Second to None
“What’s the matter, Boss? No one around to play with anymore?”
The last blessed drops of Glenlivet slid down Marcus Feldman’s throat before he answered his chief of security.
“Go away, Darius. Aren’t I paying you to stand at the door and be intimidating instead of annoying me like a fly?” He ran an appraising eye over the broad chest of the man, and though he liked what he saw, Darius had made it clear from day one he wasn’t available for nighttime fun and games. Marcus set his empty glass on the bar, and the cute, dark-haired bartender he’d hired last week immediately appeared. Without even asking, Marcus was rewarded with a refill and a cheeky grin.
“Thanks, Antonio.”
“If you need anything else, let me know.” Antonio’s dark eyes held his. “I’m completely at your service.” With a wink and roll of his hips, Antonio walked to the other side of the bar to help a customer.
Watching Antonio’s round ass encased in skintight red leather pants, Marcus could’ve groaned out loud with frustration. His fingers tightened around the glass of scotch, and he tossed half of it back with a flip of his wrist. He was on the last month of a forced, three-month stretch of celibacy and so horny he could barely see straight. Every morning and night he cursed his two friends for holding him to that stupid bet he’d so carelessly made with Zach.
Running a club and being surrounded by half-naked male bodies he was now forbidden to touch didn’t help his strung-out libido at all. He walked around with a perpetual hard-on and aching balls from all the flirting and casual touches he received daily yet couldn’t act upon. Knowing his friend Julian, he probably put the staff up to torturing him. Juli always was an evil bastard.
Marcus couldn’t get too mad though, since he knew if the roles were reversed he’d enjoy inflicting the same torture on his friend. Besides, it was no secret the bartenders all wanted to sleep with him, bet or no bet. They thought it was their way up the ladder of success at Sparks. Screw the owner they figured, and it would get them the best shifts, and maybe they’d manage to hook him as a steady bed partner and bank account. He sipped his drink and contemplated the writhing bodies on the dance floor. Not a likely scenario. Marcus Feldman was nobody’s fool and nobody’s boyfriend.
“That Antonio guy is someone you could have in a heartbeat. I’m sure he’ll be waiting for you next month.”
Marcus shot a venomous glance at the bright, white smile Darius flashed.
“Fuck you.”
“Already told you—not interested.”
He and Darius leaned against the bar, staring out at the dance floor, and Marcus appraised the male dancers he’d recently hired for the club. They added a bit of flair, and he liked seeing the men in their platform go-go boots and skintight, gold lycra shorts, dancing with the customers, encouraging everyone to have a good time. And of course, spend more money.
Tyler, the newest dancer, caught his attention. Long strands of black, sweat-dampened hair whipped about his shoulders as he shimmied in front of one of the club’s biggest spenders, Eduardo Ortiz. Tyler’s muscular, lithe body moved with the sinuous grace of someone who didn’t dance for fun but used his body as a form of art. It was beautiful to watch, and Marcus stood enthralled, oblivious to everything else around him.
True to form, Ortiz had a fistful of bills and a leer on his heavy-featured face. The man stood around six feet four with a mountainous build; his custom-made Italian suit jacket strained over football-sized shoulders, and his tree-trunk thighs looked capable of crushing a man’s head between them like an overripe grape. Marcus’s eyes narrowed, watching Ortiz’s thick fingers slide below the waistband of Tyler’s shorts, only a hairbreadth away from grabbing hold of his crotch.
Pig. “Keep an eye on them, please,” said Marcus, gesturing toward the potential problem with a tilt of his chin. “I don’t like Ortiz manhandling my guys.”
“I’m on it.” Darius flashed him an amused smile. “Want to keep the goodies all for yourself, huh?”
“There’s still a month left on this stupid bet,” said Marcus, distaste twisting his lips. One long, long month of jerking off in the shower, in the bed, or wherever.
Darius smiled into his glass of water.
Marcus shook his head in disgust. “Juli’s got you watching me, huh?” He put up his hand. “No, no, I don’t expect an answer. I knew that bastard would have spies to make sure I didn’t cheat.”
“I have to say, I’m pretty impressed. I thought you’d cave right after they left for their honeymoon.”
Admittedly, Marcus surprised himself. It was the challenge, he guessed, his gaze returning to Tyler, whose hips never missed a beat of the pounding dubstep. Tyler’s arms twined around Ortiz’s neck for only a moment, his long graceful fingers ghosting along the man’s jowly creases, before he turned and pressed his ass into Ortiz’s crotch, grinding and swaying. Idly, Marcus wondered if Tyler would end up in Ortiz’s bed tonight. Heat rolled through him at the thought of Tyler’s sweat-slicked body under his own. He’d love to wrap his hand around that thick black mane of hair while he pushed inside that tight round ass. Tyler had an exceptionally beautiful ass.
“Damn that man can move,” said Darius, the appreciation apparent not only in his voice but in his eyes. “He’s way too good to be a simple club dancer.”
Silently agreeing, Marcus’s eyes narrowed as he continued to watch Tyler’s supple body writhe. The effortless motions of his arms and legs coupled with the sensuous motion of his hips all spoke of formal dance training. The muscles in his powerful legs and shoulders bunched and rippled under the flash of lights.
The dance ended, and Marcus watched Ortiz place a heavy hand on Tyler’s shoulder, holding him there and whispering something in his ear, an invitation to spend the night in his bed, no doubt. Unfamiliar anger sparked inside Marcus—no patron should be pressuring any of his employees to have sex—and he set his glass down on the bar, curious to see how the scenario would unfold. The thought of Tyler with Ortiz nauseated Marcus. Instead of returning to the front of the club, Darius remained by his side, perhaps feeling the same uneasiness about the situation as he did.
Being that this marked Tyler’s first week at Sparks, Marcus couldn’t be certain how he’d handle a blatant sexual invitation such as the one Ortiz no doubt made. He held his breath, inexplicably hoping Tyler would…what? Kick Ortiz in the balls? Punch him in the jaw? Marcus rubbed the back of his neck, anxiety tightening a noose around his insides. Why did he care? It wasn’t as if he was sleeping with Tyler; hell, he barely knew the guy.
Tyler brushed back some strands of hair sticking to his face and glanced up, meeting Marcus’s eyes across the dance floor. It felt like a punch in the gut, and Marcus fought to catch his breath; he’d yet to see such sheer desolation and hopelessness as he saw in Tyler’s blue eyes. Then Tyler laughed, and with a shake of his head and a brush of his lips against Ortiz’s temple, hurried away into the bowels of the club, leaving Marcus to wonder if he’d been mistaken.