Page 1 of Sucker Love (Sugar Pill Duet #1)

NOEL

Anathema isn’t a sex club. Not really.

You aren’t allowed to suck or fuck here, after all, and there’s no jerking off either.

There’s a strict “no hole allowed” policy enforced at the door, and the staff watches guests with a hawk’s eye to make sure no one enjoys themselves too much.

There wouldn’t be much point to a gay nightclub that lost its liquor license—thank you, Boston, and your puritanical bullshit.

I guess that’s why everyone goes down to Providence for real fun.

Not that I’ve ever been.

But what I notice Anathema does have, as I emerge from the vestibule and into the club proper, is the sort of atmosphere I’ve yet to encounter in other gay bars around here.

It’s a cruisy vibe, a lot of bare skin and sweaty men making out in secluded corners under the red neon lights.

Their website advertises it as a very kink-positive space, if you ignore the fact that anyone caught practicing it near the venue will be thrown out.

There are plenty of harnesses and not-so-assless chaps to go around, guys looking like they walked straight out of a Tom of Finland cartoon in their leather vests and service caps.

And the space might be small, but the high ceilings, coupled with the stained glass and glowing crosses adorning the exposed brick walls, give it all the gravity of a debauched cathedral.

The dance floor is already crushed with sweaty bodies gyrating to deep house, and the bar is just as crowded.

There are good-looking, scantily clad men everywhere I look.

It’s the perfect place to lose myself tonight, which is shaping up to be the absolute shittiest night in my almost twenty-three years.

For starters, my relationship of a year has officially run its course: my ex-boyfriend Jordan moved out today. A lot of tears, begging and apologizing involved there on my end, to absolutely no avail.

Not to mention the drinks here are probably too expensive considering I don’t know how I’ll make rent next month, and the lights are too intense for the crying headache that still lingers at my temples.

I’m positive my eyeliner is smeared, and I’m hot and irritable even though it is late January and barely above freezing.

I’m sweating in my leather shorts and chain harness over a sleeveless shirt.

It’s a half-assed outfit, but I wanted to at least try fitting in with the leather and lace lovers.

Anathema might not have a dress code, but I didn’t want to stick out like the people who are here in jeans and Patriots jerseys.

I’m getting some appreciative glances, so I must’ve done an okay job.

I squeeze through the crowd at the bar—I need to get drunk before I can talk to any of these people without bursting into tears or biting their heads off, overpriced drinks be damned.

A few drunk guys cat call and someone palms my hip.

Contorting my body away like an unaffectionate cat, I hear a hyena-like cackle of laughter, but I’m sure it’s not at me. It better fucking not be.

I order a shot of Goose and a decently attractive bartender passes the glass across the bar top.

He moves on before I can ask for another, which is probably for the best, because I’m a lightweight and the room already has a slight tilt by the time I set down the empty glass.

There are more people crowding around me at the bar suddenly.

Some kid in a snapback is asking me for my pronouns and the music seems to offset the beat of my heart.

All at once I feel claustrophobic and like maybe, just maybe, this was a mistake.

No shit, Noel. You should not be at the club.

I slip away and make my way to the dance floor.

It’s emptied some, and that gives me a perfect view of the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on.

He’s wicked fit and covered in tattoos. Longish hair waving around his ears that I think might be dyed white or blonde—it’s hard to say beneath the blood-red lights—and he’s wearing nothing more than jeans and a T-shirt.

He’s either just as new to this shit as I am, or he doesn’t give a fuck about dressing up.

I’ve never had a type before, but now I might.

I make a beeline straight to him and slide into step in front of him.

He pauses and blinks, startled, as if being approached while looking as hot as he does is so shocking.

He’s taller than me by a good four or five inches, and I’m five-eight, so that puts him over six feet.

It’s enough that I have to sort of crane my neck to look up into his handsome face.

Even his throat is tattooed. It’s a moth, I think, and I have the most insane urge to put my mouth on it.

There’s a split-second I think he’s going to step away from me or say he’s with someone. I almost expect it, considering how my day’s gone; a little humiliation sprinkled on top would’ve been right on theme.

But he gets over his surprise and his lips quirk at the corners.

He steps closer to me. He finds his rhythm once again and then we’re dancing together, and he’s good at it.

It’s easy to follow his lead, to let my movements synchronize with his, and our bodies are suddenly having the conversation we aren’t.

I turn around to brush against him and he doesn’t push me away.

His fingertips skim the edge of my shorts before his hand settles at my hip, and I bite my lip on my first smile of the night.

Dancing’s sort of like sex, I think. When you’ve got the right partner, it’s really fucking good.

I slide my hands through my hair and down my neck as I boldly press against my newfound partner.

He matches me step for step, his hips snug against my swaying backside, as familiar and deliberate as the fingers flexing on my hip.

When I let my eyes slip shut and my head loll back against his shoulder, his rough cheek presses briefly to mine.

Oh my god, I want him. If I don’t get to take him home with me, I’ll die.

All too soon the song crossfades into the next, and his mouth is on my ear. “Buy you a drink, stunt girl? ”

I turn around to look at him. His smile catlike, curling upward at the corners. “Stunt girl?” I echo.

“Yeah. Placebo? Brian Molko?” He pauses at the confusion on my face. “Not a fan, I take it.”

“Placebo sounds familiar,” I say. “That’s some old band, right?”

I think he actually grimaces at my response, but the expression disappears as quickly as it comes.

“Uh, sure. You kinda look like their vocalist when he was younger. He’d always wear a shirt that said ‘stunt girl’.

” He pulls his phone out to bring up a picture and presents it to me.

“I figured this is what you were going for.”

The man in the photo is pale and effeminate, his chin-length hair dark and his icy blue eyes rimmed with heavy shadow. I suppose we do look sort of similar, except the eyes; mine are a nondescript brown. He’s much more stylish than I am, so I guess I should be flattered. “I see.”

“It’s a compliment.” He pockets his phone. “Come on. I’m thirsty after that.”

So am I, and it has nothing to do with dehydration. I let him lead me back over to the bar, where we find two empty seats by the very end. His broad shoulder brushes mine as he sits down, and my stomach disassembles itself into mush. I want to crawl into his lap.

“I’m Luca, by the way,” he says.

He levels his intense gaze at me, the color of which I can’t quite discern in here. Something pale, maybe blue or green? “Noel,” I say.

“Noel,” he repeats as if he’s trying it out, the shape of my name on his tongue. I do like how it sounds when he says it. “It’s my first time here,” he confesses to me. “Or any place like this. Not really my scene, I guess.”

I suppose I can tell, but that’s no skin off my nose. “Mine, too.”

“What are you drinking?”

I opt to abuse his generosity and get a cosmo, which is a whopping twenty-five fucking dollars, and to his credit, he doesn’t flinch. He orders it along with his beer, and as our drinks slide toward us, he turns to me. “Sorry, I haven’t done this sort of thing in a while.”

“What’s that? Drink?”

“Flirt,” he says wryly. “My wife of seven years is calling it quits. We’re officially separated as of a week ago. Filing for divorce.”

My lips part in surprise, because wow, baggage. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Shit indeed.”

When he doesn’t expound further or offer a reason, I say, “And so you’re sticking it to her by coming to a gay kink bar, huh?”

“Why not?”

I nod, and bring my drink to my lips, before setting it down a little too hard, causing it to wobble on its rim. “And here I was feeling sorry for myself.”

“It is what it is.” Luca holds out his hands in an eh sort of gesture.

He doesn’t seem all that torn up about it—the supposed dissolution of his marriage—or at least he’s acting like he isn’t.

Which is good, because I don’t want to play therapist. I’m here to forget why I’m miserable in the first place. “What about you? Similar story? ”

“My ex-boyfriend moved out.” And I, too, am flippant about it, more than I really feel.

Or felt a half-hour ago, anyway. The attention and the alcohol is a good pick me up.

“Just today, actually. He’s left me high and dry, and I don’t know how I’m gonna pay my rent next month—so naturally, I’m here spending too much money on cover and drinks to drown my sorrows. ”

Luca grins. “Naturally. What else can you do?”

“Work on finding a new roommate. That’d be the responsible thing.”

“Hey, at least you still have a place to live right now. I’m holed up in the Hyatt with all the shit I could fit in my car.”

I pout a little. “You don’t have to one up me, you know. I’ve already conceded.”