As the guy moved toward the dance floor, he paused for a drink from the Corona bottle. For fuck’s sake. I was here five nights a week watching guys drink from bottles and straws, and I’d seen so many guys sucking face on the dance floor or sucking dick in the bathroom that I barely even noticed anymore. Why the hell was my heart beating faster over his lips around the mouth of that Corona bottle?
And why the fuck did he pick that moment to lick his lips like that?
I jerked my gaze away and focused on my job. Enough ice? Enough clean glasses? Enough garnishes? The bottles in my well—did any of them need refilling? Would any of them look as hot in his mouth as—
What the fuck, Diego?
I shook myself and kept working. On autopilot, I mixed cocktails for some guys who’d obviously been pregaming. They were using the bar to stay upright, laughing at nothing, and could hardly enunciate their drink orders. They weren’t quite to the point where I had to cut them off, but I doubted it would take more than two or three shots to get them there.
They were well on their way to shit-faced, and that worked to my advantage right then because my mind was only half-focused on the . . . whatever it was they’d ordered. Screwdrivers. Right. I reached into the well for the bottle of vodka and, while I did, stole a glance at the guy who’d been chatting me up a second ago.
And caught him watching me.
He quickly returned his attention to the dance floor, and I fought back a smile.
You think you’re so smooth, but I saw you.
Men hit on bartenders all the time. It was nothing new. What better way to get a free drink than to flatter the shit out of the guy pouring it? Except I couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at me like that. Usually, if a customer was staring at me, I immediately started worrying he was with ICE or something. Not that anyone had ever come in here and asked to see my green card, but that didn’t stop me from being paranoid.
This guy hadn’t pinged me as an ICE agent or anything like that. He’d just . . . looked at me. Like there was no one else in the room.
There were other guys in the room, though, and I could pick out half a dozen who were watching him like he was watching me. The younger customers loved older guys. If a silver fox wandered in here, we’d pretty much start taking bets on how quickly some twentysomething would be tugging him toward the men’s room. All he’d have to do was make eye contact, exchange a few flirty comments, and nod toward the back, and he’d have his dick down someone’s throat in no time.
An image flashed through my mind of that man on his knees with my dick down his throat, and I shivered. And even though I knew it wouldn’t help me focus, I cut my eyes toward him again.
He was a tall white guy, probably my age or maybe a little older. Most of the High-&-Tight’s clientele was midtwenties or so. If I had to guess, I’d have said he was at least in his late thirties. Early forties, actually. Was that why he had my attention? Because he wasn’t a kid like half the guys who came in here?
As he watched the other men dancing, I watched him. He didn’t dress to show off or stand out. An open blue shirt over a snug white T-shirt. Jeans that weren’t tight enough to give away if he dressed to the right or the left. He looked more like a guy who was here to unwind with a drink than someone who wanted some dick before the end of the night.
“Two whiskey sours,” someone called over the music.
I shook myself and turned toward a guy with a military haircut and two swallows tattooed across his bare pecs. Instantly my mood darkened. Always did when I saw someone sporting that familiar ink.
“Two whiskey sours,” I repeated through my teeth, and went to work.
A whiskey sour was easy. I could make it in my sleep.
Well, as long as I didn’t have someone distracting me.
Come on. Focus. Get a fucking grip. Every time I worked here, I was surrounded by good-looking men. I was even hit on by them sometimes. So why the hell was this one screwing with my head enough to make me almost botch a whiskey goddamned sour?
I managed to make the drinks, though, and handed them over. The shirtless man with the swallow tattoos left, and before I moved on to the next customer, I let my gaze drift toward the dance floor again.
There he was. Right where I’d left him.
He picked just that moment to shift his weight, pulling my focus to the way his jeans sat perfectly on his ass. And to the way he stood—straight, shoulders back, but not like he had a stick up his ass. And how hot it would be to bend him over something.
Fuck. It hadn’t even been that long since I’d been laid. Long enough I’d been browsing Grindr before I’d come to work today, but it wasn’t like I hadn’t seen another man’s dick recently. I wasn’t hard up for sex. So why the hell did I want him so bad?
Because I can’t have him. Or at least shouldn’t have him.
I bit my lip as I watched him. I’d turned him down, but I wasn’t going to lie—the guy was tempting. Couple of inches taller than me. Shoulders a man could definitely grab on to for leverage. I was kind of afraid to talk to him because he might let it slip that he was a bottom, and then my self-control would be gone.
I tore my gaze away from him and tried—again—to focus on the next order.
Yeah, he was tempting, but no way. I was not giving in to that temptation. He was military, and I didn’t do military. Which sort of limited my options in a military town, but oh well. It was a deal breaker and that was the end of it.
I let myself steal yet another glance. He had to be an officer. Probably a high-ranking one too. He was old enough he’d been in at least fifteen or twenty years, and the way he carried himself screamed someone with authority. I knew that look. The kind of guy who walked around like he knew he owned the place, so he didn’t have to puff out his chest and strut to make sure everyone else knew it. He had that quiet confidence that made my mouth water.
Why did he have to be military?
Okay, so almost everybody who came in here was. It was a military-themed gay bar outside the fucking base gates in a tiny, isolated town. Who did I expect to show up? The Chicago Bulls?
Plus, if I was honest with myself, the military guys hadn’t always been off-limits. For a while, I’d been fine with them for a one-night stand or the odd semi-regular fuck buddy. I just wouldn’t date them. But after I’d let myself get too close to one, and wound up hurting over him? No more military dudes. And I stuck with that. Usually. My first instinct was always Yeah no, not gonna happen, but once in a while, if he was hot enough . . .
This guy was hot enough, so why the fuck was I hesitating with him? He was sexy. He was obviously interested. So what if he was Navy?
Between drink orders, I watched him getting cozy with another guy on the dance floor, and why the fuck was I jealous? I’d turned him down.
But the way he moved his hips when he danced . . . and that look in his eyes when he was flirting . . . and that flash of pink when he licked his lips . . .
Why was I so obsessed with this man’s mouth?
Because he had full, dick-sucking lips. Because my gut said he knew how to kiss. Because I wanted to know how those straight, almost-perfect teeth felt on my shoulder.
Because I’d slept alone for the last three weeks and I was starting to get stir-crazy and he was fucking sexy so why the hell not?
I sighed. There was another military man who’d made my breath catch like this one had. Somehow I’d kept my shit together and pretended to be a consummate professional instead of a drooling idiot, but two times in my life, I’d met a man’s eyes and nearly stumbled. This guy and my friend Dalton. I’d known immediately they were military, and I’d known immediately that I wanted them.
Dalton and I had barely lasted through the end of my shift before we were blowing each other in the back seat of his car. This hot officer . . . where would we have wound up tonight if I hadn’t been such a coward?
I chewed the inside of my cheek as I watched him dance.
Everything I’d ever had with Dalton—the sex back then and the friendship now—had been worth breaking my rule. Ending our relationship, though? Backing away when I’d realized my heart was in deeper than it should have been?
That was the memory that had me refusing military men. It was why I was resisting the hell out of this new guy.
Except it was also the same memory that had me second-guessing that resistance. For the last few months, I’d been debating where I’d gone wrong with Dalton—by hooking up with him in the first place or by jumping ship when things had started looking serious. Since we’d broken up, I’d been twice as reluctant to get into bed with Navy guys, and twice as likely to regret not getting their phone number the next morning.
I searched the crowd for that hot officer, and found him in a matter of seconds. He’d sidled close to another guy, and they were leaning in to hear each other over the music. Grinning. Laughing. Holding eye contact for way too long.
I gritted my teeth. Jealous. I was fucking jealous because someone was flirting—and getting somewhere—with a man I’d turned down.
The fact that he was military was becoming less and less relevant. He was hot, he was here, and he’d been interested when he was at the bar. Now he was letting his shoulder brush against some jackass who needed to get the fuck out of my club.
I kept an eye on them just because I could. I kept working too, though, because I didn’t want to add “too busy perving on customers” to the list of reasons for Hank to cut me loose. In between mixing drinks and ogling him, I looked over my station to make sure I had everything I needed. Turned out I was running low on ice, so I went into the back. Before I picked up the bucket, though, I stopped to rub the ache out of my knee. Or at least rub out some of the ache. It never stopped hurting completely, and it was always worse in the winter. Being on my feet for hours didn’t help, so it was going to be sore as hell by the end of my shift. Fridays and Saturdays meant the best tips and the worst pain. Always did.
Carrying a bucket of ice didn’t help. I had to grit my teeth the whole way back to my station. Didn’t dare limp either. Soon as I started favoring the bad knee, the good one—well, the less bad one—would start hurting too. I’d ice them both when I got home tonight.
See? He wouldn’t want you anyway.
I shoved that thought aside. It was a stupid habit I’d never shaken since I’d gotten hurt. The scars, the gimp knee—how attractive, right?
In reality, even the younger guys almost never had a problem making do when my shitty knee acted up. They’d just put me on my back and ride me. Would this guy put me on my back and ride me?
I shivered and almost dropped the bucket of ice. I was losing it tonight, wasn’t I?
And I’d lose my job if I didn’t pull my shit together.
At my station, I dumped the ice into the bin and got back to work.
A dozen or so drinks later, just when I’d started getting my head together, the hot guy appeared at my station again, a grin on his lips and an empty Corona in his hand. With a playful upward flick of his eyebrows, he held up the bottle. “Any chance I can bug you for another one?”
“Not bugging me.” I reached under the bar. “It’s my job.”
As he looked through his wallet, I noticed there was a distinctive tan line on his left ring finger.
Well that changed the rules a bit.
Either he was married, in which case he was off-limits even if he was a civilian without a gag reflex, or he was divorced. Recently divorced. On the rebound.
I didn’t do rebound relationships, but rebound sex? Me gusta.
Except—
Oh, fuck the military. I wanted him. I wanted to know what sounds he made when I had his bottom lip between my teeth, and I wanted to know if nails up his back at just the right moment would make him come, and . . . and if I kept going with that train of thought, I was going to have a very uncomfortable hard-on.
Screw it. I needed to un-reject him. I’d deal with him being military later. Right now, I just wanted him.
Except there was that tan line on his finger, and I needed to know how often he covered it up before this went any further. While I popped the cap off his drink, I nodded at his hand. “Where’s your ring?”
He looked down, then back at me. “In a drawer in my dresser.” He inclined his head a little. “I just got divorced, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I fought a grin. Jackpot. “Sorry to hear it.” I handed him the drink. When he pushed a ten across the bar, I waved it away. “This one’s on the house.”
He blinked. “Really?”
“Well, on one condition.” I winked and grabbed a pen from under the bar. I quickly scrawled my number on a napkin, then put that beside his Corona. “The beer’s free as long as you take this.”
“What is—” He picked it up. “Is this your number?”
“Only one way to find out.” I grinned and hoped my nerves weren’t showing.
He blinked. “I thought you weren’t into military men.”
I was as conspicuous as possible about looking him up and down. When our eyes met again, I said, “I feel like breaking that rule tonight.”
His lips parted, and I thought he shivered. “Oh yeah?”
“Uh-huh.”
He glanced at the number, then back at me. “So, if I put this in my phone, what name should I put it under?”
“Diego.”
He took out his phone, entered my name and number, then slipped both the phone and napkin into his pocket. He was grinning when he looked at me again. “Got it.” Extending his hand across the bar, he added, “I’m Mark, by the way.”
“Mark,” I said as I shook his hand, like I needed to commit his name to memory. “So, Mark . . . I’m not off until after closing, but if you want to hang around . . .” I fought the urge to gulp nervously. As long as one of us thought I was calm and cool, we were good. “The after-party might be worth the wait.”
His eyes lit up. Dios mío, he was pretty. Way too pretty for me to be getting anywhere near since he was a military guy, but I’d already asked, and he was already saying, “Yeah. Sure.”
“You won’t get bored hanging out here?”
He smiled, and his gaze slid up and down my body. “No. I don’t think getting bored will be a problem.”