It had been drizzling since early afternoon, the kind of steady, sulking rain that soaked the streets and slowed everything down. By the time Noah finished his shift at the local coffee shop, the drizzle had turned into a proper downpour. Most of the staff had already gone home, huddling under umbrellas or running toward parked cars. But Noah stayed behind, as usual, to close up.
He liked this part of the day when the shop was quiet, the clatter of customers gone, and he had the space all to himself. He plugged in his phone, connected it to the speaker, and let the music pulse through the walls. Rotimi’s In My Bed came on, the bass smooth and heavy. Noah couldn’t help himself. The rhythm took over, curling into his hips as he moved around, sweeping the floor and wiping down counters. Somewhere along the way, he’d tied his T-shirt into a crop top to stay cool, and now his stomach peeked out, glistening lightly with sweat as he danced.
He was laughing at his own moves, grinding against the mop in exaggerated circles, the music carrying him into a world of his own. His body moved shamelessly to the rhythm, lost in the pulse of the song and the fantasy blooming in his mind. The mop squeaked underfoot as he rolled his hips, slow and deliberate. His T-shirt was still tied beneath his chest, exposing the smooth line of his waist and a teasing glimpse of skin each time his torso twisted with the beat.
This wasn’t just cleaning. It wasn’t just dancing. It was something else entirely, something private, uninhibited, and undeniably erotic.
Noah’s eyes fluttered shut as the chorus swelled. His breathing quickened. In his imagination, the mop was no longer a mop. It was a man, tall and solid, dominant in a way that made his breath hitch and his pulse stutter. A man who could press him against the wall with just a look, leaving him aching for more.”
This man was Jack.
God, he hated himself for it, hated that Jack, of all people, starred in the dirtiest corners of his mind. Jack with his cold glares, crisp shirts, and that stupid, sexy scowl that made Noah weak in the knees. Jack, his boss. Uptight, unreadable, frustratingly controlled Jack.
Noah let out a low groan and slid a hand slowly up his own side, brushing the curve of his ribs. His other hand tightened around the mop handle, fingers flexing like he wanted to hold onto something real, something that could whisper commands in a gravel-soft voice that never needed to shout to be obeyed.
He bit his lip, smiling lazily at the fantasy. The Jack in his mind would be watching him now with a clenched jaw, trying not to show how turned on he was. Not because he disapproved, no, but because he liked it too much to admit it.
That image made Noah’s hips move slower, more provocatively, like he was teasing the man he couldn’t have. The mop became a substitute, a stand-in, his stage prop for something far more dangerous than a dance.Outside, the rain beat harder against the windows, masking any sound beyond the walls.
A cool draft suddenly slipped in from somewhere unseen, brushing along his bare skin and raising goosebumps. He paused, his brows knitting together. Something didn’t sit right. The air felt disturbed somehow, as if it had shifted to make space for something or someone.
Then he caught a flicker of movement in the glass reflection of the espresso machine. A shape. A shadow. A person.
He turned fully, a sharp motion driven by instinct rather than thought, and his stomach lurched violently.
Jack stood in the doorway, rain dripping steadily from his coat, puddling beneath his boots. His face was unreadable, jaw tight, lips parted. He didn’t speak. He just stood there.
Noah’s breath caught, heart hammering as everything he’d just done replayed in his head in humiliating detail. The music still thumped on in the background, but all Noah could hear was the rush of blood in his ears and the soft creak of the door swinging shut behind Jack.
"Shit," Noah whispered, fingers trembling as he fumbled to switch off the music. The thumping bass cut out mid-beat, leaving behind a silence so sharp it felt like a blade pressed to his throat. His heart pounded, his breath ragged. He’d been caught, fully, shamefully, unmistakably caught.
"Sir, I—uh—I was just..." he stammered, stepping back and colliding with the mop handle, which clattered against the floor like a gunshot. He nearly tripped, barely catching himself. “I was just… cleaning, Sir.”
Jack said nothing. Not a word, not even a blink. He just stared, his expression unreadable, hard eyes tracking every inch of Noah like he was trying to decide whether to crush him or consume him whole.
Noah could feel that gaze like heat, like judgment, like fire licking across his skin. He knew Jack had seen it all. His flushed cheeks, his heaving chest, the sweat-slicked skin beneath his lifted shirt. Every sway of his hips. Every breathless grind. Every moment of reckless, humiliating desire. And worse, he’d been dancing for him, lusting after the man who now stood frozen in the doorway like a storm about to break.
A flicker of false hope passed through Noah’s mind. Thankfully he hadn’t said Jack’s name out loud. That tiny, damning detail had stayed in his head, saving him from more humiliation. God knows what he could have done to Noah if he had heard it. But even that hope felt pathetic now.
He swallowed, throat dry, panic rising fast. The silence pressed in like a vice, unbearable and growing tighter by the second.
“You weren’t supposed to be back,” he burst out, words tumbling in a frantic rush. “Not that you’re not allowed here, I mean, of course you are, this is your place, it’s just that....”
He winced, mentally scolding himself to shut up.
“I thought you’d already be home by now, with your wife, or husband, or… whoever. I’m not judging, not that I even know if you’re married or if you prefer—” He exhaled sharply, fists clenched. “God, shut up, Noah, shut up.”
The soft click of the door echoed behind them as Jack stepped forward, slow and deliberate, closing the distance between them with every measured stride.
Noah didn’t move, well, he couldn’t move. He was paralyzed between panic and something hotter, something tighter coiling in his belly. Jack was close now. Too close. Noah could see the rain still clinging to his hair, the wetness at his collar, the way his eyes darkened with every heartbeat.
“That was not professional,” Jack said finally, his voice low, almost husky. “Not even close.”
“I know,” Noah whispered, “I am sorry sir.”
Jack didn’t answer at first. He just looked at him, a long, unreadable stare that made Noah’s skin prickle. Then, with slow, deliberate steps, Jack moved past him, shedding his wet coat and laying it carefully over the back of a chair.
Noah’s throat bobbed. He stood frozen, unsure whether to run or drop to his knees and beg forgiveness or for something else entirely.
“I should be furious,” Jack murmured, his back still to him. “You were dancing in my café. Half-dressed. Grinding against my mop.” He turned then, his eyes sweeping Noah from head to toe. “I should fire you.”
Noah’s heart stuttered. His fingers clenched at his sides.
“But,” Jack said, taking a single step toward him, “I’m not gonna do that.”
Noah’s lips parted. “You won't?”
“Yes.”
Jack took another step, then another, until he was standing directly in front of him. He was close enough that Noah could smell the faint traces of cedar and rain clinging to his skin. Jack's gaze dropped to his lips and lingered there, the air between them heavy with something tense and unspoken.
“I should tell you to get dressed, lock up, go home,” Jack said quietly. “But that little performance you gave…” He paused, his voice threading with something heavier. “It wasn’t just unprofessional. It was provocative.”
Noah’s breath hitched. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.” Jack’s voice hardened, eyes sharp. “Maybe not consciously. But you wanted to be seen. You wanted to be wanted.”
A shiver rolled down Noah’s spine. Jack lifted a hand, just one hand, and brushed his fingers beneath the tied edge of Noah’s cropped T-shirt. The touch was featherlight, barely there, but it burned.
Noah gasped.
“You don’t wear something like this… move like that… unless you’re asking for trouble.”
“I wasn’t asking for anything,” Noah lied, voice shaky.
Jack leaned in, so close Noah could feel his breath ghosting over his cheek. “Liar.”
Noah’s knees trembled as Jack’s hand moved to his waist, slow and deliberate, the touch light at first, almost questioning. He hesitated there, giving Noah a silent chance to pull away. But Noah stayed still, breath shallow, heart thudding loud in his ears. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want this to stop. Jack’s fingers grazed his skin, cool against the heat building under the surface, steady and sure, as if anchoring them both in the charged space between restraint and surrender.
Jack’s voice was low, almost a whisper that slid through the air between them. “Tell me to stop.”
Noah’s breath hitched but he stayed silent, unable to speak the words.
“Tell me this wasn’t for me,” Jack pressed, his eyes searching, sharp and intense.
Still, no answer came. The silence stretched, heavy and full of everything neither of them dared say.
Jack’s hand slid smoothly to the small of Noah’s back, drawing him in until their bodies pressed flush together. Noah’s breath hitched, sharp and shallow, as the heat of Jack’s touch ignited a fire beneath his skin. Their hips met, the subtle friction sending a thrilling jolt straight through him, impossible to resist.
“I... I don't like you... like that,” Noah whispered.
Jack smirked. “That’s not what your body’s saying.”
The first kiss was soft and tentative. Jack’s lips brushed against Noah’s with careful control as if testing the waters. When Noah tilted his head and pressed back harder, something inside Jack gave way. Suddenly the restraint vanished and their mouths met with fierce hungry need, igniting a blaze neither wanted to stop.
Jack’s hands roamed boldly, gripping his waist, sliding along his back, tangling in the fabric of his shirt. Without hesitation, he lifted Noah effortlessly onto the counter, his body pressing between Noah’s legs. Their lips collided again, this time rougher, desperate, urgent. Noah’s breath hitched into a moan against Jack’s mouth as his fingers dug into the wet shirt, tugging it free from Jack’s trousers, hungry to feel more skin beneath his hands.
“Take it off,” Noah breathed.
Jack obeyed, yanking his shirt open with such force that the buttons flew across the room like sparks in the dark. The fabric slipped from his shoulders, revealing taut muscles slick with raindrops that shimmered in the dim light. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, his eyes locked on Noah with a wicked hunger that sent his pulse racing.
Jack pressed Noah back gently on the counter, his mouth trailing down the curve of his neck, his collarbone, over the exposed strip of stomach from the tied-up shirt.
Noah arched into him, hands threading into his hair.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” Jack growled softly.
“I think I do now,” Noah whispered, breathless.
Jack’s hands moved with slow precision, slipping beneath Noah’s t-shirt and lifting it inch by inch, fingers brushing the warm skin underneath. Noah raised his arms wordlessly, letting Jack pull it over his head and toss it aside. Jack’s gaze burned as he stepped closer, his own hands moving to his belt. He unfastened it with practiced ease, the leather sliding free with a soft hiss. Noah watched, breath shallow, as Jack popped the button on his trousers and shoved them down his hips, kicking them aside.
Then Jack’s fingers were back, teasing the hem of Noah’s pants. He paused, searching Noah’s face, and when he found only need there, he slowly undid the button, dragged the zipper down, and guided the fabric over Noah’s thighs. The pants pooled at his feet, quickly followed by his boxers. Jack crouched, trailing his lips along Noah’s hipbone, then upward again, taking his time, memorizing him with every kiss, every slow caress. Noah trembled as his skin was bared and worshipped, every inch of him touched with a reverence that left him gasping. Jack’s hands moved with purpose, fingers splayed wide, mapping him like he was something sacred. Noah whimpered beneath every slow stroke, every lingering kiss. The counter beneath him was cold, a stark contrast to the searing heat of Jack’s body pressing close, grounding him in sensation.
Jack kissed his way down the line of Noah’s chest, pausing to nuzzle the soft curve of his stomach. Each movement was unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world to learn every reaction, every breath. When he finally looked up, his gaze locked with Noah’s, and there was a question there, burning low and deep. A final chance to stop this.
Noah’s eyes were wide, glazed with need, and when he gave the slightest shake of his head, lips parted in surrender, Jack knew. That was all the permission he needed.
He leaned in, one hand steadying Noah’s back, the other slipping down to his hip. His breath was hot against Noah’s skin as he pressed forward, slow and careful, his length pushing inside with aching precision. The stretch burned, sharp and deep, but Noah welcomed it, moaning low as he clung to Jack’s arms, his fingers digging in.
Jack paused once he was fully seated, letting Noah adjust, letting the moment settle between them. He kissed along Noah’s throat, soft and reverent, whispering things that made Noah’s skin prickle. Then he began to move. Each thrust was slow and deliberate, his hips rolling with steady control, pulling raw, needy sounds from Noah’s lips.
They moved together like they had done this a hundred times, like their bodies had always known each other. Jack was thick and hard, filling Noah completely, hitting deep with every thrust. The slick sound of their bodies meeting echoed faintly beneath the roar of rain outside. Noah’s breath came in short, shaky gasps, his body trembling as he rocked into Jack’s rhythm.
Their mouths met again, desperate and searching, lips parting for breathless, messy kisses that matched the hunger curling between them. Noah tightened his legs around Jack’s waist, meeting each thrust with a broken moan, while Jack moved with a rhythm that felt both savage and sacred. One of his hands slid down Noah’s back, the other tangled in his hair, holding him steady as the pace deepened, as everything else fell away but the heat of skin against skin.
The world beyond the café vanished. All that existed was the heavy rain, the scent of coffee and sweat, and the relentless heat between them. Noah wrapped his legs tighter around Jack’s waist, drawing him in deeper, moaning with each sharp, perfect thrust.
“Fuck,” Jack groaned into his neck. “You feel so good.”
Noah whimpered, back arching, his nails scraping down Jack’s back. “Don’t stop.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Jack rasped, slamming into him again, harder now, faster, the rhythm shifting into something rough and desperate. The pleasure built like fire, unbearable in its intensity, tightening low in Noah’s belly.
“Jack—” he gasped, the edge suddenly, violently close.
“I’ve got you,” Jack whispered, his thrusts relentless. “Come for me.”
And Noah did, with a strangled cry, his body clenching around Jack as he shattered. His release spilled hot between them, and seconds later, Jack followed with a deep groan, burying himself to the hilt, hips jerking as he came hard inside him.
They stayed like that, panting, shaking, pressed together while the storm raged outside. The counter was cold beneath Noah, but Jack’s body was fire, heavy and real, holding him through the aftershocks.
Sunlight crept in slow through the blinds, striping the room in long golden slats that settled on Kieran’s bare chest. His head pounded gently with the familiar throb of too many drinks, but it was the warmth against his back that stirred him more than the headache. The bed was too soft to be his, the sheets smelled like laundry detergent and something muskier beneath, something undeniably male. Kieran blinked at the ceiling for a moment, trying to piece together the fragments of the night before. Shots, dancing, stumbling laughter. Elijah.
He turned over slowly, the motion causing the mattress to shift beneath him. Elijah lay on his side, facing him, still fast asleep with lashes casting delicate shadows on his cheekbones. His mouth was slack, hair tousled from sleep, and there was a peace to his features that Kieran had never seen before. Last night had been a blur, but this part was sharp, perfectly clear. They had kissed in the Uber. Laughed on the doorstep. Collapsed onto Elijah’s bed in a mess of limbs and slurred jokes, but they had stopped before anything happened. Kieran remembered that part vividly now, the way Elijah had pulled back with a soft murmur about not wanting to forget.
Now, morning had unspooled across them, slow and heavy with quiet heat. Kieran watched the steady rise and fall of Elijah’s chest, the way the sheet had slipped to his hips. His torso was bare, lean and inviting, dappled with morning light. The desire came creeping in like ivy, curling low in Kieran’s stomach, lazy and pulsing. He shifted again, and that was enough to make Elijah stir, eyes fluttering open with a faint sound caught in his throat.
“Hey,” Elijah said, his voice husky from sleep, barely more than a whisper.
Kieran’s mouth curled into a crooked smile. “Hey.”
Their eyes held. Neither of them looked away. Kieran felt the moment shift, a slow gravity pulling them closer without a single word. Elijah reached out, fingers brushing Kieran’s waist, and something electric surged between them. They leaned in at the same time, lips meeting in a kiss that was nothing like the ones from the night before. This one was slow, purposeful, drawn from somewhere deep.
Elijah rolled to hover above him, their bodies aligning with a practiced ease they had never actually practiced. Kieran’s hands slid up Elijah’s sides, warm skin beneath his palms, the firmness of muscle giving way to the soft curve of his back. They kissed again, mouths parting, tongues meeting with a hunger that bloomed rapidly from the embers of their shared sleep.
Clothes had not been much of a barrier to begin with, just underwear now, pulled away with careful fingers and soft sounds of approval. Elijah’s mouth explored Kieran’s neck, his collarbone, down his chest with slow, open-mouthed kisses that made Kieran’s breath catch. The morning light made everything visible, every curve and scar, every reaction painted plain across their skin.
When Elijah reached into the drawer beside the bed, his fingers brushed over familiar items until they found what he needed. He brought the condom and small bottle of lube to the mattress without hesitation, placing them beside Kieran with a glance that was both questioning and sure. Kieran’s heart thudded beneath his ribs, nerves and anticipation sparking together as he gave the smallest nod.
The intimacy of that moment was quiet, grounded in trust rather than urgency. Elijah leaned in again, kissing him slow and deep, one hand cradling the side of Kieran’s face. His fingers stroked gently along Kieran’s cheek before trailing down his chest again, learning the shape of him with open palms and soft murmurs of approval that made Kieran arch into his touch.
Their legs tangled as they moved together, Elijah settling between his thighs. Kieran felt exposed beneath him, not just physically but emotionally, as if every layer had been peeled away under the morning light. There was nothing rushed in Elijah’s movements, only reverence and heat. He rolled the condom on with slow hands, then prepared Kieran with care, pausing at every intake of breath, every shift in tension.
Kieran bit his lip, head tilted back against the pillow, hands gripping Elijah’s arms as slick fingers moved inside him. It had been a long time since someone had taken their time like this. Elijah kissed him again, deep and reassuring, and when he finally pressed forward, Kieran exhaled a slow breath that turned into a moan.
The stretch was real and grounding, Elijah filling him with patient strokes that made the world fall away. Every movement was careful at first, then gradually deeper, their bodies finding rhythm, a rising tide of sensation that had Kieran clinging tighter, legs wrapped around Elijah’s waist.
They fit together so easily, it felt like inevitability more than coincidence. Elijah whispered his name between thrusts, each one drawn-out and deliberate, tying them both to the moment. Kieran met him every time, hands roaming his back, sliding over slick skin, holding him close.
Their lips met over and over, interrupted by gasps and soft curses. It was all sensation and feeling, the slow burn of desire swelling into something all-encompassing. Elijah’s hand found Kieran’s dick and started stroking him in tandem with the rhythm of his hips. The dual pleasure built fast, cresting like a wave threatening to break.
Kieran came with a cry muffled into Elijah’s shoulder, body tensing and shivering as pleasure tore through him in waves. Elijah followed moments later, moaning low in his throat as he buried himself one last time, trembling as he spilled into the condom.
They stayed there, bodies locked, breath ragged in the silence that followed. Elijah eventually collapsed beside him, pressing a kiss to Kieran’s damp temple. Kieran turned his face into the pillow, a slow smile spreading across his lips.
Neither spoke for a while. There was no need. Their bodies had said everything.
When Elijah finally reached for a towel and disposed of the condom, he returned to the bed and pulled Kieran close. The scent of sex lingered in the air, but so did something else, something softer.
Kieran rested his head on Elijah’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Morning wrapped around them like a promise. Whatever had started last night had not burned out with the alcohol or the dawn. It had only just begun.
The music pulsed through the floor like a second heartbeat, the bassline sinking into Dean's bones as he moved through the dense heat of the underground club. Sweat clung to his skin, soaked into the collar of his shirt, but he didn’t care. The night had already bled into something feral and reckless, the kind of evening that started with innocent drinks and ended with lips smeared in someone else’s lipstick or the bruising grip of a stranger’s hand on his hips. Dean wasn’t here for tenderness. Not tonight. He was here because he had nothing left to prove, or maybe because he had everything still to prove and no one left to show it to.
He spotted them near the back wall, clustered in a haze of smoke and swagger, the so-called wrong crowd his friends warned him about. Tight shirts, rough edges, tattoos that disappeared beneath waistbands and into places you had to earn the right to see. One of them looked up, smirking as if he had already decided what Dean would taste like. His name might have been Leo. Or Nate. Or something that would mean little in the morning but everything in the heat of the moment. He flicked his cigarette onto the floor, crushed it under his boot, and pushed off the wall with a slow, deliberate roll of his shoulders.
Dean didn’t look away. That was all the invitation Leo, let's call him that, needed. The man crossed the distance between them with the ease of a predator closing in, eyes never leaving Dean’s. He smelled like sweat and cologne, that potent mix of desire and danger, and when he leaned in to speak, his breath tickled Dean’s ear. “You don’t look like you belong here,” Leo said, voice dark with promise. Dean tilted his chin up and smiled with the kind of defiance that asked for trouble. “Then maybe you should show me where I belong.”
Leo did not smile. Not exactly. But something shifted in his expression, the sharpness behind his eyes softening just enough to let heat slip through. His hand brushed against Dean’s hip, casual but claiming, and he leaned in again, lips brushing Dean’s ear with a whisper that sent a pulse straight through him.
“Follow me.”
Dean did not hesitate. He let Leo lead him off the floor, weaving through the press of dancers and shadows, past couples locked at the mouth or grinding against concrete pillars. The music throbbed on behind them, but the hallway they stepped into was quieter, lit by a flickering red bulb that made everything feel illicit and half-imagined.
Leo opened a door near the end and gestured Dean inside. It was a room made for secrets, with a low couch, stained walls, and a single mirror nailed crookedly above a cracked sink. The air was thick with sweat and smoke, but it did not matter. Dean stepped inside and the door shut behind them with a soft click.
They stood there a moment, the tension between them drawn tight as wire. Leo let his gaze drag slowly over Dean’s body, lingering on the sweat-darkened fabric clinging to his chest, the flush on his neck, the defiant glint still in his eyes. He stepped forward, close enough for Dean to feel the heat coming off him, and rested one hand on the wall beside Dean’s head.
“I don’t usually fuck pretty boys like you,” Leo said, voice low and close.
Dean met his stare, breath catching. “Then I guess tonight’s your lucky day.”
That was enough to urge Leo on. Leo kissed him hard and Dean immediately melted into it, groaning as Leo’s hands grabbed his hips, tugging him close, their bodies colliding in a rush of friction. His back hit the wall, but he did not care. He welcomed it, pushed into it, into Leo, opening his mouth to the slick slide of Leo’s tongue.
Their hands moved in a frenzy, hungry and unrelenting. Dean’s fingers fumbled at the hem of Leo’s shirt, bunching the fabric as he dragged it upward, eager to touch the heat of his firm, tattooed skin. Leo broke their kiss with a wet gasp, only to trail his mouth along the line of Dean’s throat, teeth catching just enough to draw a hiss and leave the promise of a bruise. Dean’s breath hitched. He gripped Leo’s belt with both hands, tugging hard, his pulse pounding like a war drum against his ribs.
Leo growled softly. “Slow down.”
Dean froze. “Why?”
Leo pressed his body flush against Dean’s, hips grinding slow and deliberate. “Because you’ll want to remember this.”
That should not have hit as hard as it did. Dean sucked in a breath and gave a single nod. Just like that, Leo took control. He peeled Dean’s shirt off in one smooth motion and let it fall to the floor, his mouth already following the trail of bare skin revealed beneath. He kissed along Dean’s collarbones, slow and thorough, before circling one nipple with his tongue, teasing until Dean shivered. His hands slid over Dean’s thighs, firm and possessive, holding him in place. Dean let his head fall back against the wall, a low moan escaping him, helpless and raw. Leo moved lower, fingers working open the button of Dean’s jeans. He dragged them down just far enough to reach the sensitive skin just above the waistband, pressing warm, deliberate kisses there. His fingers stroked along Dean’s hips, slow and knowing, drawing out every squirm, every sharp breath, with an unbearable kind of patience.
“Lay down,” Leo said, nodding toward the couch. “On your back.”
Dean obeyed, sinking into the worn cushions with his legs parted and his breath coming fast and shallow. His chest rose and fell as he looked up at Leo, heart pounding in his throat. Leo knelt between his thighs, easing the jeans the rest of the way down, stripping him bare. The look he gave Dean in that moment was devastating, hungry and focused, reverent and filthy all at once. Heat curled low in Dean’s gut, sharp and unrelenting.
Leo leaned in and pressed a kiss to the inside of Dean’s thigh, warm and lingering. Then another, closer to where Dean ached for him most. Dean’s breath hitched, his fingers curling against the cushions. He was panting before Leo even reached him. But Leo took his time, tasting him with slow, deliberate licks, each touch more unbearable than the last. By the time his mouth finally closed around him, Dean’s hands were in his hair, gripping tight, desperate to anchor himself.
The orgasm hit hard. Dean came with a gasp, his spine arching, toes curling, Leo’s name spilling from his lips in a breathless rush. Still, Leo did not stop. He licked him clean, unhurried and thorough, his mouth tender now, every movement a quiet praise. Only when Dean was trembling beneath him did Leo rise again, crawling over him, his lips wet and his eyes dark with need.
Dean reached for him, fingers tugging at his waistband, frantic now with want. Leo stood and let the last of his clothes fall away, and Dean’s breath caught. He was already hard, thick and flushed, every inch of him aching with tension. Dean could not take his eyes off him. He did not want to.
"You still want this?" Leo asked, voice rough as he tore open the condom.
Dean nodded, breathless. "Fuck yes."
Leo slicked up with practiced ease, his hands sure and steady as he guided Dean’s legs wider. He lined himself up and began to press in, slow and careful, inch by inch. His eyes stayed locked on Dean’s face, watching every shift, every gasp. Dean moaned, nails digging into Leo’s shoulders as the stretch took him. It was a sharp burn at first, but beneath it, a heat that made his head spin.
When Leo was fully seated, he paused, breathing hard, chest heaving. His voice was low and reverent. "You feel fucking perfect."
Dean’s hips rolled upward, the need already clawing at him. His voice came out strained. "Fuck me already."
Leo obeyed. He pulled back and thrust in again, long and deep, each movement measured and precise. His rhythm found its pace quickly, steady and relentless. He leaned in to kiss Dean, mouths meeting in a messy, open-mouthed tangle of heat and sound. Their moans spilled into each other, breath mixing, bodies slick with sweat and friction. Dean’s legs curled tighter around his waist, pulling him in, urging him deeper. Leo grunted and drove in harder, his pace shifting, more urgent now, more demanding.
The pleasure was overwhelming. Dean felt it build again, fast and fierce, his cock already hard between them, pressed between sweat-slick skin and Leo’s stomach. Leo reached down, fingers wrapping around him, stroking in rhythm with every thrust. The sensation tipped him over the edge. Dean cried out, his body shuddering as he came again, the release sharp and intense, spilling hot between them.
Leo followed soon after with a groan that rumbled deep in his chest. His hips stuttered, movements losing their rhythm as the orgasm overtook him. He buried his face against Dean’s shoulder, breath ragged as he emptied into him, every muscle taut before finally going slack.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The room buzzed with the aftermath, bodies slick and spent, air thick with sex and smoke and the distant pulse of music still thudding through the walls. Leo finally pushed himself up with a grunt, muscles tense as he withdrew, moving with care but without softness. He tied off the condom, tossed it in the trash, then grabbed a crumpled rag from the sink to wipe himself down. When he was done, he tossed it toward Dean without a word.
Dean caught it and sat up slowly, dragging it across his chest and thighs, wiping away the mess and sweat. The cool air stung against his flushed skin, and he felt the ache settling in, pleasant and earned. He did not say thank you. This was not that kind of night.
Leo pulled his pants back on, not bothering with underwear, and lit a cigarette from the crumpled pack by the sink. He did not look at Dean as he exhaled a plume of smoke toward the cracked ceiling.
Dean dressed in silence, not rushed but not lingering either. His shirt clung damply to his back, and he did not bother tucking it in. He caught sight of himself in the crooked mirror, hair a mess, lips swollen, the shadow of a bruise blooming just under his jaw. He looked exactly how he felt, wrecked but not broken.
“Take care, pretty boy,” Leo said, flicking ash into the sink.
Dean nodded, pulling his jeans up the last inch. “You too.”
He stepped past Leo, their shoulders brushing. There was no kiss, no parting glance, no exchange of names or numbers. Just the soft creak of the door opening, the dull thud of bass spilling in to meet him, and the beat that had never really stopped.
Dean walked back into the haze of the club, the lights too bright now, the crowd too loud. But he liked it that way. He did not need quiet. He did not need meaning. Not tonight.
Just the heat, the pulse, and the memory of hands that would already start to fade before morning. And that was enough.
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