3. Kale
The bartender toldme his name was Axel. It was admittedly a name I couldn't imagine myself moaning in any circumstance, but I played a few scenarios out in my head to see if I could make it work.
That's right, Axel, breathe through your nose. Just like that, Axel. You swallow cum like you were made for it, Axel. Sssh, sssh. Quiet down and take my cock, Axel.
Half turned off, but not ready to give up, I finished my caponata and took the last swallow of my second drink of the night. I was feeling loose enough to call him "baby" so I could take him to bed without having to use his name, but he wasn't off work until two, and Brooks and Ford hadn't stopped texting me since I sat down in the first place.
"Can I get my check?" I asked, sliding my glass toward his side of the bar.
His waxed eyebrows knit together for a flash, and then settled back in place. "Sure," he said.
"You didn't misread the situation," I assured him, pulling my credit card out of my wallet and dropping it down on the bar beside my drink. "I just have annoying friends and previous obligations."
His expression softened—marginally—and he turned around to run my card. Axel was definitely attractive enough to be baby for a night, and he shimmied his hips side to side like he was dancing to a song I couldn't hear. He knew what he was doing. He knew I knew what he was doing, and worse…he knew it was working.
He turned around, pert ass hugged by the tight black pants he wore, and he pushed my card and the receipt back to me with a pen.
"Do you sleep well?"
"Not often." I tipped him fifty percent and left him my phone number.
"I'll call you when I get off?" he asked.
I climbed off the stool and shrugged into my coat, winding the scarf around my neck while Axel focused steadily on my hands. The scarf smelled like dust and honey, and it reminded me of home in a sharp and unexpected way. Clearing my throat, I tucked the ends of the cashmere behind the lapels of my coat.
"Call me when you want to get off," I corrected.
His cheeks immediately darkened to a gorgeous peony shade of pink, and I smiled at him, turning to go. I texted Brooks and Ford to let them know I was on the way, but no sooner had I stepped onto the sidewalk that I found myself slammed against the wall. My breath left my lungs in a rush and my phone fell out of my hand, crashing onto the sidewalk after bouncing off my foot.
"What the fuck?" I shoved away my attacker, and he stumbled back, eyes wide and face flushed.
"Sorry," he said quickly. His voice was laced with a hint of an accent I couldn't quite make out, and he was dressed, or half-dressed rather, in a well-tailored tuxedo. He smelled like sweet champagne and spicy cologne, and he looked just as decadent. The man was admittedly so attractive I could probably still call him Axel during sex and not lose my hard-on.
"Watch where you're going, maybe?" I suggested.
My phone was on the ground at my feet, screen up. Thankfully it survived the impact with nothing more than a hairline crack across the top right corner. I bent over and snatched the device, only for something bright and blue to catch my eye on the ground beside it. I reached for the scrap of fabric, when the man muttered something under his breath in a language I didn't understand.
There was shouting from down the street, and he bent over, slamming his shiny black shoe on top of the blue bundle, narrowly missing my finger.
"What is your fucking problem?" I asked.
He grabbed my shoulders and spun us both, pressing his back against the wall and my chest against his front.
"I'm sorry," he said again.
And then he kissed me.
I opened my mouth to protest, but he slid his tongue into my mouth and any argument I'd had about why I shouldn't be making out on the sidewalk with a man who'd just mowed me down disappeared like a morning fog. His hands relaxed around my arms and slid inward, dragging their way under my coat and over my chest. He pressed one of his knees up between my legs, groaning when he made contact with my cock and balls.
Loud and angry footsteps raced past behind us, and the stranger kept kissing me until the street had fallen back into its usual hum of conversation and traffic. It was long enough for me to get my wits back, and I took his face into my hands, changing the angle of my mouth so I could deepen the kiss. He tasted like gin, or maybe that was me, and as soon as I shifted his head back so I could really kiss him, he once again shoved me.
This time, I stumbled back toward the street instead of toward the building, a little caught off-guard by the whole ordeal. I think most men would have—or should have—cried assault at the whole thing, but I'd never been most men. I was always down for a bit of fun, and kissing strangers was one of the tamest things I managed to do on troublesome nights.
The space gave me time to really take him in, from the sharp angle of his clavicle, exposed through the unbuttoned top of his shirt, to the slim taper of his hips further down. He bent to pick up the blue fabric that he'd stepped on, not even bothering to dust it off or unfold it before tucking it into the interior pocket on his jacket.
"Sorry," he said for a third time.
"You say that a lot."
"Thanks for the help."
The ache between my legs was a reminder that the only thing I'd done was make a problem for myself, and maybe I could go back inside and convince Axel to take a five minute break before I went to The Black Door so I didn't walk into a kink club guns a blazing, so to speak.
"Is that what that was?" I glanced in the direction the other men had run. "Are you being chased?"
"Collected, more like."
"Did you need help?"
I had no idea why I asked him that. I didn't know him from Adam—or Axel—and I definitely wasn't in the business of helping strangers in the city. Especially when I was half-hard and turned on beyond all comprehension. I wasn't a good man. I was selfish and I was sex-driven, and whatever had just happened shouldn't have been more than an annoying interference between me and my goal for the night.
"I don't need help." He said the word like it was acid in his mouth, that soft accent thickening with his anger.
"Duly noted." I slid my phone into my pocket and adjusted my scarf, which he'd brushed aside to touch my chest, and my pants, which were tenting and growing tight. Also because of him. "Best of luck, then. I'm running late and I have somewhere to be."
Pivoting on the ball of my foot, I turned in the direction the men had come from and headed off toward The Black Door. It was a short walk, no more than four blocks, and I planned to count the steps the whole way to calm myself down before I got there. But I'd only made it one step when a hand wrapped around the back of my arm, just above my elbow.
"I may need help," the man said. "I'm a little out of my element here."
I stopped and he stepped up beside me. The color had dulled on his cheeks, but he still breathed heavily.
How far had he been running for?
"In the city?" I asked.
"In America."
"I thought I heard an accent."
"I don't have an accent," he snapped, mouth angling down into a miserable frown.
"And you don't need help." I repeated his comment from earlier. His argument about whether or not he had an accent—he did—only served to make my cock harder, which was the last thing I wanted. At least, in that very moment. Normally, I was a strong advocate for hard cocks and bratty attitudes. I found them to be a stellar pairing.
"I said I might."
"And I told you I'm late," I told him. "So unless you want your help to look like disguising yourself as a man who likes to be told what to do, you're unfortunately on your own."
I took another step, and he matched me, keeping pace as I walked toward the corner.
"Where?"
"Where what?"
"Where would I do that?" he asked.
I stopped to regard him. To honestly regard him for the first time, beyond taking in his appearance and his clothes. It was clear as day he came from money, the attitude spoke to that. He wasn't from here either, which should have been appealing. The whole encounter was something out of a movie, and I didn't quite trust it. Instead of answering him, I kept walking and he kept pace beside me.
"I wasn't hardly being serious," I said to him.
He made a frustrated noise, but kept walking, his whiskey-colored eyes scanning the crowd in front of us and behind us as we rounded the corner. He was on alert and this wasn't the first time he'd been on the run. I could tell a man who knew what he was doing, in anything, and this man knew how to evade whoever was chasing him. The taste of him on my tongue was still proof enough of that.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Kale," I answered.
"I'm Christian," he offered, unprompted.
"You're trouble," I said.
He huffed out a laugh, mouth angling into a smile before falling back into a relatively straight line. As straight as his mouth could be, considering how plump his lips were. His mouth was shiny under the city lights, and I found myself wondering if he could still taste me the way I could taste him.
"Not that it matters, but why are those men after you?"
We'd reached another corner and we didn't have the right of way, but traffic was clear, so I stepped into the street just the same. Christian lingered back, but ran to catch up to me before I was halfway across. The street was less clear for him, and he narrowly managed to avoid getting pancaked by a taxi. Back on the sidewalk, I made another turn and he still followed after.
"I have places I'm supposed to be," he answered.
"And I assume none of those places is kissing a stranger in front of an Italian restaurant or walking to a sex club with him when you're done?"
His steps faltered, but he was quick to regain his composure. "A sex club?"
"Where else would you pretend to be a man who does what he's told?"
"Literally everywhere," he muttered.
By the time I had my answer, we were one building away from the unmarked entrance to my favorite place in the world. Lit by a single bulb over the aptly painted black door, there was no way to know what lay inside the walls unless you were already in the know.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I was relieved to find out it still worked. I knew the message was from Ford without having to check it, and I threw a glance toward the door that marked my end destination for the night.
"I can't just take you in there," I said apologetically. "There are rules and expectations and secrets."
"I can keep a secret," Christian said.
"I'm sure you can, but you don't strike me as the type to follow rules."
A muffled shout from a few blocks down drew both of our attention. It was two of the men who'd been chasing after Christian in front of the restaurant. They ran, coming to a stop and looking around helplessly. They'd lost him, but I didn't think that would hold forever. The city blocks all looked the same, and the lot of them would run themselves in circles until they crashed back into each other. I didn't know why Christian was trying so hard to get away from them. I hadn't thought to ask and I didn't really think it mattered. He didn't seem the violent type, and if he were a thief, he would have grabbed my phone, not the blue ribbon that had fallen from his pocket. But with the scent of home in my nostrils, I did know what it was like to need to get away.
He rubbed both of his temples, again mumbling in a language I couldn't quite place, then he let out a long and tired sigh. Christian looked over his shoulder, and the two men after him split up. One turned back in the direction they'd come and the other headed straight for us. He hadn't seen Christian yet because he meandered more than jogged.
"If you get me in, I'll follow the rules," he said, letting his hands fall to his sides.
"It's non-negotiable," I told him. "If you don't, not only will I make sure you get thrown out, but I'll make it my mission to personally hand-deliver you to those men who are after you."
"You have a mean streak." He smiled when he said it, which did nothing to help the burning weight that had taken up residence in my balls.
"Yeah," I said, even though it was meant as a warning. "You have no idea."