Read Take This Man: Gay Romance Stories for Free Online Page B

gaze to them, so as to establish his presence without overt interest—a man in dark purple cashmere, who’s working on a laptop and orders a 312, a cute blond glued to a cell phone, who covers the mouthpiece to order vodka, two twentysomethings in sloppy business casual, pastel shirts untucked, who order rum and diet soda and bleat their evening plans to all who will listen. The bartender shares his smile of relief when they’re poured into a taxi by the doorman, away to terrorize the town’s improvisers at the second set.
    “Another?” she asks, indicating the empty glass. Shawn nods his assent. She sweeps away the crumpled napkin and salted pistachio shells. He drums his fingers on the bar, keeping tempo with her as she pours, shakes, strains and places a fresh drink before him. He pulls out his phone, resigned to wait as long as it takes. Which, as luck would have it, lasts for only two games of Tetris and a scroll through Twitter. Nothing from Cathy, but he keeps the ringer switched on, just in case.
    “Are you staying at the hotel?”
    “Yes,” says a crisp voice, “Room 502.”
    “I’ll charge it?”
    “Thank you.”
    Shawn’s attention snaps into place. He looks up from the political bickering of his timeline with relief; here he is, the one he’s been waiting for. That melodious voice belongs to a man of middling height and dark red hair, whose average features cohere like a discordant symphony. Shawn’s fingers clench the slippery stem of his martini glass. Tanqueray and tonic —he hears him order— lemon, please, not lime .
    Shawn drinks him in: his sinful mouth, curved around the lip of his glass, the teasing flick of his pink tongue, as he licks the gin from his upper lip; his slow-spreading smile to the bartender as she hands him his own tiny silver dish of pistachios. He catches Shawn’s eye and holds the stare that beat too long, then walks his drink and his dirty, angelic, dick-sucking face over to a corner table. His tight shirt was a bad idea, he thinks, since sweat is suddenly gathering in his armpits.
    Shawn undoes the top two buttons of his shirt, twisting as he does so to watch him walk away, but the seat lies just beyond his range of motion. The windows, fortunately, reflect the man back at him, and he takes full advantage, tracking the quick motions of his hands as he cracks open the nuts, the delicate purse of his lips as he licks salt from his fingers.
    He tips, then, with his ass falling off the leather, a graceless flail of limbs and momentary loss of his center, before he grabs the edge of the counter and rights himself. Shawn sits very still and wills himself to look at the counter, the bottles, the bartender, but he can’t help it, he’s too adorable, his mouth is obscene, he would destroy it given half a fucking chance… his breaths come quick and shallow, the drive to look already turning his head once more—
    —and Tanqueray has sidled his way over, seeping his way into Shawn’s orbit. Their shoulders brush, electric.
    “You look like you could use a drink.” The ice clinks as he fishes out the wedge of lemon and brings it to his lips. Sweat drips down his own glass, which has managed to empty itself once more. The room tilts a fraction and his cheeks grow hot. He could use that mouth on his balls, to start. He could use every piece of this guy, fill every hole he has and then some. Hell, he almost says so. Jesus, he’s old, if two drinks can send him sideways. Shawn blinks, yellow spots pop up behind his eyes. His throat is thick and dry.
    “Maybe,” he manages. “I’m getting there. She,” Shawn nods at the bartender, “pours a good cocktail.” Not his best line, but better than sitting there stupid and silent. Those red lips split into a naughty smile. “I’ll have to catch up to you, then—” He signals her for one more.
    “Same again?” she asks Shawn.
    “Could you get us a bottle of Pellegrino? One more of these,” the redhead says, ice rattling