“I didn’t mean to sound shocked. Anyone can ride, of course.” Had I passed? As a straight man, was I supposed to say something specific to keep up the act? Talking with Weston wasn’t like talking with other guys I knew. He kept me on my toes.
He leaned back in his seat, swirling the dark liquid around in his glass. “What do you have?” Weston took a swallow.
“A Ducati Hypermotard. You?”
“A Harley Sport Glide.”
We talked bikes for a few minutes until the bartender came back with our plates. She set mine down in front of me, then gave Weston his. “I’d like another whiskey,” he said. “Can I buy you a drink?”
My stomach tumbled, rolling down a hill. “I, um, sure. I’d like a whiskey, but I can buy it, man.” I’d said the last part in this weird dude-bro way, like I was trying hard to sound straight, and was that even a thing? Sounding straight? What the fuck was wrong with me? I wasn’t straight, but I didn’t have a specific sound. I also had no business drinking, even one drink, the night before a game.
Weston only nodded. We were each given a whiskey, and the bartender brought me another water and one for him too. We ate and talked. When we were done with our food, we still talked and laughed, and God, “You’re a cocky motherfucker,” I said, noting how confident he’d been throughout the conversation.
“Yeah, and?” he replied, and we both chuckled.
I wasn’t sure how long we sat there. I didn’t want the night to end. I wanted to be able to stretch it out and live it over and over and over again. We each had one more whiskey, which I didn’t need. Our plates were long gone, but neither of us had made a move to leave.
When I glanced at my phone, I saw it was late, and fuck, I should have been back to the room by now. I was going to break curfew. I asked for my check. Weston frowned before adding, “Mine too, please.”
We got our bills and paid and…didn’t move. Why wasn’t I moving? Weston leaned closer, lowered his voice, his breath against me, making goose bumps chase each other across my skin when he said, “I can’t quite get a read on you. If I’m off base, tell me to get fucked, but…would you like to leave with me?”
I gasped but didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
“Christ, you’re sexy. The things I want to do to you…”
Blood rushed to my cock as nausea twisted in my gut. My vision went blurry again, and I couldn’t breathe. Holy fuck, I couldn’t breathe. I was going to have a panic attack, going to lose it right then and there, because I wanted, fuck, I wanted to know what he could do to me. How it would feel.
I shook my head, too fast, too hard. He knows, was all I could think. He knows, he knows, he knows—and what if he found out who I was? What if other people discovered my secret? My career, my life—
“I’m not… I can’t… I’m not…” I was still shaking my head, couldn’t seem to make myself stop, and he looked at me…sadly. I could see it, the pity in his eyes, the truth he saw in me that no one else did.
Weston sat up straight, his voice still soft when he said, “Okay. I figured I was wrong.”
He was lying for me, trying to make me feel better. Somehow I knew that.
“When I see something I want, I have a habit of jumping first, questioning later and…well, you’re gorgeous and I want you. I want you badly.”
I trembled, ached, tingled. Craved.
He looked at me, his gaze not allowing me to turn away, like he had power over me. Yes. I want you too. I want you to want me.
“No harm done,” I managed to say. “But I’m not…that.”
“Okay.”
“I have to go.” I shook my head again. “I just… I have to go.” I didn’t give Weston time to reply before hopping off my stool and briskly walking out of the bar, away from him, where it was safe.
When I got back to my hotel room, Darren was already there. “Jesus, man. This is the first time you’ve ever been out later than me. She must have been good.”
She.
But I hadn’t had anyone. I’d never had anyone I desired the way I’d wanted Weston. “Yeah,” I lied. “Really fucking good. I need to shower.”
I grabbed my bag and locked myself in the bathroom. When I was naked, water running down my back, I took my cock in hand and stroked hard and fast, Weston behind my closed eyelids and his voice in my head. I came quietly, whispering his name just for me.
Chapter Four
Weston
I woke up thinking about the pretty guy with the chocolate eyes. His brown hair was cut short, styled so it stuck up slightly in front. He’d had a lightly stubbled goatee, not a full beard the way my scruff grew, and the sexiest damn lips I’d ever seen—plump and perfectly bow-shaped. Anson. For whatever reason, he fascinated me. He was beautiful, of course, that much had been obvious, but he was also intriguing. I enjoyed talking to him in ways I hadn’t with anyone in a long time. He’d blushed nearly every time I looked at him, but I didn’t think he knew it. When he hadn’t thought I was paying attention, he’d watched me. I’d jacked off last night, coming twice with his name on my lips, but now I just felt heavy with melancholy.
Whoever Anson was, I’d never see him again, and even if I did, he was lost in the same closet I swore I’d never let myself live in again. I hated it—for him, for any person who felt they had to hide. Fuck society for that shit. Fuck people like my parents for keeping that hate alive. I didn’t blame their politics or their religion for it either. I blamed them. We all had choices in how we acted and what we chose to believe. They allowed themselves to hate and fear. Nothing else was to blame.
Was it the same for my bashful, pretty boy from last night? Christ, I’d wanted him—wanted to get on my knees for him, wanted to push Anson to his knees for me, to fuck his mouth, his sexy, plump lips, and let him have mine. To feel him beneath me. I wanted to see what he looked like when he came. It would have been so much better than the look of fear I’d seen in him when I’d asked him to leave with me.
I reached over and took his sunglasses from the nightstand. He’d taken off so quickly, he’d forgotten them. I hadn’t realized until he’d walked away. Technically, I should have left them with the bartender. Anson would likely come back for them. I was a bit of a stalkerish thief for taking them, since I didn’t know who he was or how I’d ever get them back to him, but…I’d wanted them as a reminder of our meeting, which was definitely fucked up.
So he was a pretty boy with a mouth made for kissing and a deep, masculine voice? A fucking gorgeous, athletic body I wanted to taste? That didn’t make him special. I’d had many of them in the past, but he’d been…a joy. He’d made my nerve endings spark in a strange way, and maybe he’d spiked my drink or something because I was thinking some weird, flowery-ass shit.
With a groan, I got out of bed. I had a small studio in DC, where I stayed when Congress was in session. I shot Jeremy a quick text, then got in the shower. Apparently, my trip to DC coincided with one of the first games of the football season. He had good tickets because he loved that shit, and Bobby hadn’t been able to fly out to go with him. I was an amazing friend and hadn’t fought too hard when he’d asked me to go. Like I’d told Anson last night, I liked sports. I just didn’t obsess over them.