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Giulio
I was on the search for a distraction.
The bass echoed in my chest as I wound my way through the club. Málaga was very gay friendly and it was easy for me to blend in. Just another man, unattached and searching for a good time. Nothing serious.
I experienced something serious once. Never again.
And blending in was even more important now. Someone out there wanted me dead, but I refused to give them the chance. Until I discovered and destroyed those responsible for that car bomb meant for me—the one that killed Paolo—I had to be careful. So I frequently moved cities and changed my identity.
Which was why I came to places like this. Crowded, anonymous. In and out quickly, just long enough to satisfy this itch.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I quickly checked the name. Mimi’s Papà. Mimi was a nickname for Noemi, my half-sister. This was my father calling me.
I declined the call and slipped my phone back in my pocket, but not before noticing there were three other missed calls from him. Cristo. I didn’t want to hear whatever Fausto had to say, especially not right now. I’d ring him back when I finished here.
A husky voice with an Andalusian accent said in my ear, “La que tú me haces.” A compliment, sort of like, What you do to me.
As I turned to see if this might be tonight’s choice, my gaze snagged on a different man across the room. To say he was hot didn’t do him justice. This man was an inferno, but not in the classic sense. Built and tall, he had jet black hair that was just long enough to show its natural waves. Olive skin that reminded me of home, and a scar running along the cheek of his face. Danger radiated off him in waves and my dick twitched.
His grayish blue eyes were locked on me, tracking me like prey, and I shivered. I recognized a hunter when I saw one.
My heart pounded, the air crackling. He was exactly my type. I liked them menacing and stoic, with enough brawn to make me want to pin them down or shove them up against a wall.
I hadn’t seen him here before. This made it even more appealing. If he wasn’t a regular, chances were we wouldn’t run into each other again after tonight.
I let my gaze wander up and down his body, the message clear.
Shaking off the Andalusian hopeful, I moved toward the back of the club. Toward the dark corners where people like me thrived. In those black recesses where no one could see, I could finally let loose for a few moments.
Anticipation crawled over my skin, through my balls and along my shaft. I knew the man from across the bar was following me. I could feel it through some mafioso sixth sense or something. I was getting more turned on by the second, just imagining grabbing that thick hair while I shoved my dick in his mouth.
I hadn’t fucked or been fucked in a long time, not since I left Belgium. Instead, I stuck to hand jobs and blow jobs, which were fast and impersonal. I got what I needed and moved on. It was enough.
Darkness enveloped me as I reached the back of the club. I could hear grunts and groans, see the shape of straining figures, but I didn’t stop. I liked this feeling, the buzz that built in my blood right before we got our hands on each other.
A palm landed on my shoulder, spinning me. My back crashed against the wall. Che cazzo? Once I recovered from my surprise, I shifted and reversed our positions. We held there for a moment, assessing each other close up, breathing hard. It was the man from across the bar. As I’d hoped, he tracked me to this dark corner, ready for whatever came next. I could feel his dick pressed against my hip through his jeans. I was dying to taste him.
But that wasn’t how this worked.
I had a routine. I forced them to their knees, they sucked me off, and I disappeared. No promises, no hard feelings. No reciprocation.
This man, though. I could see myself on my knees for him.
His muscles tightened beneath my fingertips and he readied to move. To leave? To kiss me? I wrapped my fingers around his throat. “Quédate,” I growled, telling him to stay.
My dick was stiff and throbbing, eager. I needed this fast and rough, then I had to leave.
With a little pressure I pushed him toward the ground. He resisted for a half second before he sank to the floor, his face in front of my crotch. I unfastened my belt and unzipped, but that was as far as I went. I liked for them to do the rest, to reach inside my clothing and pull out my cock. To prove they were needy little sluts, gagging for it.
He didn’t disappoint. Thick fingers dug into my jeans and briefs to find my length and expose it. My skin was hot as he gripped me tight, and I shoved my clothing lower on my hips to make it easier. His light gaze met mine as he parted his lips and sucked me deep inside his mouth.
Wet heat surrounded me and my eyes nearly rolled back in my head. “Joder,” I gasped, using the Spanish equivalent of cazzo.
He bobbed, his mouth creating ideal suction while one hand remained on the base of my shaft, pulling. There was no teasing, no uncertainty. Just a fast blow job intended to get me off. Perfetto.
I let myself sink into the sensation, drifting, turning off my brain. He was good, taking my cock to the entrance of his throat as I thrust my hips. I wished we had time for me to slip inside that tight passage, fuck his throat until he couldn’t breathe, but that was too intimate for this. There was no time for training. I didn’t do those things anymore.
