messenger bag across the room, where it hit the wall with a thud. “I thought maybe you’d like to fool around a little first. God! I’m so horny.” Devin grinned and licked his lips. His eyes flashed. He rubbed his own crotch again. The man was one big walking libido. “I was thinking about coming home to you all day. Hoping you might be waiting for me—” He winked. “—naked and on your knees.” Devin grabbed Wren’s shoulders and attempted to push him down to the floor.
Trying to keep things light, Wren laughed, extricated himself, and moved nimbly away.
“Damn. I could sure use that drink. Where were you thinking, Dev? Roscoe’s? Sidetrack?”
Devin raised his eyebrows. “How ’bout the Brig?”
“Isn’t it a little early for a leather bar?”
“Ah, they get guys in on their way home from work, just like anyplace else along the strip. And they don’t go all Nazi on your ass if you fuck around in the men’s room.”
Wren wasn’t sure about that, especially on a Tuesday afternoon, but he wouldn’t put it past Devin to test the limits. Nevertheless, getting Devin out the door was advancing him one more step away from molesting Wren.
He liked Devin well enough and liked having sex with him. It was, after all, the basis of their relationship, but Wren had hoped now that they were going to be roommates, they could explore other aspects of their relationship, arcane areas like, oh, eating and what’s on TV.
“Is that what you’re gonna wear?” Devin nodded to Wren’s Levi’s and Big Chicks T-shirt. “I can loan you a harness or some chaps.”
“Dev, it’s six thirty. No one’s going to be wearing leather.”
“Well, I am. Fuck ’em if they’re too big of sissies to gear up. Fuck you too.” Devin wiggled his eyebrows, Groucho Marx style. “Later.”
He disappeared into his bedroom, and when he came back out he was wearing a skintight black mesh tank, leather jeans, and combat boots. He stumbled around a bit in the dim apartment, possibly because he had also donned a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses.
“You look hot, man.”
“Thanks. You sure I can’t lend you something?”
“Maybe later.” Wren’s comment was not a compliment. It was near one hundred degrees outside. Devin would roast his nuts off in those leather jeans. “Let’s go.”
Horny hour, as Devin described it, was right. Once they had their bottles of Bud Light, all Devin did was critique and rate every guy who came into the bar. It didn’t matter if he was young, old, fat, thin, or looked like Chicago’s answer to Ryan Gosling—or Rush Limbaugh—Devin had an opinion. And that opinion usually revolved around the size of the man’s basket or how his jeans gripped his ass.
Devin flirted with almost everyone, and Wren was actually surprised to see many of the guys taken aback by Devin, who seemed a bit too desperate for his own good. Hot as Devin was, with his muscles and perfectly chiseled and bewhiskered face, there was something about desperation that was a turn-off, even for some of the guys Wren would have assumed weren’t even in Devin’s league, physically speaking.
Wren assumed most of the clientele in the Brig that early evening just wanted to have a drink and weren’t there to cruise. Devin did return from the men’s room once boasting about groping a “nine-incher,” but Wren wasn’t sure if that was true.
When Devin’s siren song of lust was not quite being returned in kind, he turned his attentions back to Wren, flinging innuendos, come-ons, and flat-out propositions at him as if he thought the more he tossed them Wren’s way, the likelier he would be to get lucky. Given half—no, make that a quarter—of a chance, Wren was certain Devin would have been happy to fuck Wren in the bathroom stall. Or right at the bar, for that matter.
And then go out looking for more.
The man needed to see a professional. He needed a twelve-step group.
Wren didn’t drink as much as he had
Trying to keep things light, Wren laughed, extricated himself, and moved nimbly away.
“Damn. I could sure use that drink. Where were you thinking, Dev? Roscoe’s? Sidetrack?”
Devin raised his eyebrows. “How ’bout the Brig?”
“Isn’t it a little early for a leather bar?”
“Ah, they get guys in on their way home from work, just like anyplace else along the strip. And they don’t go all Nazi on your ass if you fuck around in the men’s room.”
Wren wasn’t sure about that, especially on a Tuesday afternoon, but he wouldn’t put it past Devin to test the limits. Nevertheless, getting Devin out the door was advancing him one more step away from molesting Wren.
He liked Devin well enough and liked having sex with him. It was, after all, the basis of their relationship, but Wren had hoped now that they were going to be roommates, they could explore other aspects of their relationship, arcane areas like, oh, eating and what’s on TV.
“Is that what you’re gonna wear?” Devin nodded to Wren’s Levi’s and Big Chicks T-shirt. “I can loan you a harness or some chaps.”
“Dev, it’s six thirty. No one’s going to be wearing leather.”
“Well, I am. Fuck ’em if they’re too big of sissies to gear up. Fuck you too.” Devin wiggled his eyebrows, Groucho Marx style. “Later.”
He disappeared into his bedroom, and when he came back out he was wearing a skintight black mesh tank, leather jeans, and combat boots. He stumbled around a bit in the dim apartment, possibly because he had also donned a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses.
“You look hot, man.”
“Thanks. You sure I can’t lend you something?”
“Maybe later.” Wren’s comment was not a compliment. It was near one hundred degrees outside. Devin would roast his nuts off in those leather jeans. “Let’s go.”
Horny hour, as Devin described it, was right. Once they had their bottles of Bud Light, all Devin did was critique and rate every guy who came into the bar. It didn’t matter if he was young, old, fat, thin, or looked like Chicago’s answer to Ryan Gosling—or Rush Limbaugh—Devin had an opinion. And that opinion usually revolved around the size of the man’s basket or how his jeans gripped his ass.
Devin flirted with almost everyone, and Wren was actually surprised to see many of the guys taken aback by Devin, who seemed a bit too desperate for his own good. Hot as Devin was, with his muscles and perfectly chiseled and bewhiskered face, there was something about desperation that was a turn-off, even for some of the guys Wren would have assumed weren’t even in Devin’s league, physically speaking.
Wren assumed most of the clientele in the Brig that early evening just wanted to have a drink and weren’t there to cruise. Devin did return from the men’s room once boasting about groping a “nine-incher,” but Wren wasn’t sure if that was true.
When Devin’s siren song of lust was not quite being returned in kind, he turned his attentions back to Wren, flinging innuendos, come-ons, and flat-out propositions at him as if he thought the more he tossed them Wren’s way, the likelier he would be to get lucky. Given half—no, make that a quarter—of a chance, Wren was certain Devin would have been happy to fuck Wren in the bathroom stall. Or right at the bar, for that matter.
And then go out looking for more.
The man needed to see a professional. He needed a twelve-step group.
Wren didn’t drink as much as he had
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