Thirst Trap (Men of Summer 4)

1

Rafe

* * *

The music pulses. The lights are low. Energy and sex radiate throughout the dance club.

The place is packed and I’ve already danced my arse off for hours, me and Theresa and one hundred of our new closest friends, tearing it up at my favorite place in San Francisco.

I may not know their names, but I know them. The other people at Edge might be strangers on paper but I bet I can tell what sort of underwear they’d look damn good in.

Take that All American guy out there. He’d turn heads in a pair of my Tight, White, and Bright jocks—all boy-next-door on the front, loud-and-proud playboy on the back.

Or the man over there in the corner dressed all snappy in a bright red tank top. He’d rock out in a pair of my Over the Rainbow briefs, for sure.

Now, as I head to the second-floor bar and ask for a martini, I run a hand through my hair, catching my breath.

It’s been a perfect Saturday night.

The loud music reverberates, echoing in my bones.

The crowds fill every square inch of the dance floor, bodies bumping and grinding. Hands slide along arms, and legs intertwine. Hips thrust. Lips lock, and I can’t look away.

Places like this are my inspiration. My greedy, overactive imagination gobbles up the sounds, the movement.

Most of all the touching.

All of it swirls together into ideas, styles, and concepts.

For connection.

At a place like this, that’s the thing people seem to crave the most.

That’s what I try to give them in my work. Connection and a sense of confidence that they can be whoever they are—whenever they want—because of the way my underwear makes them feel.

There’s a tap on my shoulder, a familiar voice. My business manager, Theresa. She’s also a close friend.

“You look deep in thought. Let me guess. You’re coming up with new underwear designs,” she shouts in my ear.

“Not quite, but I am thinking about work,” I reply with a grin.

“It’s only your favorite thing to do,” she says.

“And how lucky am I to love my job?” I ask, since, truly, I am. I design clothes that men flock to, buying them in droves to confidently show off their wares, their bodies.

Body confidence is a beautiful thing, and I’m a proud purveyor of it. Lucky me.

But luck doesn’t land in your hand. You’ve got to work for it. Think about it. Never turn off the brain.

“Loving your job is great, but there’s such a thing as working too hard.” Theresa casts her knowing gray gaze on the dance floor. “Don’t work the whole time. Look around. See who’s here. Maybe you’ll find some handsome hottie to go home with.”

I laugh. She’s always trying to get me to find just that right person. It’s a noble goal, but it’s one I haven’t realized yet. There’s always something missing—a spark.

Like the moment of inspiration when an idea seizes you.

Desire, intimacy—it’s got to be the same. Fueled by a flare of pleasure. The flicker of connection.

But finding someone who wants the same things, who needs the same things as I do is tougher than releasing a range of underwear that’s all about modesty first.

That kind of work is just not me.

“Ah, Theresa. I’m here for inspiration and inspiration only,” I say, in her ear.

“Maybe you’ll find some inspiring sex,” Theresa says, since she’s always going on about how the world needs more sex.

She’s probably not wrong.

And I certainly wouldn’t mind some inspiring sex.

It’s been a while. Late nights, early mornings, and a brain that won’t shut off make it hard to find what I want—what I need—in the bedroom.

I don’t want a simple one-night stand.

If I’m going to break my abstinence streak, I want it to be with someone who will rock my world—and, in turn, someone whose world I can rock.

I want that spark.

“I’ll keep my eyes peeled,” I say drily, then take the martini the bartender left for me and make my way to the railing that overlooks the dance floor below.

And holy fucking inspiration.

The men there are making me see unicorns on underwear, stallions on underwear, and panthers too.

Oh yes.

Theresa laughs as she ogles the crowd below. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves some athletes,” she says, gesturing to a pack of big, sturdy men below.

I make a low noise of approval, grateful the music covers it up. So Theresa won’t think I’m staring shamelessly.

But I am.

I totally fucking am.

Because . . . sexy, sweaty, muscly bodies.

The perfect models for my designs. The perfect source for my inspiration.

She points to the floor below. “I’ll be heading there.”

“I figured as much.”

As she makes her way downstairs, I take a sip of my martini, enjoying the view, scanning the crowd.

My eyes catch on a man dancing with a group of friends. He grinds against a woman, then against a man, flanked by both of them.