Page 10 of Fire Me Up (Front Range Motorcycle Collective #2)

He was uninhibited in a way that was incredibly sexy. He moved with a natural rhythm, occasionally throwing in moves that were more silly than smooth, making me laugh despite the tension coiled in my gut.

He started off a little stiff with me, like he was afraid to take up too much space, but the thump of the bass and the slow, inevitable gravity of my hands on his hips loosened him up fast. For the first ten minutes, we let the music do most of the talking, but every time our bodies bumped or brushed together, it set off this tiny chain reaction—a flash of heat, then a ripple of restraint, then heat again.

Each time Gael’s hand landed on my waist and slid lower, I lost another IQ point.

I was going to leave this club a goddamn vegetable if I wasn’t careful.

When a slow song started—something with a synthy, smoldering build—he hesitated for a fraction of a beat.

Some of the couples in the crowd broke away to get drinks or keep things moving, but Gael stayed.

I didn’t give him a chance to bail; I reeled him in and closed the gap, pressing us chest-to-chest. If there was a prayer of keeping things friendly, it was already lost.

He was tall as fuck, but I fit right under his chin, so close I could feel every inhale. There wasn’t enough air in the room for how much of him I wanted to breathe in. Sweat slicked his skin, and the scent was this wild, masculine blend of cologne and soap and pure, raw Gael.

He was all muscle under my hands, and I drank in the heat radiating off his bare skin. The tempo was slow, but the tension wasn’t; there was a constant push and pull at our hips, an intimate friction that had me half-hard in seconds.

“Is this how you do it?” he said—half a laugh, half a groan—as I rolled against him. His voice was low, but I heard every syllable over the beat.

“Pretty much,” I said, my mouth too close to his ear. “You’re a natural.” I lingered just a little too long, lips grazing the edge of his jaw before I pulled back.

He shivered, and at the same time I felt him—fuck me, Gael was hard, pressed right against my thigh and not even trying to hide it.

I should’ve felt victorious or smug, but mostly I just wanted to see if I could get him to beg.

I rocked my hips, testing the limits, and his breath caught in his throat.

I tried to remind myself I was here to be a mentor. A buddy. At most, a tour guide to Denver gay nightlife. But it was getting harder to remember that with every inch of him glued to me.

I slid my hands up his torso—making sure my thumbs brushed over his nipples, just to see if he’d react—and he did, stifling a gasp that went straight to my dick. “You’re good at this,” he said, voice tight. “Like, really good.”

“I practice a lot,” I said. “Usually with guys who don’t look like they could break me in half.”

He grinned, open and a little shy, like he had no idea what he was doing to me. “You want me to tone it down?”

I shook my head. “Fuck no.” I let my palms skim up his back, feeling the sweat and the shiver there, and he just held on tighter, pulling me closer like he wanted to fuse us together. “You keep doing exactly what you’re doing.”

The music faded, and the DJ transitioned to something faster, but Gael didn’t let me go.

If anything, he moved closer, mouth at my ear.

We lost ourselves in the music for a while, in the way our bodies fit together.

I’d always liked dancing, but it had never felt like this before, like the beat was welding us together.

“This is different than I expected,” he murmured after another few songs, when the music slowed.

I tried to keep it light. “What did you expect?”

He hesitated, then said, “To feel awkward. Out of place. Not… this.”

I nodded, understanding more than he realized. “Yeah. The first time is weird, but after that it’s mostly just—” I broke off, because his hand was on my hip and inching lower, fingertips slipping under the waistband of my jeans. My brain short-circuited.

I looked up and caught him staring, eyes dark and dialed in. I wanted to kiss him—really, really wanted to fuck him, right here, right now—but somehow I managed to restrain myself. I was supposed to be the responsible one, the guy who didn’t take advantage of confused baby gays and their boners.

Even if that boner was currently digging into my thigh and making it really goddamn difficult to think.

I pulled back just enough to put an inch between us. “You want to take a break? Get some air?”

He nodded, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then winced. “Maybe I’ll call it a night. The shoulder is kind of hurting.”

Disappointment crashed through me, but I wasn’t about to convince an injured man to stay longer than necessary. I led him outside. The cool night air and relative silence felt surreal as I turned to face him, watching as he tugged his T-shirt back on, wincing as his shoulder flexed.

My eyes dropped to the tattoo on his hand, the one that marked him as a bottom.

“You okay? Was this too much?”

His cheeks turned pink enough to see them even under the streetlights. “No. I really like dancing with you.”

“Again, then?”

“Obviously.” He leaned down and gave me a soft kiss on the lips before turning and walking away.