Page 3 of The Call of Azure (Unexpected Love #3)

There are a few people here tonight I find myself appreciating enough that I know they’ll make an appearance in my post-club shower jerk-off session.

There is a woman with long, thick red hair that would no doubt fall around our faces, dimming the light and hiding us away from the world in a soft, private cave of warmth and whimpers as she rode me slowly.

A man with warm-brown hair in a silken sapphire-blue shirt that molds itself to his strong chest and nearly slips off his deep tan shoulder, who might press into me fast and hard while our lips play gently, if I could manage to work up the courage to tell him that’s what I wanted.

A non-binary couple I could watch methodically take one another apart until they’re shaking and trembling, as I slowly brought myself off in a chair next to their bed.

Yeah…tonight’s shower is going to be a long one.

"Hey, sexy."

I jump so forcefully that half my drink sloshes over my knuckles and onto the bar.

I’d let myself get so lost in my shower fantasies that I hadn’t even noticed someone sidling up close enough to almost whisper in my ear.

It’s so unlike me that I nearly spiral into a panic attack over the fact I let my attention drift enough that someone far more dangerous than a stranger in a club could have snuck up on me.

Only the fact that the handsome man in the flowing blue shirt I’ve been ogling since I arrived is close enough that I can feel the heat from his thigh pressing against mine pulls my attention back to the present.

He jumps back slightly with a laugh as he attempts to avoid the flood of alcohol and lime heading for his expensive-looking clothes.

“Easy there, big guy. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I normally hate it when people call me big guy.

It always sounds condescending, like they’re talking to a kid they think of as only “sport” or “pal” because they can’t be bothered to remember their name as they tell them why they can’t make it to watch their first ball game or dance recital or as they dole out an unnecessary lecture they say is for the kid’s “own good,” even though it’s clearly nothing more than nonsense.

I don’t hate it this time. The man’s voice is smooth and high and silken enough that it pulls goosebumps to my skin and shivers along my spine.

He rolls his words in a lilting, almost musical way, dragging them out like he has all the time in the world to sit here and flirt with me.

That’s what it sounds like he’s doing, flirting with me, although I can’t imagine that’s actually what’s happening.

I have to still be lost in my shower fantasies if I believe that’s what’s going on here.

This man is far too gorgeous and vibrant to be giving me the time of day for any reason other than to tell me I’m in his seat or blocking his path to the bar.

I’ve never actually met someone like him up close.

I’ve never been convinced that people this beautiful really exist in the world.

When I see them in movies and ads, I always assume they’re primarily the work of post-production editing and well-applied makeup.

He’s here though, standing right in front of me, and he could be a movie star or rock star or porn star…

Nope, that’s not the best train of thought for me to follow since he’s still close enough for his hips to brush up against mine from time to time.

Not unless I want to make standing here silently staring at him even more awkward than it already is.

Certainly, he has to be some kind of star though.

His nose is straight, his cheekbones high, his jaw strong and ever so slightly stubbled in a way that seems more like a play of light and shadow than actual scruff.

There is a single gold hoop dangling from one ear, bracelets in leather and gold stacked on his wrists, and a myriad of rings drawing attention to his elegant fingers.

His gaze is confident and teasing as he smiles at me, the tiniest wrinkles crinkling up next to deep-brown eyes that are so close I can see flecks of gold in them that seem to shimmer in the bar’s hazy light.

Guys like him don’t notice guys like me.

Okay, that’s not true. Everyone notices me.

I’m not bad-looking or anything, and I’m almost always the tallest guy in the room.

Of course I get noticed, but I’m quiet and shy and content watching life from the sidelines.

I’ve worked hard to make that obvious in order to avoid as many unwanted social interactions as possible.

I’ve learned that body language and facial expressions are usually enough to warn most people that I’m not up for casual chitchat.

I’ve perfected it to the point that most folks don’t give me more than a single passing glance.

Those who do look twice don’t look like this man.

Men who look like this certainly don’t pick me out of a crowd in a bar and step close enough that the scent of coconuts and cigar smoke overwhelms my senses while they call me sexy.

Only when his smile falters just a bit and he keeps talking do I realize that I still haven’t responded to him in any way other than to jump and spill my drink. I don’t think I’ve even offered him a nod or a smile at this point. I’m just staring like a deer in headlights in the middle of a highway.

“Really, handsome, I didn’t mean to startle you.” He reaches out and settles his long, delicate, decorated fingers on my forearm. “It’s just that I’ve been watching you for a while now, and you seem a bit lonely over here in the corner. I thought maybe you’d like some company for a spell?”

He raises one eyebrow in question, but somehow, it feels almost like a dare, and I’m still sitting here trying to pull together words.

Any words at all would do at this point, but I can’t seem to do anything other than stare into his kind, warm eyes and panic.

I’m making a fool of myself, and I know that it’s not going to take more than another breath or two before this man, who’s more gorgeous than any human has a right to be, realizes he made a huge mistake coming over to me.

Please, brain, for the love of god, start working before he realizes that.

His smile drops, and he pats my arm before pulling away.

“That’s okay, hun. I must have misread the situation.

From across the room, it looked like maybe you were checking out some of the men here tonight, but I must have gotten that wrong.

You enjoy the rest of your night, okay.” His hip brushes mine once more as he turns to head back into the crowd, and I have to pull myself together because I can’t let him just walk away.

Of course, nothing much will come of it even if I manage to say words and get him to stay and talk to me for a while, but I don’t want him to go.

I want him to stay here with me, even for just one moment longer.

“No.”

Really? That’s it? Just no? Come on, brain, for real? You have to be able to come up with more words than no.

He turns back to me and quirks his eyebrow again. It’s maybe the most expressive eyebrow I’ve ever seen in my life, all playful and perfectly groomed. “I’m going to need a bit more than that, sugar. No, you weren’t checking out any men, or no, you don’t want me to go?”

I shake my head and groan at my own ineptitude and inability to human, and he laughs at me.

He laughs, and I can no longer hear the conversations around me or the band or the bartenders yelling orders and shaking mixed drinks because it is the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard, and it takes over my entire universe until nothing else remains.

“No. Don’t go.” Three whole words. Slightly better, I guess.

The look in his eyes as he prowls back toward me, and there is no other word for the way he takes those three steps, is nearly predatory.

Somehow, he’s spent his night looking around this bar and decided that I’m the prey he wants, and even though I have no idea what to do with that fact, aside from being absolutely terrified, I want it.

I want him to want me like this. I want him to look at me like he wants to tear me apart before putting me back together again.

Like I’m the only thing in the world that he wants to look at or touch or think about.

When his fingers wrap around my wrist, his grasp is tighter than I expected for some reason.

I’m not sure why; nothing about him is small.

He must be around six feet, and he’s strong and muscled like an athlete or a dancer.

Yet the way he moves - fluid and graceful and easy - veils that strength in a way that makes it easy to forget it’s lying in wait behind flashy jewelry and smiling eyes.

“Come with me?” he purrs.

It’s a question, not a demand, and there’s no doubt in my mind that all I’d have to do is shake my head the slightest bit and he’d release his grip and step close with a gentle smile, and we could order another round of drinks and talk and laugh a bit before going our separate ways, but I can’t.

I have no idea where he’s going to lead me or what he has planned, but it’s not a request I want to decline.

His smile grows when I down the bit of my drink that didn’t spill, set down my empty glass, and rise from my barstool.

I don’t know if he moves or I do, but one way or another, our hands shift until our fingers are interlaced together as he leads me through the crowded dance floor, past the band’s small stage, and into the restroom.

It’s clean and well lit, not like the sticky-floored, smelly restrooms I’ve found in most clubs I’ve been to, but it’s still a restroom, and I’m not sure how I feel about doing anything even remotely sexual here until he guides me to the furthest stall, locks the latch behind us, presses his body against mine, and makes the world disappear in an instant.