Essence of Time by Liz Crowe Page A

face, through his hair. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s a total buzz, still. I just… “ He stood, buttoned his jacket and grabbed his keys. “Let’s go. We’re gonna be late.”
    Rob realized at that moment how much his friend wished he, Rob, would say “no, let’s go to a bar instead," but he didn’t. He was curious. And Jack had to figure out that it was not his thing anymore on his own.
     
     
    The Suite was just that: A giant, two-story penthouse in a decrepit looking downtown Detroit building with a killer view of the Detroit River and of Canada. Jack eased his truck into an underground parking spot and the two of them got into a creaky, old-fashioned elevator. The mirror across from them reflected back a couple of very well-dressed, successful-looking handsome men in their prime. Light and dark, tall, compelling—no wonder they’d scored so much in college. Rob smiled and Jack gave him a thumbs-up as the elevator rose, slowly to the topmost floors.
    The doors parted and Rob’s world changed. The foyer was kitted out like a ritzy hotel lobby with tasteful fresh flowers, low-slung leather furniture, and expensive Turkish carpets. It was quiet, and smelled like a heady combination of vanilla, leather and something Rob couldn’t quite place but would come to forever associate with the man who strode in, his dark face split in a huge grin at the sight of Jack.
    “My superstar,” he gripped Jack’s hand. Clad in a soft grey, three-piece suit, the guy was, in a word, gigantic. He towered over Rob and Jack who were each well over six feet tall. He wore his expensive-looking wool hand-tailored suit like a glove. His skin was the color of rich, hot chocolate, a milky light brown, with an improbable light dusting of what seemed to be freckles across the bridge of his nose. His close-cropped hair was…Rob squinted in the subtle lighting…a reddish shade of brown but tight, curly. The hand he extended to Rob was huge. Rob had never felt more intimidated and, he squirmed a little, never more fucking turned on in his entire life. Not even Christine had had this smack-you-upside-the-head affect on him. “I’m Kyle Summerlin. Welcome to The Suite. I’m pleased to meet you,” his odd, gray-hazel eyes met Rob’s and held them. The moment stretched out, way out. Jack cleared his throat to snap Rob back to the present. He felt blood rush to his face, and realized he had not let go of Kyle’s hand.
    Rob fiddled with the cufflinks he’d bought just for the fancy shirt Jack insisted he wear tonight. “Uh, likewise.” The space in his brain where he allowed erotic ideas to enter his consciousness was burning, bright and clear.  He hadn’t been with anyone since returning from France and part of him still ached for René. He shifted, tried not to cover his embarrassing, middle-school-ish hard on too obviously. Jack stared at him a minute, then focused on Kyle.
    “Yeah. So. This is Rob, I told you about him. He’s interested, but not enough to participate tonight. Or so I thought.” Rob realized Jack was staring at him but he could not rip his eyes from the vision in front of him. A pure, visceral pulse of desire shot through him so fast, he had to shove his hands in his pockets to keep from shivering. Impossibly broad shoulders, a bright white smile and a sudden knowing sparkle in Kyle’s eyes, all combined to make Rob ready to pounce, or run screaming out into the Detroit streets.
    “Yes, Rob.” A deep rumbling voice matched the large persona. “I assume Jack told you about the process?” Jack shifted a little.  Rob had almost forgotten the guy was in the room. Kyle held out a hand, indicated the two men should lead the way into the next room. “Jack, you know the drill.” Jack nodded and turned to Rob.
    “I have to head this way. You stay,” he jerked his thumb at Kyle, “with him. You good with that, brother?” Rob nodded, still speechless. Kyle chuckled, put a hand on Rob’s shoulder. The spark