When we get there, a line has formed halfway down the block.
“Damn,” he says, sounding disappointed. “I didn’t figure that may people would be out on Christmas Eve eve.”
“It’s after midnight, so it’s technically Christmas Eve now. And not everyone can go home for the holidays.”
“Anywhere else we can go?”
“Come on,” I say, reaching for his hand. With my gloves between us, it’s businesslike. Gripping onto him, I stride ahead, leading him past the line.
“Where are we going?” he asks, hurrying to keep pace.
I stop at the front of the line and tip my chin at Luigi. “How’s it going?”
“Duke,” he says with a nod, unhooking the rope to let us past. “Good turnout.”
“Damn,” Colt says, biting back a smile. “You really do spend a lot of time in clubs.”
“Just part of the job,” I say, shrugging. But I’m smiling too, a little smug about my exclusive access.
“So this is where you having a standing reservation,” he yells over the thumping music.
“I have VIP access,” I say. “But since I don’t need bottles and I’m here to mingle, what’s the point?”
We check our coats, and I start to reach for his hand again but think better of it. I nod for him to go ahead, definitelynotchecking out his ass in those Levi’s when he leads the way, weaving into the crowd like he’s the one who comes here all the time. Above us, oiled, shirtless dancers perform in cages that circle over the dancefloor, where colored lights strobe over the writhing bodies.
We haven’t been dancing for five minutes when a short guy with the frame of a bodybuilder bulging inside a mesh tank starts checking us out. Since I’m not sure how much Colt does this kind of thing—if he can party sober, if the fact that most people here are definitivelynotsober will impact his ability to let loose and have fun, if he’s ever even been to a gay bar—I’m giving him space, letting him adjust. I remember the first few times I came, how self-conscious I felt dancing without something in my system, how I kept thinking maybe one drink wouldn’t hurt. It wasn’t much fun, so I keep an eye on Colt, in case he wants to leave, take a break, step outside.
But the other guys must think that means he’s up for grabs, because pretty soon another guy is sniffing around. Seeing that he’s about to make a move, the short guy comes up behind Colt and puts his hands on his hips.
Annoyance flares, and I step in closer, reaching past Colt to flatten my hand on the guy’s chest, pushing him back. I shake my head at him, frowning down over Colt’s shoulder. When the guy backs off, I stay close. The other guy starts moving in again, so I loop my fingers through Colt’s beltloops as we dance to a thumping, dance mix of “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.”
“What was that about?” he asks.
Even when he’s yelling, I have to read his lips to know what he’s saying. I’ve gotten used to doing that in places like this.I’m not used to how I keep watching his mouth after he’s done speaking, not able to look away.
I tighten my grip, pulling him against me, and push my thigh between his. “You’re here with me.”
“You don’t want me dancing with another guy?”
“No,” I growl, turning him around in my arms, angling my mouth against his ear. “You’re mine tonight, Colt Darling.”
five
Colt Darling
We dance for hours, only stopping to grab bottles of water on occasion or pop out for a smoke. We’re both damp with sweat, and stepping out into the frigid night has us laughing, our teeth chattering, before we’ve even finished one cigarette between us.
Back inside, we move together, creating warmth with our bodies, the friction and exercise more than enough. After a while, the music is a drug, and there’s no need for anything else. We get bolder as the night wears on, and his hands move from my belt loops to my hips, then gripping my belt buckle while he grinds into me from behind.
I lose track of time and space. There’s only the two of us, and the throbbing music engulfing us, no sense of self-consciousness or worrying about who might see and how they might feel about it. I see why he loves this place, the complete freedom to be ourselves, the abandonment of everything else.
Duke leans in, speaking into my ear, his fingers raking down the outside of my thigh. “Did you really mean it?” he asks. “When you said you think about it?”
“About what?” I ask when he draws back enough to see my lips moving.
He presses his mouth to my ear again, and my cock throbs against him. I’ve been hard for hours, my jeans painfully tight.
“You said you wonder what could have been,” he reminds me.
