Wycke didn’t hold Piers’ hand now. Even though they stood a few discreet feet apart in the elevator, Wycke’s body heat penetrated Piers’ skin. Something undefinable spoke to him, like an instant of immediate attraction when locking eyes with someone across the room. Only more. A thousand times more. Butterflies-in-the-pit-of-his-stomach more.
He glanced at Wycke’s strong profile, the straight nose, somewhat pointed chin, long white hair flowing loosely over his shoulders—silken hair, sweeping over exposed skin. Piers sucked in a breath. He’d never wanted anything more than to explore every inch of the man, stroke his fingers over the smooth column of Wycke’s neck.
That rich voice, crying out in pleasure. Pleasure he’d get from Piers.
The elevator doors slid open. Wycke’s guiding hand on his back nearly brought Piers to his knees. Touch. He needed to touch skin-to-skin. He barely managed to shuffle the few feet across the hall.
Wycke opened the door, ushering Piers inside. The lights were off, curtains open, the city lights beneath them a constantly shifting work of art. The moon shone through the window, marking the room with shadows and patches of light.
And there were stars. Piers loved stars.
Music started. He dropped his jacket to the floor, hypnotized by Wycke’s otherworldly form, and traced his fingers over the slight smirk on Wycke’s lips. No, not Wycke. Wicked. The name fit him well. Too well. Piers might regret the next few hours in the morning, but he’d walk away with some fantastic memories.
Walk of shame his ass! He’d do the strut of triumph!
Wycke parted his lips, taking the tip of Piers’ finger into his mouth, gently bathing the skin with his tongue. Piers shuddered, the sensation in his finger shooting straight through his body. He groaned, throwing back his head.
The lips on his throat came as no surprise, the heat of Wycke’s mouth, his body.
“I’ve been wanting to do this since the day we met.” Wycke planted open-mouthed kisses up and down Piers’ neck, nibbled his earlobes, traced the shell of Piers’ ear with the tip of his tongue. Wycke kept one arm behind Piers’ back, holding him close.
Wycke pulled back, those beautiful golden eyes glowing with inner fire, stroking a hand down Piers’ cheek. They rocked back and forth to the beat of an unfamiliar song, something slow, made for lovers to grind together.
Piers had understated his dancing at their first meeting. Ever since he’d started working at the club, he loved to get out in the crowd when he could, let go, lose himself in the music. Finally feel free. Out there, no one judged him. Instead, they welcomed him into their midst; no talking was necessary.
Once the music ended, he walked away. All anyone knew of him happened in a moment of joy, not his crappy past, his nonexistent love life, or how he dreamed of handsome men he’d never hoped to meet in person.
Until he did.
A wish come true. But oh, so wanted. Wycke wanted Piers too. Maybe for a night or a few hours, but Piers would take everything on offer.
Wycke kissed up Piers’ jaw, found his mouth. He started slowly, a press of lips, then tracing the seam of Piers’ lips with the tip of his tongue.
Piers opened for him willingly, leaving no doubt about the welcome. He placed his arms over Wycke’s shoulders, enjoying the play of their tongues together. A rhythm sounded in his ears, almost like two heartbeats, ebbing and flowing until the two became one.
Here came the moment of truth. The worst thing about pickups? The uncertainty, insecurity. Piers had spent most of his life with barely any closeness to another person. Knowing the clock wound down on the encounter, having someone for a little while left him depressed. No way to connect with a stranger.
Although, Wycke didn’t feel like a stranger. Comfortable arms held Piers, and they swayed back and forth as though they’d danced together many times.
He opened his eyes to a soft bluish glow flowing around them. It must be a trick of the light, but Piers no longer cared. He’d take tonight. Or this morning, rather. The clock on the bedside table said 1:00 a.m., yet he didn’t feel tired.
In silent agreement, they parted. Wycke ran his fingers under the hem of Piers’ T-shirt. “Is this okay?”
Piers nodded, giving a hard swallow. His heart pounded wildly in his chest.
Wycke sank to his knees, running his lips over Piers’ abs, working the fabric upward, kissing a path across newly exposed skin. He opened Piers’ belt with sure movements, slipping the worn leather free loop by loop.
He unzipped the fly of Piers’ jeans, plunging a finger into the opening, tracing gentle touches over the stiffness in Piers’ boxers. So. Fucking. Good.
Piers stood rigid, fists clenched, fighting the urge to throw Wycke down and offer himself as a gift.
Wycke stood, grasping forgotten fabric and pulling the T-shirt over Piers’ head to join the belt on the floor. He bent and ran the flat of his tongue up Piers’ pecs, swirling his tongue tip around a pebbled nipple. Oh, damn! Piers let out a sound, half groan, half whine.
He’d nearly forgotten the exquisite torture of another’s hands and mouth on his body, taking their time instead of his own hand making short work of orgasm.
The vision before him stared up, eyes soft, pupils wide. Wycke’s mouth lifted on one side. “Like that, do you?”
There was no chance to answer, not with Wycke rising and pushing his tongue into Piers’ mouth, sliding so provocatively. Liquid fire pooled in Piers’ groin.
