We’re close, moving slower now, at the edge of the dance floor while a Latin beat thumps through the club. I thread my fingers through his dark waves, tug his head back.
He waits for my answer, staring at my lips like he has been since we got here. I wait until he raises his gaze to mine.
“I meant it,” I say. “I mean it.”
His mouth crashes into mine, like it was all the answer he needed. This time, it’s now slow. It’s all tongue and teeth and his hand on my ass, squeezing, grinding. I tighten my grip on his hair, angling his head so I can go deeper, taste the smoke on his tongue, smell the perspiration on his skin. He backs me against the wall without breaking the kiss, without letting an inch of space come between us. I flatten my hand on his back, keeping him close, groaning into his mouth at the sensation of his hard muscles under my palm, his hard cock against mine.
He shoves his hips roughly against mine, then tears his mouth away. His eyes are on fire with lust, not rage or desperation, but simple desire. I lean up again, but he steps back.
“Let’s go.”
“Where?” I ask, too dazed by that damn kiss to think straight.
“I can’t do this here.”
“I don’t know if I can wait to get back to your place,” I say. “Do you have keys to a backroom or something? Fuck, I’d take a bathroom stall at this point.”
He smirks, a little of his cockiness returning clarity to his eyes. “I can’t,” he says. “This is a workplace for me.”
“Oh,” I say, deflating.
My own senses start to return, and I realize this might be the end of the night. By the time we make it somewhere else, the moment will be gone, the heat snatched by the chill outside.
Duke gives me the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen on those sinful lips, and his fingers lace with mine. He nods toward the front of the club, and we make our way up, get our coats, and step out into the night. The city is almost still now, with only a few cars and even less people on the street. The temperature has dropped, and the cold takes my breath after a few hours in the hot club.
As soon as we step out, I expect Duke to drop my hand like he did when we went in, so I do it before he can. A guy can only take so much rejection in one night, unless he has a humiliation kink, and that’s more Duke’s style, if memory serves.
“We never did get food,” I say, shoving my hands deep into my pockets to keep them from freezing.
“You hungry?”
“Kinda skipped dinner,” I admit, then stifle a yawn. “I could probably use some coffee too. Figure it’s too late to catch any sleep before my flight.”
Duke checks his phone. “Shit, yeah, it’s late. Or early.”
“So, you gonna feed me or what?”
“I know a place,” he says. “Come on.”
As we hurry along the street, then turn onto another, and a smaller street, I come to accept the fact that he’s not going to invite me back to his place. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed, but I satisfy myself with the fact that at least we got to catch up. That I know what he’s up to, and not just from asking my sister or brother and getting some vague answer that he’s in New York, doing good as far as they know.
I’ve seen with my own eyes. He got clean, the way I always hoped he would. He has a job, a place in the city, family nearby. He finally accepted himself as he is. He seems happy. That’s what I always wanted for him, and if I’m not a part of that, it’sstill something to celebrate. I know better than anyone how hard happiness is to come by.
We reach a sweet little coffee shop on a corner, a yellow building with white trim. Inside, we can see workers taking down chairs from the handful of tables, but they’re not open for another five minutes.
“This is quaint,” I say as we stand on the stoop, hunched against the wind. “You sure you don’t miss Arkansas just a little? This looks more like something I’d expect back home than in Manhattan.”
“There’s only one thing I miss about Faulkner,” Duke says, giving me a quick once-over.
I bite back a smile. “Is that right?”
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s right.”
Tension crackles in the air as we stand there, our breath fogging the space between us. I’m starting to get whiplash from his mixed messages, and I’m tempted to just grab him and kiss the fuck out of him against the bakery door until it opens, or he caves and tells me how he feels, whichever comes first.
Unfortunately, I don’t get to do it before the door swings in, and the employee goes behind the counter. Christmas lights line the glass case of pastries and bagels, the counter, and the walls. The front window is painted with a big Santa carrying a sack of toys, and “Frosty the Snowman” plays quietly overhead.
Duke and I get our drinks and slide in across from each other at one of the small tables.
