That was a lie. I could feel eyes on us from multiple directions, people tracking Soren's movement like he was putting on a show. But he was oblivious to it, too drunk or too lost in his own head to notice the attention.
I put my hands on his waist, partly to steady him and partly because I didn't know what else to do with them. He felt warm and solid under my palms, muscle and ink and skin that was too close and too tempting and absolutely off-limits given how drunk he was.
“This okay?” I asked, because I needed confirmation that I wasn't crossing a line.
“It's perfect.” He leaned into me harder, rolling his hips in a way that made my dick wake up and take notice. “You feel good, Rook. Really good.”
Fuck. I was in trouble. Serious, catastrophic trouble, because Soren was grinding against me in the middle of a crowded dancefloor and my body was responding like it had been waiting for this my entire life. I could feel myself getting hard, felt my dick starting to press against the front of my jeans in a way that was gonna be impossible to hide if he kept moving like that.
And he kept moving like that.
His hips rolled against mine in rhythm to the music, and I felt every inch of contact like a shock to my system. The pressure of his body, the heat of him, the way his ass brushed against my thigh when he turned slightly—all of it was building into a problem I had no idea how to solve.
I was well aware that I was on the bigger side of things. Had been since high school when locker room comparisons became inevitable. It meant I couldn't hide when I got hard, couldn't play it off as nothing, and right now I was getting harder by the second with Soren pressed up against me like he was trying to make me lose my mind.
He was completely oblivious to it, too lost in the music and the alcohol to notice the way my breathing had changed or how tense I'd gone. He just kept dancing, kept moving against me with an easy grace that suggested he had no idea what he was doing to me.
A guy materialized next to us, tall and muscular with a smile that was too white and too confident. He said directly to Soren, “You're a hell of a dancer. Want to grab a drink?”
Soren barely looked at him. “I'm good, thanks.”
“Come on, just one drink. I'll make it worth your time.”
“He said no.” The guy's attention shifted to me with an expression that was half surprise and half challenge.
“Didn't realize he had a bodyguard.”
“He doesn't need one. He just needs you to fuck off.” I kept my voice level, but the anger underneath it was harder to hide than I would've liked.
The guy held up his hands in mock surrender and disappeared back into the crowd, and Soren laughed against my shoulder. “You're jealous.”
“I'm not jealous. I'm making sure drunk assholes leave you alone.”
He pulled back enough to look up at me, and his eyes were bright with alcohol and amusement. “It's cute.”
“I'm not cute.”
“You're extremely cute when you're being all protective and growly.” He shifted his hips again, and I felt his pelvis brush directly against my dick. He didn't seem to notice, just kept moving like nothing had happened, and I tried desperately to think about anything other than how hard I was getting.
“You know what I've been thinking about?” Soren's voice dropped lower, intimate enough that I had to lean in to hear him. “I've been thinking about kissing you. Like, a lot. Too much, probably. But I can't stop.”
My heart stopped. Literally stopped beating for a solid three seconds before kicking back into overdrive. “Soren?—”
“I know, I know. You're straight, and I'm a mess, and this is a terrible idea.” He was still moving, still pressed against me. But he seemed completely unaware of my situation, too drunk to notice the obvious bulge in my jeans or the way my whole body had gone rigid trying to maintain control. “But I wanted you back then, and I still want you now.”
I didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to respond to a confession I'd been trying not to hope for while also knowing he was too drunk for this conversation to mean what I wanted it to mean. So I just held him closer and let him keep grinding against me while my dick throbbed and my brain tried to catch up with everything that was happening.
He shifted again, turning so his back was to me, and pressed his ass against my dick with enough force that I had to bite backa groan. He still didn't seem to register what he was pressing against, just moved with the music like this was normal dancing and not the most erotic thing that had ever happened to me.
My hips rolled forward without permission, grinding into him, and I felt the heat building in my balls. This was bad. This was so fucking bad, because I was about to come in my jeans in the middle of a crowded club, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
Soren reached back, his hand landing on my hip to pull me closer, and then—without warning, without any indication he knew what he was doing—his hand slid forward and grabbed my dick through my jeans.
He squeezed.
Not hard, not deliberately sexual, just a casual touch like he was steadying himself or didn't realize where his hand had landed. But the pressure was enough, the contact so direct and overwhelming that I felt my control shatter completely.
“Fuck,” I choked out, trying to pull back, but his hand was still there, still squeezing, and his ass was still pressed against me, and it was too much.
