.
The tree is perfectly safe in the forest, and Sam’s dick isn’t hard for Thomas.
Two drinks closer to his goal, and Sam’s not forgetting. Actually, he’s doing the opposite—replaying it over and over and over again until it’s the only thing he can think about.
There’s no way Thomas didn’t notice Sam’s cock. He’s big enough to feel even when he’s soft—and he certainly wasn’t.
So Thomas is okay with that. With cock. With cocks grinding against his perky little ass. With the implication that there could be a cock in his tight-ass asshole in the near future. He’s okay with that.
No, he’s only okay with that because he thought the cock in question belonged to Rafael.Rafael.
But the guy was straight, right? Sam thought he was straight. Have the Ferraro drivers been fucking this whole time?
Rafael is sitting close enough for Sam to watch him make out with some random chick. It looks like his fingers are already inside her—Rafael’s digits have disappeared under the hem of her short dress.
Not that fucking girls make a guy straight. Hell, even Sam has some rando chick grinding on his lap. He loves beautiful people—he’s not exactly picky about their equipment. Was Rafael?
Fuck, why did it even matter? He couldn’t care less whether Rafael and Thomas are bumping uglies.
“Can I speak to you?” Thomas leans over the back of the couch and whispers in Sam’s ear. There’s that damned alluring smell again—the one that isn’t Lucas. “In private? Please?”
“I’m sorta busy.” Sam nods to the girl rubbing herself off on his thigh.
She leans in and laps at his neck, making a mess of it. She’ll be so good at slobbering around his dick and she knows it.
“Okay. I will wait.”
“You’ll—what?”
Thomas pulls a thigh up to rest on the back edge of the couch. His eyes are wide, focused, and he stares unblinkingly at the couple.
“Okay, fine,” Sam says, calling his bluff. “We don’t mind an audience, do we?”
The girl smirks. “Let’s give him a show.”
Sam’s hands span the globes of her ass, keeping her steady as he thrusts up. She makes pretty little sounds as she rides him, her dainty hands grasping his expensive shirt, wrinkling it. He’ll have to find a quick service dry cleaner—he has an event to be at tomorrow night.
Focus. Grinding. Just as good as the grinding he shared with Thomas. Sam peeks over—to see if he left or hasturned away—but Thomas stares back. One of his eyebrows raises like he’s not impressed, and Sam loses it.
“Okay, fine. Sorry, honey, but I gotta—” Sam nods over to Thomas and doesn’t even try to hide his annoyance. Sure, he can find another girl to slobber his knob, but this one is already so ready to go.
Sam hurdles over the back of the couch and follows Thomas to a quieter part of the floor. He can accept the apology—or give one, whatever—and find the eager girl again.
