Page 8 of Take Two

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice whispers that this is reckless, that I don’t even know his name, that in a few hours I’ll be on a plane to a city I’ve never lived in, with a life I’ve just dismantled. That voice is quiet, drowned out by the way his thumb traces the line of my jaw, by the way his chest rises and falls against mine, by the way his body arches into me like he’s been waiting for this just as long as I have.

The kiss steals every coherent thought from my head. Every word, every plan, every carefully constructed version of the evening that I might have been building toward. All of it gone. There is only the warmth of his hand against my chest and the sound of my own pulse beating wildly.

His laugh breaks through the moment when my hand misses the elevator panel entirely, and I find myself laughing right along with him, forehead dipping toward his shoulder for half a second before I pull back enough to look at him properly.

“You’re terrible at this,” he says, and his voice has lost the last of the careful distance it carried when he first sat down beside me. “We both are.”

I shake my head and grin. “Can you blame me?”

“No.” The answer arrives so quickly and with such unguarded certainty that it catches both of us slightly off guard. Like he answered before he remembered to consider whether he should.

For a moment, we just stand there looking at each other, smiling at the way the evening has landed us here and how neither of us seems to have any objection to it.

His tie is still hanging over one shoulder. The same navy-blue tie that has been a quiet source of entertainment since the moment he walked through the door, loose and unruly against all that careful polish.

As the night’s progressed, I’ve started thinking of him as Blue. I can probably chalk that up to the tie, the first thing about him that seemed out of place. Loose over his shoulder, it was the first crack in his armor, and somehow it told me more than I needed to know about the man in front of me.

“Get over here and kiss me again, Blue.” The nickname comes from me easily, warm and entirely unplanned.

His smile falters for the briefest moment. Something moves through his expression, a flicker of surprise too quick to fully read, like a word he wasn’t expecting to hear. The realization happens in real time across his face, the brief pause before something clicks into place.

Then he closes the distance between us, and I stop paying any attention to where the elevator is going.

Chapter 3

Cyaire

The weight of this man’s hands on my thighs is the only thing tethering me to the earth. Broad palms press into my flesh, fingers splay possessively as if he already knows my body better than I do. My suit jacket lies discarded on top of my overnight bag on the elevator floor, a crumpled testament to how quickly I surrendered. My tie hangs loose, the silk damp from where his mouth has been. My shirt gapes open, half the buttons undone by impatient fingers that traced my collarbones, my sternum, the dip of my waist like he was memorizing the topography of my body with his touch alone. The press of his belt buckle against my stomach is a brand, the heat of his palms seeps through the thin fabric of my dress pants, his breath stutters when I roll my hips just enough to make him groan into my mouth, low, guttural, the sound vibrates against my tongue.

This is insane. I know this, but I want it. With every floor we pass, I surrender to him a little bit more.

Blue. The man doesn’t know my name, yet he calls me Blue.

The nickname is dangerous. I want to get used to it, wear it like a second skin and get comfy. No one has ever called me anything that felt so perfectly, irrevocably mine. It’s ridiculous how much I like it. How much I like him, this stranger who carries me down a hotel hallway like I weigh nothing, like I’m something fragile rather than just man he met in a bar, or a body to pass the time with. His grip is sure, his steps unhurried, as if we have all the time in the world instead of just the handful of hours before dawn steals this away.

I should probably care that I’m being carried like this. My legs are locked around his waist, my fingers trace the neatly parted rows of his braids, my mouth finds the pulse point beneath his jaw without thought. I cling to him like some damsel in distress, like I’ve never been held like this before, like I’m allowed to be small, to be needed, to let someone else take the lead for once. Right now, the scent of his cologne, something dark and smoky, like vetiver and leather, mixing with the salt of his skin, is intoxicating. I can’t bring myself to care about anything except the way his body feels against mine. The way his breath hitches when I nip at his earlobe. The way his fingers tighten on my thighs, like he’s afraid I’ll slip away if he loosens his grip even for a second.

The door clicks shut behind us, and suddenly I’m dropped to my feet. My overnight bag goes flying, and we’re moving, stumbling, crashing into walls and furniture with the reckless urgency of two people who know we only have tonight. That tomorrow, we’ll both go back to whatever lives we’ve built for ourselves. Lives that don’t include this—this heat, this connection, this feeling of being seen in a way that makes my want to weep. His hands are everywhere, on my hips, my back, my thighs, strong in a way that doesn’t feel performative, doesn’t feel like he’s trying to prove anything. He’s just capable, like he could carry me forever if I asked him to, and I probably wouldn’t have to ask.

“Bed,” I manage against his mouth, my voice rough with want, with the kind of desperation that borders on embarrassing. “Or I’m going to cum in these pants like a fucking teenager.”

He laughs, low and dark, the sound vibrates through me, seeping into my bones. “Patience, Blue.”

“Fuck patience.”

Another laugh, this one rougher, edged with arousal. Then he’s walking us backward, his hands cupping my ass, squeezing hard. The backs of my knees hit the mattress, and then I’m falling, bouncing slightly as he looms over me, his eyes dark and hungry in the dim light filtering in from the city outside. The neon glow paints his skin in shades of blue and gold, turning him into something otherworldly. An abstract painting of a god.

I reach for him, but he catches my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand. The other trails down my chest, my stomach, fingers unbuttoning my pants, pulling and tugging at my waistband until I lift my hips. The fabric gives way with sliding down my thighs until I hear a rip, and I don’t even care. I’m too busy watching his eyes rake over me, like he’s savoring the sight of me spread out beneath him. My skin prickles under his rapt attention, my dick throbs against the confines of my boxer briefs.

“You’re overdressed,” I tell him, my voice gruff. My hips lift instinctively, seeking friction.

“So are you.”

I arch into his touch when his fingers finally, finally brush over the waistband of my boxers, teasing, torturing. “Then do something about it.”

The rest of our clothes disappear in a blur of fabric and frantic hands. His shirt hits the floor, buttons scattering like confetti. My pants follow, pooled at my ankles before I kick them away. His belt buckle clatters against the nightstand, the sound sharp and final, and then he crawls over me, his body warm and solid and real. He’s beautiful, big and muscular making me feel small. I admire his golden-brown skin, wishing I had the type of appreciation for the gym that I’m sure he has. I reach for him, pulling him down until our mouths crash together again, teeth clashing, tongues tangling. His skin is hot against mine, his muscles shift beneath my palms as he fits between my thighs. The weight of him is perfect. The way he molds against me is perfect. The way his dick rubs against mine, hard and leaking, is so fucking good that I whimper into his mouth, my hips roll up instinctively, seeking more.

“Please,” I gasp, my fingers digging into his shoulders. “Please, I need⁠—”