I stand completely still.
Having an erection is not ideal, here of all places.
But my dick is begging for him.
???
Holding the tablet in front of my crotch, I hurry toward the bar.
“Soda water with lime. Extra ice.”
Perhaps the frosty glass will nullify my yearning.
But my heart is still racing.
And the night has barely begun.
I move quickly down the hallway.
My shoes echo on the polished floor.
At least he won’t see me down here.
Turning the corner, I enter the bathroom.
Fresh hand towels. Check.
Soap pumps, full. Check.
Mirror clean? Yes.
Sliding the device into my pocket, I wash my hands.
In the reflection, a stall door opens.
My breath quickens.
For a moment neither of us speak.
“Amos, we’re about to...”
He takes hold of my hand.
And before I’ve had time to process what is happening, I’m being tugged sideways along the corridor.
The supply room door clicks shut behind us.
Shelves line every wall, stacked with boxes of tattoo equipment.
Bottles of ink, folded towels and cleaning supplies.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
Curious fingers lace through my hair, sweeping a soft strand away from my brow.
“Amos…” I murmur softly. My voice has lost all authority. “You’re a client.”
The words sound weak as I say them aloud.
