Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
I love pressing up against half-naked, sweaty men as much as the next gay guy, but not tonight. It seems almost cruel to put myself through it when I’m not allowed to touch, so I turn my back on the dancers and head toward a group of people sharing a bar table.
“Hey,” I shout. “Can I jump up on your chair for a minute?”
The guy I’ve approached shoots his friend a look.
“Only a second. See, Oskar Voyjik is here, and I want to see if I can spot him. If you get my drift.”
“Who’s Oskar Voy … Vo … who’s that dude?”
I stifle my laugh, wishing Oskar was here to witness his anonymity.
“Famous hockey player!” the friend shouts.
And there goes my fun. I point his friend’s way. “Yup. Him.”
“Nice.” The guy jumps off his stool and then holds it steady as I climb up to see over the crowd. Which really isn’t the smartest move on my behalf because I might not be a hockey player, but I’m still heavy, and I don’t trust this thing under my weight.
“See him?” the friend asks.
Maybe if I’d been looking for more than two seconds.
I ignore him and study the dancers, trying to spot that head of stylishly messed-up hair. I’ve studied it so much professionally—and personally, if I’m honest—that it doesn’t take me long to pick him out amongst the dancers. I watch them for a second before Oskar leans in to whisper something, and he and the guy he’s with start to head in the opposite direction to me.
“Found him.” I jump down, thank the guys, and leave before they can send any more questions my way.
The direction Oskar was heading in leads toward the back of the club where the private rooms are, and I trail along behind them, pausing at the top of the hall to watch which room they walk into.
I chuckle as the door clicks closed and pick up my pace because while I want to toy with him and make him think he’s won, I also don’t want to walk into any compromising positions when that’s the thing I’m actively trying to avoid.
When I reach their door, I whip out my credit card, slot it into the safety latch, and turn until I hear the lock disengage. Then, because I like the idea of making an entrance, I kick the door open and stride on in.
“Gentlemen.” I stuff my hands casually in my pockets. “This looks like …”
Well, I was going to say fun, but … I’d been expecting kissing or groping, and apparently, I’d been completely wrong.
Oskar’s sitting on a couch, arm running along the back of it, nursing a scotch. He’s completely composed compared to the guy beside him, who looks like he’s about to piss himself over my entrance. They’re both completely clothed.
I rock back on my heels. “I’m not sure you know how hookups work.”
Oskar tilts his head. “I was playing the odds. I figured there was a chance you’d followed me and a chance you hadn’t. I was waiting to see which it was.”
That clever shit. I should be mad. Or frustrated. Or … well, literally anything other than amused. I’m smiling in spite of myself. “Now you have your answer. If you want to sneak out, you’re going to have to work harder than that.”
“If you think I didn’t close that front door loudly on purpose, you haven’t worked me out at all.”
I eye him, trying to decide if he’s full of it or not. He wanted to hook up tonight, but I also know he wanted to play with me. Which of those urges would have been stronger?
“Ah, hey,” his trick says. “If this is going to turn into some group thing, I’m out. So not my style.”
“You’re out anyway.” I nod toward the door.
He ignores me and turns back to Oskar, who barely spares a glance his way.
Oskar waves a hand. “What he said.”
The guy scowls and leaves.
“Really?” I ask Oskar. “Dragging some poor innocent horny man into this?”
“Technically, it’s your fault he’s leaving disappointed. If you hadn’t walked in, I’d have had him on his knees already.”
And I don’t let my mind go there because the thought of Oskar’s pants open, head thrown back, hand buried in that guy’s hair is a hot one, and I’m determined to hold on to the one scrap of professionalism I have left: not getting hard in front of him.
“This room is oddly private for you,” I say.
He takes a sip of his drink. “Maybe I’ve learned my lesson.”
“No chance.”
“Then maybe I’m just trying to be a good boy for you.”
“If you hadn’t already made it clear how much you love a spanking, I might believe you.”
He chuckles and takes another drink.
I’m trying to stay detached from his shit, but I can’t help asking the question that’s been circulating through my mind for a while now. “Why do you do it?”