Page 33 of Whirlwind

God, were people still looking at him? He felt like it. That tingle on the back of his neck.

At last, he reached the bar. It looked like most people just ordered at the bar and then went back to their chairs, but he hitched his way up onto a bar stool anyway. At least this way he could look busy. There was a mirror behind the bar that would let him check out the room discreetly too.

He tried to scan the room, his view broken slightly by the colorful bottles. Anyone who’d been watching him when he first entered the room had gone back to their own business. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him.

For a moment, his eyes met in the mirror with a man from across the room.

Micah quickly looked down. Damn, the man had been gorgeous. His blue jeans and plain, black t-shirt did nothing to hide his firm muscles.

The way he sat in his chair, legs spread as though it was his due to have subs kneeling at his feet, spoke more about his ability to Dominate than any plastic wristband could.

From that distance, Micah couldn’t see his eyes, but he’d bet they were a dark black to match his curly black hair. His olive skin suggested that he might be South American or Mediterranean, but Micah couldn’t tell.

Was that who had been looking at him? The idea was both terrifying and electrifying. But looking didn’t mean anything, he reminded himself sternly.

Micah snuck another look at the mirror, but he couldn’t seem to find the man again. He supposed that he might be behind some of the people crossing the lounge, or he might have just turned away, his back indistinguishable in the crowd. Had Micah imagined it all?

He turned his attention to the bar. The two bartenders were dressed in identical silver lamé jock straps.

Micah noted with some envy that one of them wore a heavy leather collar with a stylized lock nestled in the hollow of his throat. Their muscles shone in the soft light and their moves were fluid and graceful. That would never be him.

It was clear that the bartenders were both busy. One was chatting and mixing drinks for a crowd of six or eight men at the other end of the bar. The other put a few more drinks on a tray carried it off.

As he passed Micah, he called out over his shoulder that he’d be right back to get his order.

Bars were another tricky place for Micah. He wasn’t supposed to drink because it interfered with his medications. But drinking was a social norm, and he didn’t want to look like a pansy for ordering something virgin when he was allowed one drink if he wanted to play. Moreover, he was feeling nervous, dammit.

He had just decided on his order when the light shifted, and he realized that someone was sitting beside him. There were plenty of empty seats on both sides which meant that, oh fuck, whoever it was sat next to him on purpose.

He looked up in the mirror first. Oh God, oh God, oh God. It was him. Sitting so close that Micah could feel the heat across the inches that separated their bodies.

Even worse, he wasn’t looking away, not even to check out Micah’s body. He was looking straight into the mirror, meeting Micah’s gaze.

Micah felt a flush warm his cheeks and then travel down his chest. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

He looked down at his hands. At least if he’d gotten a drink already, he could have taken a sip to have something to do. Or chugged it all down.

The man shifted closer. His voice was deep and resonant, but soft enough to keep their conversation private. “First time here?”

Was it that obvious? “Yeah, uh… yes, um, Sir?” That’s what he was supposed to say, right? He was such a shit show.

The Dom chuckled, but it sounded kind, not mocking. “You looking for someone to call Sir tonight?”

Micah risked a glance up. Not in the mirror this time. He was so close that he could see the dark stubble on the man’s chin. How would it feel on his body? And the way that the man was looking at him—like he could see everything in him. Like Micah was the focus of his whole universe. Micah shivered.

Yes, his eyes were black.

“I, um, I… you might not want me… Sir.”

“And why is that?”

Micah gestured helplessly at the crutch, where it leaned against the bar on his other side. “I have cerebral palsy.”

“What does that mean?”

Micah hated this part. He had the spiel down—he’d either gotten an infection or his brain hadn’t gotten enough oxygen just before or during his birth and a small part of his brain was damaged.

It didn’t impact his intellect, but his muscles might be too tight or too loose, and he occasionally made spastic movements. It wasn’t genetic and it wouldn’t get any worse, but since he was already doing all the recommended exercises from his physical therapist, it wouldn’t get any better, either.