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Adam smiled against his skin. “Benton’s.”
Finding Adam’s hair too short to tug, Icarus was forced to curl his fingers around his skull instead and gently tilt his face back so Icarus could see it. “How?”
The Devil grinned. “I’m me.”
Icarus didn’t know whether to slap him, kiss him, or knee him in the balls for being so damn arrogant. And he sure as fuck didn’t know what to wear to a joint like Benton’s. Yes, he worked YB’s top clubs, but courtesans didn’t frequent establishments like Benton’s. Only the sort of people who drank whiskey and drove gas-powered cars dined there. People like Adam Devlin. “I don’t have anything to wear to a place like that.”
Adam tilted his head toward the bedroom. “There’s that dress in there.” When the fuck had he noticed that? In the half-second glance he’d cast that direction when he’d entered?Cop, Icarus’s brain reminded him. Then his brain short-circuited completely as Adam coasted a hand over his hip and grabbed his ass. “But I’d rather you leave these jeans on and throw on that shiny top from the other night.”
Despite his full day of work, Icarus was halfway to hard already. Zero need for toys. Not when Adam’s erection was shoved up against his. It was a struggle even to hold the thread of conversation. All he wanted to do was wrap his legs around Adam’s hips and get fucked against the wall. Or better yet, on the bed.
Bed.
Dress.
Benton’s.
The thread.
“I can’t go to Benton’s in patchwork jeans.”
Adam used the hand not clutching Icarus’s ass to gesture at his own self, dressed in jeans and a sweater.
“Yeah, but you’re...” Icarus shoved his shoulder. “You.”
“And you’ll be with me.” Adam grabbed his retreating wrist and pinned it to the wall, spreading the robe open more fully, exposing more of Icarus’s chest to lips and teeth that scorched a path across his collarbone on their way to a nipple. “I want to take you out for a nice dinner, some whiskey. A proper date.”
He flattened his tongue for a long, rough lick, and Icarus scrabbled for purchase with his free hand. Scrabbled for the thread again. “I don’t—”
Adam tightened his grip on his ass. “I want to stare at your ass in these threadbare jeans.” He released the cheek and glided his hand up under the robe, spreading his hand over Icarus’s bare back. “I want to splay my hand here and sneak my fingers beneath the drape of that sexy top.” He licked a path across Icarus’s chest to the other nipple, swiped and bit. Icarus hissed. Chuckling, Adam released the sensitive nub and nuzzled the thin patch of hair between his pecs. “I want everyone to see you on my arm, then I want to take you home.” The hand on Icarus’s back lazily drifted around front, then, with laser-sharp precision, dove into his open jeans and roughly palmed his cock over the lace, making Icarus achingly hard in an instant. “I want to peel these jeans down your incredible fucking legs, see you in nothing but lace, then lay you out on a bed and suck your thick shaft until you’re about to blow.”
Fucking hell, the swings from starved for intimacy to just plain starved were making Icarus dizzy and more turned on than he’d been in his whole damn life. “I’m about to blow now.”
Adam kissed up his throat and around his mouth, tongue dipping and diving between his lips, teasing, never giving Icarus the kiss he wanted. “Not yet, baby.”
Groaning, Icarus chased after his mouth and missed, lips scraping scruffy cheek. “When?”
Adam shoved the lace aside and grabbed his balls. Good thing, since his next words sent Icarus soaring. “When I’m on my hands and knees and you’re fucking me senseless.”
THIRTEEN
Icarus tried notto focus on the heads that swiveled toward him and Adam as they crossed the restaurant to a corner booth. He wondered what was more of a shock to their audience—the fact he was wearing heels, jeans, and a slinky halter, or the fact he was walking arm in arm with Adam Devlin. Adam, who was arguably more dressed down than him in a sweater, nondescript—if well-fitting—jeans, and work boots. In one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city, where all the other patrons were dressed for a special occasion, where there were items on plates and liquids in glasses that Icarus never thought he’d see again. But the staff hadn’t blinked when they’d entered. They’d greeted Adam like an old friend—definitely a frequent visitor—and led them to the table where two cut crystal glasses of whiskey were waiting.
The high-dollar liquor went a long way to helping Icarus ignore the stares they continued to catch over three courses of food the likes of which Icarus was sure he’d never taste again. He didn’t need human food to survive, but he could eat and enjoy the fuck out of it. But in the moments when Icarus wasn’t overwhelmed with the tastes and aromas of the food—or by the heat blanketing his side and the hand under the table nestled in his groin—he couldn’t help wondering where this “date” might lead.
To Adam in his bed or to Adam dead?
That kidnap plan was sounding better and better if only Icarus had an ounce of faith he could execute it without fucking up.
He tossed back the rest of his whiskey, savoring the meld of smooth and spicy flavors and the internal warmth that rivaled the space heater beside him.
“You want another?” Adam asked.
“Lord, no, I can’t—”
The rest of his words died on Adam’s lips, stolen by the kiss Icarus had wanted so badly back at his apartment. Deep and slow, maddening in its intensity and its restraint. Maddening because they were in public, and Icarus couldn’t crawl onto Adam’s lap, grind down on him, and keep kissing like this until they came together, breathless and spent.
Adam drew back first, but only far enough to rest his forehead against Icarus’s, sounding breathless already. “I’ve been dying to taste the whiskey on you.”
