Velvet Memories by Violet Summers

minutes away with Justin Timberlake, Michael felt a wave of heat along his bare back. It could be anyone, absolutely anyone who wanted to dance, but Michael knew without looking it was Rob. Something about the quality of the heat warned him even before one large, well-manicured hand slid around his hip to splay across his groin, bracketing his cock, which had taken an immediate notice of the attention.
    He kept his back to the man, as if that would make the impact of his touch any less. If anything, it amped it up. He closed his eyes and let his other senses go, drinking in the smooth press of Rob’s chest against his back, the slide of crisp, starched cotton and the tiny bite of buttons against his bare, damp skin. He could fucking smell the man, a hint of sandalwood and citrus he’d recognize anywhere as Rob’s cologne, and a taste of spice underneath he suspected was just the scent of Rob’s skin.
    The music kept going and so did Michael, letting Rob pull him back, grinding into the iron-hard cock pressed up against his ass like it had been designed to fit there. By the time Rob’s hand landed on Michael’s dick, Michael was more than halfway gone, erection pressing obscenely against the lace-up front of his black vinyl pants.
    He didn’t resist when Rob guided his hands up and back, squeezing firmly to indicate they should stay locked behind the Dom’s neck. Then Rob started to play, sliding one hand over Michael’s chest, counting the ridges of his ribs, tracing the muscles of his abs, tweaking his nipples and tugging at the barbells piercing them while the other hand jerked roughly at his cock, playing with the cord holding his fly closed, teasing between the laces.
    Fuck. Fuck . Rob was behind him, in front of him, filling his fucking head with static and his balls with fire.
    They were against the wall now, out of the light and a little removed from the crowd. And it was the third floor, so no one was going to notice or care if Rob was unlacing his pants, delving in to fist his cock, bare skin scalding, while Michael hung helplessly against him, arms raised, hands clenched behind his Dom’s head, just letting Rob have him.
    Rob was more than ready to take anything Michael was giving up, too. Rhianna was wailing, I like it when you tell me move it there , and Rob was spinning Michael around, pressing his chest against the wall. It was cool and slick against his bare skin, a stunning contrast to the heat of Rob’s hand on his dick.
    The Dom slid down, mouth open on Michael’s back, teeth scraping the sensitive dip at the base of his spine, hand working Michael’s cock relentlessly. Michael didn’t even pretend to resist, just let his hips punch forward, drive his aching cock through Rob’s grasp.
    Sharp teeth closed over his ass-cheek, the sensation bright even through his pants, and he groaned and dragged his chest against the wall, rasping his nipples against the flat surface. He was close, so fucking close. Rhianna was crying, take it, take it, baby, baby , and Michael needed; needed Rob to take him, to get him off, something, anything .
    Almost as if he could read Michael’s mind, Rob stood, slid up the length of Michael’s body, his crisp cotton shirt soft and damp from the heat of their bodies. His mouth opened over Michael’s shoulder, teeth digging in just enough to feel before hot lips ran the length of his neck to fasten on the tender skin behind Michael’s ear.
    “What do you need, Mikey?” Oh, God. He needed this. Rob’s touch. Rob’s mouth. Rob’s fucking voice in his ear chanting, “Give it up to me. Let me feel it. Let me fucking taste it, Michael.” And then he was doing it, was giving it up, shooting heat and anger and desperation all over Rob’s hand, on his own stomach, the wall. God, it was like a fucking flood, ten years of want exploding out of him in one bone-melting, brain-bending orgasm that left him stupid and shaky.
    Hard hands turned him, sticky-slick fingers closing