Page 10 of Petrichor
I let go of his head and take a step back as he licks his abused lips with a satisfied sigh. My fingers messed up his hair, and his cheeks are crimson red. His head is tilted slightly to the side, and he has a contented expression on his face as he looks at me.
The harsh breaths filling the bathroom slowly calm down and I start to adjust my dark gray suit pants. When I look at him again, he’s at the sinks fixing himself.
“So?” he asks. The smirk on his reddened lips says conceited, but his eyes look curious in the mirror’s reflection.
“You have very fuckable lips,” I reluctantly give him.
“I know.” He beams. “Aren’t you happy you tried them?” He slips his tongue out and runs it along the swell of his bottom lip, then up to the arch of the upper one. The silver bottom of his piercing catches my eyes, reminding me how good it felt around my cock.
Is he coming onto me? Because this was a one-off. Even though he vacuumed the cum out of my cockhead and gave me an out-of-this-world orgasm, I’m not gay, and I never go for seconds.
He turns around and closes the distance, leaving only a foot between us. A whiff of fresh rain reaches me again as he leans toward me and closes his eyes. My hands automatically turn into fists at the sudden proximity. What does he think he’s doing?
“Orange blossom…still,” he utters in a soft voice. His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath in. When he opens them again he has a sad, closed-mouth smile on his face. He’s flickering those pools between mine now. An ice-blue line circles the edges while there’s gray inside of the irises.
Pretty.Here’s that word again.
He takes a couple of steps back. “I’m parched. Care to join me?”
I hum uninterestedly as I wash my hands. He heads to the door and leaves the bathroom without a backward glance.
Who the fuck is this guy? I check myself in the mirror one last time, running my hand through my hair and walk out.
I see the guy’s dark blond hair as he stops in front of the bar. I head there as well. The last thing I want is to join him, but I need a drink.
“Load me up,” I tell the bartender, who’s smiling at me. “And leave the bottle.”
“Here, Mr. Moretti.” She places the glass in front of me on the counter and pours the whiskey. Her eyes linger on my face beforeshe slowly moves to another customer. She’s been veryhelpfulsince I arrived. I might take her silent offer next time.
“Are you drinking whiskey? I find it helps a lot when I’m in need of relaxing,” theprettyguy tells me, reminding me of his presence. He’s leaning against the bar, both elbows on the counter, head turned my way. His sweater rose, putting on display those narrow hips and delicate belly chain again.
“I just did something to relax.” Blow jobs always do the trick after a day at work. And this time, I feel even better than usual.
“Glad I could help.” His smile is sweet and naughty at the same time. “A Bloody Mary will go well with…yourjuice.” He waves over the bartender and orders his drink as I sip my whiskey.
Cheeky little shit.
A man slides up next to him, eyes shamelessly ogling his butt. He looks wasted.
“Hey sweet cheeks, let me pay for that.”
“Go hit on that wall. I’m sure you’ll get more action there.” The pretty guy dismisses him with a wave of his hand.
The man frowns at him, eyes unfocused. “You’re a dude? Ugh.” He pushes away from the counter and staggers away.
I look around, only now noticing more leery eyes on the pretty guy. He seems to be fucking oblivious to the attention. Probably too used to it. This is not a gay bar, but I’ve seen some man-on-man action before in the parking lot. Whatever. I’ve never been picky about my hook-up places.
The door of the bar opens, letting in a man I think I’ve seen before. His reflection looks clear in the mirror above the bar. He’s tall, with black hair, a slick suit, and polished shoes. I see him walking confidently to the pool table, where two men working for theEnzino family are playing.Figli di puttana, all of them. Mercenaries who don’t give a fuck about Italian traditions andCosa Nostra. They are just in it for the money. That’s why they work for a mobster like Jack Enzino.
The man turns toward the bar. His eyes focus and then narrow on the pretty guy sipping his drink next to me.
“Look who’s here. Fly,” he drawls, reaching us. “Miss me?”
Fly?Is that a nickname?
“Nope,” Fly replies, turning rigid.
“It’s impolite to give your back when your boyfriend is talking to you.”
