Thirst Trap (Men of Summer 4)

He switches back and forth, taking turns.

With him so far away, and the lights low, I can’t tell what color his eyes are, but his hair is dirty blond and wavy, his lips full, and his chest broad. A tight white T-shirt hugs his muscular pecs, and his jeans snuggle up against sturdy thighs.

Delicious thighs.

But it’s his smile that hooks me most of all.

It’s crooked and electric.

It’s sexy and dirty.

And it’s headed my way.

His head lifts, and he raises his gaze to the second floor. His eyes find mine. And, for several seconds, our gazes lock.

A rush of heat whooshes down my chest, straight to my groin, making it simmer.

That’s not an unusual reaction.

I’m certainly not immune to beautiful men. Beautiful men are pretty much my favorite thing. But he radiates something else.

Confidence. Cockiness. Something in his eyes that says come and get it.

Or really, come and get me.

Not a bad idea. I wouldn’t mind coming and getting him at all.

I watch, hypnotized, as if he’s putting on a show just for me, and pay closer attention to the woman in the couple. She’s pulling him close, then pushing him toward the other man. She’s the orchestrator of this dirty dance show, and he seems to be loving it.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s what the man in the white shirt wants.

Someone else to be in control.

I knock back the rest of my drink, set it down on the marble bar top, then settle my tab. But when I head downstairs, he’s gone.

And that’s just the way it goes. I leave.

But as I catch a Lyft back to my place, I can’t stop the subtle sense of disappointment—the unusual pull of longing that tugs at my chest.

Seems I finally found that spark.

It’s just too bad he’s now the one who got away.

2

Gunnar

* * *

Boom.

One million followers. I flash my phone at my teammates, showing off to Holden and Declan.

“Check this out. You wish you had my following,” I say to them after a game against the Seattle Storm Chasers.

Declan rolls his eyes as he grabs his bag from his locker, then closes it. “Yes. That’s exactly what I want. A massive social media following. Not the thirty home runs I already have this season,” he says.

Holden rolls his eyes at me. “Or the sponsorship deal I just got.”

I scoff, grabbing my shirt from the locker, but then, fuck it. Why do I need a picture with a shirt on? We just won the game. I clobbered in a three-run homer. Fans like pictures of me with my shirt off. So I snap a selfie, grinning a little wickedly.

“Bet I get a fuck-ton of likes on this,” I say, admiring it.

“And what are you going to do with all of those likes?” Holden asks.

“Um. Hello. Pretty sure Seductive Cologne doesn’t mind the shirtless pics. Nor does my bathing suit sponsor,” I say, pulling on my shirt.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re kind of a showboat?” Declan asks, as he grabs his bag and makes his way to the locker room exit.

“Yeah, all the time. And I love it. And the fans love it too,” I say.

Holden shrugs. “He’s not wrong.”

“And everyone else seems to as well. The ladies and the dudes,” I say, then I grab my bag, chuck my phone in my pocket, and head out into the corridor after them. “And, speaking of ladies and dudes, I think I might head back to that club tomorrow night. Are you in?”

Declan shudders as we head down the corridor.

“You don’t like the club, do you?”

“Not really my scene. But it certainly seemed to be yours,” he says, with no judgement in his voice.

A memory of a certain hottie with I want to fuck you written in his eyes flashes before me, making my skin hot. “It definitely did.”

“Gunnar, you are the motherfucking scene,” Holden says with a whistle of appreciation.

“Thank you. Thank you very much,” I say, stopping to take a bow.

And on our next night off, that’s exactly what I do.

Indulge in the scene.

I hit Edge again with some of my friends, a motley crew of gals and guys, straight and queer, pansexual, and bisexual like me.

When I walk in, I can’t deny that I keep hoping to catch a glimpse of that hot-as-fuck businessman-type I saw back in July. He was tall and trim, and he looked like he was dripping with elegance. He had that whole Tom Ellis vibe working overtime. Tailored shirt, custom-fitted slacks that hugged his legs, and just the right amount of stubble.

That was all I saw from my place on the dance floor in the dark. And really? What are the chances that you’re going to run into the same guy twice at a club?

It’s been more than a month.

But a man can hope, and hope I do. I’ve got a lot of dirty hope spinning inside me.