6. Mr. Hottie-with-the-dog

6

MR. HOTTIE-WITH-THE-DOG

TERESA

A fter a few hours of dancing with and without my friends, my good time gets much better suddenly. The bar isn't very packed—a modest crowd for a Monday night.

"You look good with clothes on," I call over to Hottie-with-the-Dog.

The dog is in his arms. He looks a little perplexed—the hottie, not the dog.

The dog is the cutest freaking thing I've ever seen. It reminds me of Ruff from Ruffing Around, the dog from my first paid gig as a dancer. Back when I was ten, working on a dog show was the shit. At least it was until all the production team kept yelling at us. ‘Kids and animals!' they'd repeat. Now I know what it means—it's a hell of a lot more work to have one on set, let alone both. Anyway, one of the other dancers got hurt in the middle of production so I got put front and center. That also meant I got to pet the cute as all hell bichon frise during the breaks. Her trainer was really sweet, even snuck me into her trailer after one producer made me cry. Those tiny little white fur balls have been my favorite ever since.

"Not used to hearing that," the hottie murmurs under his breath.

"Because you're usually naked?" I ask before thinking.

He lets out a little laugh and a surprised smile. His whole face lights up. He might be the most beautiful man I've ever seen.

"Because people forget about me after they sleep with me," he says, as if it's the most normal thing in the world. "You know, after they've seen me naked."

This time it's my turn to laugh. "Oh yeah, okay, sure."

He shrugs.

"Is the dog part of your pickup game?" I ask, still trying to make sense of this strange man.

"He doesn't usually come along," the hottie says.

"You can't leave him at home? Even the neediest dogs are usually okay with owners being gone a few hours."

"It's… under construction."

The dramatic pause seems unnecessary .

"You wanna set him down? Loosen up a little? I can buy you a drink," I offer.

"Are you trying to seduce me?" he asks.

"Boy, at this point I'm so thrown off by your whole vibe I don't know what I'm trying. Are we flirting or not?"

I should be better at this, but honestly I feel like my life is so stressful, I've been very up front about my expectations in the last few years. At least in my personal life. In my work life, I'm a catty bitch who's nice to every one of those assholes who mocks me behind my back.

"Direct," he muses.

"That's not an answer," I grumble.

"Do you have a name?" he asks.

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, do you?"

"Pacari," he offers, extending a hand out from under his dog.

I tilt my head, furrow my brow, but take the hand anyway.

"Teresa."

His hand is soft, like he moisturizes constantly. Maybe this is my problem. Am I hitting on a gay guy? Wouldn't be the first time. I'm not really into macho men, and I spend all my time around pretty-boy dancers who make it very obvious whatever their sexuality is, so I don't know how to fare in the world outside of dance. Not that all gay guys moisturize. He could be bi, for all I know. Or even straight. God, sometimes the socialized homophobia really rears its head.

He sets the dog down and stretches out his arms. My eyes follow the ripple of muscle along them—not too thick, just defined. Maybe a swimmer—or wouldn't that be hilarious, a dancer? Given the surrounding area, my bet's on the former.

"You buying me that drink?" he asks, leaning into the bar.

His eyes flick up to mine, almost shyly, before watching the tiny little dog at his feet curl around and keep close.

"Only if I'm trying to seduce you," I agree, flagging down the bartender. "Do you have a preference?"

"For whether or not I'd like you to seduce me?" he asks.

I blush, thrown off. "I suppose, but I was asking about the drink."

He shrugs. "I'm flexible."

I roll my eyes at him. He looks back innocently. He did not just say that.

"You know you only get away with lines like that ‘cause you're hot," I tell him.

"What can I do ya for?" the bartender asks.

My eyes linger on the smokey eyeshadow around her hazel eyes, the long lashes that are probably extensions before falling to her lips. Lip piercings are so hot.

"Sex on the Beach and a Screaming Orgasm, please!" I order with a wink.

A light chuckle tickles my shoulder—Pacari moving closer to my side. He tilts his head towards me.

The bartender smirks back, "Comin' right up."

"You know, you only get away with drink orders like that ‘cause you're hot," Pacari muses.

I bite the inside of my lip to hide my grin. It's been so long since I've gotten to flirt with someone like this. I love it. I don't care how cheesy it is. He's cute as fuck, even if he's being weirdly mysterious. Maybe it's part of his shtick. I feel like every guy has one nowadays. They don't trust themselves to just be .

"So which one's mine?" Pacari asks.

I turn towards him with a small shrug. His eyes drop to my shoulder, travel down the v-neckline of my dress. My breath deepens. Suddenly, I'm extremely aware of the size of my breasts, the curve, the way the light falls on my skin. I feel so incredibly hot and sexy for a moment as he seems transfixed by my body. It's a feeling I get from dancing—half the reason I love it—but when people find my body as beautiful as I do, it can be addicting.

I lean forward, lift his chin with my index finger until his eyes are on mine. All I want to do as I stare into his green eyes is kiss him.

No, more than that. Much more. I want to wrap myself around him and bounce on his dick right here on top of the bar. Kind of extreme for a first meeting—whoops. I lean in close, almost tempted to at least kiss him this early in the game. Instead, I bypass his face to whisper against his ear.

"I'm trying to figure out which you deserve… or if we should share."

His breath tickles my neck as he nuzzles against me. I want him to kiss me there, to pull me close. Bite me and claim me now. But good things come to those who wait.

It's been a point of pride for much of my life how good I am at luring sexy motherfuckers like him into my grasp and making them beg for my fat ass. Just a big ol' fuck you to the fatphobic asshats out there in the world. And also a big ol' fuck you to the times my own internalized fatphobia decides to make me feel like shit. I've learned the best cure for that is to be ungodly sexy, which isn't hard when you've got a rack and ass like mine—and the moves to really show them off.

The bartender brings our drinks over. Her name tag is decorated with hand drawn comic book accents that read ‘ Lydia .'

"Thanks, Lydia!" I call out as she hustles after another customer.

Pacari looks at both drinks patiently, flicking his eyes to me. I grab them both, checking behind me to step backwards, luring him away from the bar. As far as I care, he's all talk until I can see the way he moves. I made that mistake once—one of my exes hated dancing and it broke my heart. I sway my hips, holding the drinks to either side to really show off my body, delighted with the way the skirt swooshes at my thighs. Pacari looks me up and down.

"C'mon, lover boy. You want a drink, you gotta dance for it."

He glances down at Slugger, fast asleep at his feet, before stepping cautiously over the puppers so as not to wake him. So gracefully, I barely realize what's going on, he slides in close, the sway of his hips matching mine. His hands find my waist, and suddenly he's leading, guiding my steps in a surprisingly complicated pattern to match the sudden change in music to a fast beat. He turns my body so my back is to him. I laugh, shake my ass and roll back my shoulders.

"Alright, not so bad for a guy I found naked on a beach," I say.

"You're an amazing dancer," he says in genuine appreciation, moving with me.

"It's like it's my job or something," I laugh .

"And I get this show for free?"

"Nuh-uh, like I said, you gotta work that ass, boy."

His hands move up my arms, and we move together like water.

"Gladly," he whispers in my ear. A thrill runs through me.

It feels so good, moving together like this. It's the kind of synergy you hope for with every partner—that everything feels easy and right. Even with decades of experience, some people never have this kind of give and take.

Before I realize it, he's pulled one of my arms down close to my chest. He leans over my shoulder and takes a drink.

"Cheeky," I laugh, turning my face towards him.

He looks so self-satisfied, I can't help myself. My lips part as my mouth searches for his. Those beautiful green eyes fall to my lips before a darkness overtakes them. My eyes flutter shut as he presses his lips to mine. One peck isn't enough. I kiss him again, irritated with the drinks in both my hands, so I can't take control and pull him close. I wiggle my ass against him. His hands tighten on my hips. Heat overtakes my body as the most uncontrollable shot of lust I've ever felt in my life surges through me.

I pull away, trying not to pant. The look in his eyes is so hard to parse, but I can tell he wants more just as much as I do. I mean, there's that, and the cock hardening against my ass.

As I take a drink, he kisses along my shoulder, up my neck.

"Is this okay?" he asks, pausing suddenly.

I take another swallow of the Screaming Orgasm, finish it off, and turn to him, shoving the other drink in his hand.

"More than okay, but I need these drinks out of my hands."

"I can help with that," he says.

He takes the glass in his with a gentle laugh. Him and that gentle laugh. It kills me.

As soon as my hand is free, I tug him close by his waistband and wrap my other arm around the back of his neck, pushing him gently towards me with the back of my wrist. He moans into my mouth as we kiss. I glide my hand up his abdomen— fuck me, it feels so good against my hand —across his chest— god, he's so ripped —and through his hair. He nearly growls his appreciation. His free hand grips loosely at my neck before sliding down my chest.

In some ways, he moves more like the women and some of the nonbinary people I've been with despite my earlier assumptions about him. Maybe he's just that experienced.

I feel my heart pound against his hand. Without doing more than stroking my neck, the mere presence of his hand on my chest feels so deeply erotic.

"Can we go somewhere more private?" I beg, breathless, as I pull away from the last kiss.

"Wherever you want," he says, pressing another kiss to my lips.

We lose ourselves in kissing again—until I knock into his glass and accidentally spill some Sex on the Beach on my dress.

After a shriek, I collect myself back into the cool and sexy Teresa I know I can be, and giggle. "Are you trying to get me out of these clothes, Mr. Pacari?"

"In public , Miss Teresa?" he teases back, lifting the part of the skirt now covered in sugary alcohol. "Are you into that?"

I shiver as a breeze picks up, cooling the skin where the sticky liquid touches my leg.

"C'mon, you worked hard for that drink. You better finish it up," I urge, impatient to leave with him.

I mean, yeah, I'm a little bit of an exhibitionist, but I don't want to embarrass Zephyr, since they might end up living here if they like their grandma's place enough. Once they process the grief and all.

He throws back half the glass and then hands it to me, "I'm not having Sex on the Beach alone."

I swallow what's left, nearly screaming when he bends low to suck the drink from my dress. That cocky grin so close to my pussy has me scrambling to keep my cool. When I've finished the glass, I walk the glasses back to the bar, Pacari rising to his feet to follow behind. He pulls me back against him suddenly, and I yelp in surprise.

"Slug," he explains, nodding down.

Out of reflex, I fall back against him to avoid stepping on whatever slug he's talking about. I hate squishing things.

Right. He's talking about his dog. That I almost just stepped on.

As we get closer, Slugger gets antsy, sitting to nuzzle up to us both. I set the glasses on the counter and cash out, nerves practically vibrating with excitement. As I deal with the bill, Pacari doesn't take his hands off me and neither does Slugger.

Once we're done, I pick up the anxious little bichon frise.

"What are we gonna do with you, little guy?" I murmur.

"Is he a problem for you?" Pacari asks, keeping his hand at my waist as we leave the bar.

The ocean breeze feels more like frigid knives. I shiver, pulling the dog closer.

"I mean, he's so cute. It feels like a crime to rail you in front of him," I say frankly.

Just to make sure we're on the same page.

He coughs. I look at him, ready to laugh at his surprise, but something strange passes over his expression.

"I mean, if that's what we're doing. No pressure," I say. "It's just we were practically fucking on the dance floor back there, so I assumed. But you can tap out at any time. That's a-okay with me."

"You're right, he's too cute to fuck in front of," Pacari says, though it lacks a little bit of the lightheartedness we had going.

He looks slightly pained. Dark hair falls over his eyes. He blows at the strand with no luck. I adjust Slugger in my arms, reach up, push the hair out of his eyes for him. He turns to my palm and kisses it, kisses down my wrist. I inhale deeply as tingles work their way across my skin with every kiss. Our mouths find each other again, and it's not until Slugger lets out an impatient whimper that we stop.

Pacari pulls back, rests his forehead against mine.

"Depths below," he grumbles— like he's in a pirate movie? What kind of phrase is that? "Do you… have somewhere we can go?"

I shake my head slightly. "I'm staying with friends. And your place is… under construction?"

"I know somewhere we can go, but it's…"

"I trust you," I say before I can overthink it.

All I know is I need him. Badly .