17. CORIOLANUS

CORIOLANUS

The Present

C HRISTIAN leaned back in his chair, taking a moment to observe the man sitting across from him. The one he did not know was an ancient god masquerading as a human.

Corey could practically feel the intensity of Christian’s gaze, gentle yet scrutinizing, enveloping him like a lover’s caress. Christian’s deep, coal-coloured eyes seemed to penetrate to the core of the god’s being, leaving no detail unnoticed; every inch of Corey, clothed or not, was meticulously examined.

Though starting with the face, Christian’s eyes soon moved down over Corey’s thick neck, across his broad shoulders to explore his muscular chest, studying the large pecs and erect nipples pushing through the shirt’s taut fabric. He was making love to the god with nothing more than a penetrating stare.

Aroused, Corey’s left hand travelled slowly down his body, moving toward his groin, making it obvious enough to the mortal to catch his notice.

When his hand was on his junk, he gripped down hard on his jeans-covered package and, employing his consummate control over his body, forced the enchanted blood into his cock, stiffening it. As he did so, he psychically projected the sexual titillation he felt himself into Christian’s mind.

But not just his.

Wickedly, Corey projected the same erotic sensations into the minds of the two men sitting closest to their table, as well as their server from earlier. All three men’s pricks went instantly hard, and as beads of sweat formed on their brows, looks of surprise and puzzlement formed on each of their faces.

The two male patrons chuckled as they awkwardly adjusted themselves and patted their foreheads with a napkin, neither aware of the other’s identical circumstances.

With Christian oblivious to these mischievous machinations, too distracted by his current, unexpected euphoric state, Corey caught the server’s eye. He nodded toward his noticeable bulge and gave a knowing wink. The man instantly blanched, put a menu down in front of his bulging crotch, and hurried back behind the bar.

The god rolled his eyes and snickered, amused by his antics. Then, he quickly returned his full attention to Christian. “I’m still waiting.”

“Oh, uh, right,” Christian stammered, shaking off the strange feelings of intense sexual intoxication that came out of nowhere.

“How do I look to you?” the god asked again.

“Well, your skin is flawless,” Christian praised as his breath evened out. He remained wholly oblivious to the previous moment he had shared his date’s attention with strangers.

“I swear, it’s like you’re made of marble. I love mythology, and you remind me of a Greco-Roman statue with the features of a god. There’s a sensual darkness about you that sings to Morpheus, the god of dreams. Yes, that’s it. You’re like a dream ’cause no one as gorgeous and manly as you could be real, not with that chiselled bone structure and perfect Romanesque nose.

“It’s odd, but like, you seem to have a spotlight on you at all times, that both shines and dims. Outside and inside. It’s kinda wild. So I guess you’re always presented in your best light, the best touches of darkness and illumination. That sounds so cheesy and flighty, but fuck it, it’s true.

“Your eyes aren’t exactly brown; they’re more like bright copper with a mesmerizing sparkle. They’re the windows to your soul, and they lure me in. They’re too hypnotic to be natural. But they aren’t contact lenses because I can’t see any circular edges. It’s fascinating. You’re fucking fascinating!

“Your age eludes me. I swear, you could be twenty-five or thirty-five. It’s weird—but in a cool way! I mean it! It’s not off-putting in the least. You’re a smoking hot daddy, but also, you seem too young to be that. But also not. It’s a unique masculinity, an inexplicable yet compelling sexiness entirely your own.

“Your features express youth, but your expressiveness, that look in your eye, all give something away. Like experience, even wisdom. You’re an old soul, like me, but in the body of a fitness model, not so much like me.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, hottie. I came after you, if you recall.”

Christian blushed, remembering.

“Your lips,” the young man continued, “are full but not too plump and definitely kissable. You’re lucky. So many guys I’ve met have no upper lip. It’s a biological epidemic. Yours look so soft and buttery. But here’s that contradiction again: they also look rough at times, in certain lights, and, I guess—manly? Cripes, I sound so stupid. I’m not explaining this well.”

“You’re doing fine,” Corey assured. “You’re using personal insight. These are your words; no one, not even you, can or should fault that. Don’t overthink. Just describe what comes instantly to mind.” The god was enjoying this game. “Keep going.”

“Don’t overthink. Got it. Okay, so please don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you might be into tanning. But whether it’s sun, spray or tanning bed, it’s faded significantly. I can see the lighter shade of your skin poking through. It’s pale, almost—white, but without pink hues. Again, it’s hard to describe.

“You look and sound Italian, or at least from somewhere in the Mediterranean. Your English is flawless, so second-generation Italian-Canadian? I may be reaching if I was basing it only on the texture of your hair and eyes, but your faint accent points to that region.

“And maybe it’s the lighting in here, these damn fluorescents, but right now, at this moment—okay, don’t hate me for this, but you kinda look like a vampire. But a hot one, like an Anne Rice character, even a bit like Antonio Banderas in Interview With The Vampire , but with short hair and not so ghostly-looking—or dressed like the Phantom of the Opera. You’re more of a rocker vampire, like Stuart Townsend’s sexy Lestat in The Queen of the Damned .

“I knew this guy once—Chris. He was a few years older than me and breathtakingly handsome. He rocked your alternative look, always with dyed black hair, though he’d classified himself as emo rather than goth. I haven’t seen him around in years. I think he was a rent boy. Okay, you really need to stop me and say something here. I’m totally rambling.”

“What makes you think I’m goth?” Corey asked, somewhat exasperated, but his tone was subtle enough not to ruffle feathers. He had learned his lesson from earlier not to fly off the handle.

And it was not the goth part that irked him but that, once again, his immortal godhood was relegated to a vampiric fetish. He understood Christian meant well with his comparisons, ones he expected in this day and age of pop culture, but it stung.

If Apollo was here, mortal, he’d want to make you a pile of ash for comparing us to vampires. Talk about triggering someone.

“I mean, come on, isn’t it obvious? Sure, you’re not sporting any make-up, but your hair is jet-black, and I doubt those subtle blue-black highlights are natural, Corey.”

“Actually, they are natural.” At least, they were natural to his immortal form; the colours had appeared in his hair gradually over time quite inexplicably and remained. Olympius had them, too. Corey always wondered if they were a mark of being of Coeus’ bloodline. “Does having them make me a freak?”

“Not at all! They’re beautiful. They add to your other-worldly sexiness. I hope you don’t mind me saying that. Other-worldly. It does sound silly. You’re not an alien.”

“No, it’s cool. It’s a description I’ve heard before. I rather like it.”

Christian beamed, and that immediate, innocent reaction soothed the god. He no longer saw the mortal’s smile as a defence against awkward uncertainty; it was now a sign of appreciation and trust. Once the prey fully trusted the predator, the endgame was in play.

“Then there’s your personal style,” Christian stated, adding more evidence to support his vampire-goth comparison. “Skin-tight black jeans, body-hugging black shirt, and combat boots. I’m surprised you’re not wearing Doc-Martens. Combat boots seem more punk to me .

“The leather gloves throw me off a bit, as they come off as biker-dude, so considering the boots, maybe you’re going for a more industrial gothic look. And that style’s cool, especially the clothes. The music rips, too. I love Front Line Assembly and Skinny Puppy. Classics.

“I’m actually quite jealous. I wish I could be as bold and confident as you to wear such sexy stuff. Your clothes get me really hard. Your body in those painted-on jeans—I mean, fuck! They fit you like a second skin. When you danced in that other pair of pants, the vinyl ones, I could see the muscles in your legs and ass flex and move with the material. They fought for release yet simultaneously became one with the pants’ material. So fucking hot, man.

“And your muscular arms! I couldn’t keep my eyes off them at the club. They’re not too big and overly veiny, just perfect, toned, and lean. Christ, I could go on for days about how fucking hot you are!”

“So you like what you see?” the god asked bluntly.

“Man, I fucking love what I see. I’ve loved it from the moment you ignited on that stage. How do I even describe your presence back then without sounding corny? Supernatural? Utterly intoxicating? Mind-blowing? Words don’t do it justice. I wanted so much to be near you, touch you, and yes, definitely fuck you. I’m not ashamed to say it. All the guys back there wanted you. You were everything to me the minute I saw you.

“I can’t properly explain how I felt back at the club. All these sensations I’d never experienced before. Intense desire and lust. Big fucking surprise here, but I still feel that way—drawn to you. ”

“Well, Michelangelo, you’ve painted a fascinating portrait of me. Of course, there are so many facets to my being you could never fully comprehend me, but the effort you show is superhuman. I commend you.”

Christian threw a hurt look Corey’s way. “Are you being sarcastic?” he asked, clearly insulted. “Are you making fun of me?” The young man felt foolish for waxing poetic about a man he barely knew.

“No, no, handsome, on the contrary,” the god assured. “You have an uncanny ability to combine vulgar slang with the most eloquent vocabulary. You describe me in ways that flatter me with poetry and taunt me with sexual innuendos. As you say—it’s fucking hot. You certainly are gifted. Tell me, what do you have planned for tomorrow morning?”

Upon hearing Corey’s joy and praise of him, Christian felt better about his actions and his loose tongue, but he still took a moment before answering. He needed to be sure he said the right thing and have it based on more than his current chaotic feelings. Was this thing between him and Corey real, and could it exist beyond this moment? Should it exist? Would it be a one-time wham bam, thank you, and scram thing? Was he brave enough to find out?

Finally, Christian answered the question. “Something with you, I hope. At least—waking up next to you?”

He was brave enough.

“Impudent thing, aren’t you?” Corey smirked, delighted by the response. “I like it. Go on and finish your glass of wine, and then we’ll get out of here. Finish mine, as well. I’m not feeling too thirsty—for wine tonight.”

“Sure, although let’s not go back to my place. You may find my roommates’ ruckus more than a tad obnoxious. And they’re nosey as fuck. Even at this late hour, most of them are probably still up. Grindr and the internet are both 24/7.” Christian snorted, amused by his sassiness.

The god employed his hypnotic whisper , softly commanding the mortal to finish the entire bottle, wanting him to toss it back as though it might be the last taste on his tongue ever. “Just drink and don’t worry about anything except pleasure. I’ll take care of everything.”

Christian downed the two glasses of wine, then chugged the rest of the bottle without a second thought, ignoring the stunned glances from some of the other patrons.

Corey’s arousal for Christian grew as he watched the man swallow the dark liquid as soon as it entered his mouth. The delectably erotic action of the laryngeal prominence, the so-called “Adam’s Apple,” that up and down movement just under the skin, over and over until there was nothing of the liquid left to consume, captivated the god. He would be enjoying something quite similar soon enough.

Though the bill had yet to be requested from the server, indicating their desire to leave, Corey threw a large wad of cash on the table to cover the cost of the wine, along with a generous tip. In most places, he would leave without paying, telepathically erasing his patronage from the staff’s memories. Lucky for this establishment, he had grown fond of its ambience and liked supporting it monetarily.

He once even fed on the owner, a bearded, stocky, red-headed Scotsman with a beer-can cock and a fat, hairy ass. The bearish man had projected flirty, amorous energy toward the god one night, his mind expressing a desire to fuck.

So Corey had obliged, taking the guy against a brick wall behind the building after closing time to reward his boldness. His flavour was spicy, but experiencing the man’s darker memories left a sour taste in Corey’s mind, so to speak, that took a week to dissipate. No second helpings were ever had.

As Corey sensed his companion was about to get up from his seat, the god moved nearly as swiftly as Mercury himself; instantly, he was behind Christian’s chair, pulling it out for him. It was a small gesture, but it drew attention.

The god expected some nonplussed and disapproving stares concerning the chivalrous action, but he was pleasantly surprised to see only smiling, supportive diners, all charmed by the romanticism before them.

At first, the old-fashioned move, one generally reserved for women, weirded Christian out, but he soon relished the attention. He felt catered to and cherished, as if he were the only person in the world who mattered to Corey. And if others in the room, especially other men, considered the act demeaning, he could not have cared less—not with a considerate hunk like Corey interested in him .

Because he was so focused on his handsome date, Christian did not notice that no one acted judgmentally toward them in the least.

Taking the lead, the god walked out of the restaurant with Christian in tow, their hands clasped together; the night was calling.