Give Me More (Salacious Players’ Club)

Hunter

We shut down Salacious for two nights this week for renovations. One of those renovations is the addition of quickie closets as Garrett has deemed them. There’s one on either side of the club, toward the back, so they’re not obvious, but just discreet enough. Of course, for the purpose of red tape and city codes, they are officially classified as changing stalls…like a dressing room.

What they really are is enough space for a little action, without having to reserve a room or change any sheets. A clever idea to boost membership, honestly.

The other renovation is turning the back two rooms into an interchangeable workshop room, and Drake is being obstinately resistant to this one. Maybe because we’re only giving him two days to work on it when he fought Emerson for more. Maybe because the mention of workshops brings back too many tense memories.

It’s kept Drake’s mood a little grumpy lately, and I can’t help but feel like that it’s partly on me. So when he doesn’t come home…I mean, back to the house, one night, I decide to pay him a visit. Isabel is teaching a class at the studio, and I hate being home alone.

It’s past seven when I show up at the club. All the trucks are gone, and it’s quiet inside. For a moment, I start to worry that he’s not here. That maybe he’s on another date.

After our little rendezvous in the kitchen last week, I sort of figured he was done with dating for a while. As far as I know, things with Geo didn’t go well.

If he can just avoid seeing other people, stay at the house with Isabel and me, and we don’t have to define this or make anything official, it would be perfect. Seamless and easy for everyone.

Yeah, right.

Even I know how unfair and unlikely that is.

I just never expected all of this to get so complicated. Everything is a mess, and it’s only a matter of time before our flimsy little arrangement implodes. As far as what happened last week with Drake, I’m not really mentally acknowledging that right now.

As I enter the club from the staff entrance at the back, I hear music coming from somewhere down the hall. It’s a heavy rock beat, and it’s blaring through the empty club. I walk cautiously down the hall toward the two back rooms, where the bulk of the renovations are happening.

Once I reach the doorway, I pause, blood pumping its way up to my cheeks, making me blush as I stare with my mouth slack. Drake is shirtless and sweaty as he lays planks of wood on the floor, pounding in each piece. He’s completely oblivious to my presence, and I keep it that way as I let my eyes rake over the rippling muscles across his back and shoulders with each piece of wood he installs.

Have I always been this attracted to him or is it just happening now that I’ve finally allowed myself to act on it? I’ve always known that Drake is good-looking. He gets the attention of every girl, in every bar we walk into. I’m not much shorter than him and I don’t consider myself that much uglier, but I don’t have those long blond locks or charming blue eyes.

What really finishes off his attractiveness is the way he flirts, smiles bright, and gives whoever he’s talking to the whole of his attention, as if they are the only person in the world who exists. I watch it, night after night, work its magic, and it’s maddening.

And until last week, I never felt that charm directed at me. Until we were standing toe to toe, naked and aroused.

Suddenly, I’m remembering the taste of his neck as I kissed him. And the way those abs felt against my tongue. My dick has begun to stir in my pants. Then I remember exactly how it felt to wrap my lips around him, the swell of his cock down my throat and how badly I wanted his pleasure.

My own cock is doing a lot more than stirring now—it’s throbbing and trying to talk me into walking across this room to get another taste.

So yeah, I guess that answers my question. I’m definitely fucking attracted to Drake.

Adjusting myself, so I’m not showing off a major hard-on, I cross the space and walk into his line of sight; he looks startled for a moment as he glances up at me.

“Hey!” he shouts, grabbing his phone out of his pocket to lower the music. Once it’s low enough to hear each other, he kneels back on his boots and waits for me to explain why I’m here.

Why am I here?

“Something wrong?” he asks.

“No. You just didn’t come back to the house…so I figured I’d check on you.”

“Oh, yeah, I just need to get this flooring laid today, so we can finish tomorrow,” he replies.

“You’ve got a lot of work to do. Can I help?”

His brows dance upward. “You don’t have to do that.”

I unbutton my shirt and peel it off my body as I avoid his gaze. “You think I’m too soft now, don’t you?” I ask with a smirk.

“When’s the last time you lifted a hammer, Mr. Business?” He’s grinning now, a flash of white teeth making my blood pump a little faster. There’s that fucking magic.

“Don’t you worry about me.”

“All right, here,” he replies. “Help me lay these planks.”

He tosses me a long piece of wood—the double meaning not lost on me, and I kneel next to him. Together, we make quick work of the new wood flooring. He does the cuts while I continue locking each board in place, working in comfortable silence. It takes a couple more hours, and by the end, we’re both sweating.

After the floor is finished, he and I both slouch against the floor, downing the water I grabbed from the bar.

“Where’s Isabel?” he asks.

“She was teaching tonight. But I’m sure she’s home now.”

He nods. The silence between us has grown awkward with the mention of her. It’s not like we’re talking about the intense threesome we had in the kitchen or how I gave him a blow job before that. I keep waiting for him to bring it up and want to talk about it, but he doesn’t.

It’s like a delicate explosive. We don’t touch it or talk about it or even look at it because, once we do, it’s going to take us all out. Instead…we keep relighting the flame.

He stands up and looks down at me with an austere expression. “I’m going to grab a shower here before heading home.” Then he lingers for a moment too long, as if he’s waiting for me to respond.

“Okay,” I stutter, my voice coming out in a weak attempt at sounding normal. Then he shoots me one quick loaded glance before disappearing from the room.

Suddenly, I’m overcome with nerves.

I sit on the floor for too long, playing that last moment over again and again. My mind is like a tennis court, jumping back and forth between reason and desire.

Did he really need a shower? Or was that an invitation?

No. Not everything he says to me is a come-on. How many showers has he taken in our entire friendship that meant nothing? Thousands? This is the same.

But this isn’t the same. He’s definitely leaving the ball in my court.

And even if he did mean for that to be an invitation, am I ready for that?

Do I want it to be an invitation? Yes.

Do I want to take it? Yes.

But what if I go in there and it’s all too much, too soon, and I freak out? What will that do to him?

Then again, it won’t be too much. That’s just my ingrained fear talking. And the longer I sit here and play this decision over and over in my head, the lower my chances of finding out are.

If I’m wrong and it wasn’t his way of asking me to come and get naked with him, then I can play it off without anything awkward happening. But there’s only one way to know for sure.

In a rush, I hop off the floor and practically run to the men’s locker room. To my relief, the water is still running when my shoes click against the tile floor. It’s steamy as hell in here, and I shed my pants, shoes, and socks in a rush.

As I peel my boxers off, I feel a nervous shake in my hands. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe this is happening. What if I’m wrong? What if I’m not ready?

This is my best friend—which means it’s safe. There’s no one I’d be more comfortable finding out with.

With a deep breath, I shut my brain off and step into the large shower area. He’s facing the wall as the water streams over his back, and I stare for a moment at his perfect, long body, sculpted over time by muscle and manual labor. I wait for one second to see if he’s going to speak, but something tells me he’s holding out for me.

So…here goes nothing.

My cock is jutting straight out, hard and excited, and just as nervous as I am. Holding it in my hand, I stalk closer to him, waiting for the moment he asks what I’m doing or tells me he doesn’t want me to touch him.

But that doesn’t come. I reach his tall frame, extending out my hand to slide it against his wet skin. He hisses as I glide my fingers over his shoulder and around his neck. When I ease my grasp around his throat and pull his hard body against mine, wedging my hard cock between us, he smiles.

“What took you so long?”

And I distantly realize that he could mean tonight, just now in the shower, or he could mean our entire friendship.

The moment I have Drake in my grasp, my brain silences, and my body takes over. Rutting my cock against his back, I hold one of my hands around his throat as the other travels to the front to wrap around his impressive length.

We groan in unison as our cocks receive the mutual attention they crave. Drake’s hands are planted against the wall as I grind myself against him. I wish I knew what it was about his body that feels so fucking good. And I’ve only experienced the tip of the iceberg, but with every touch, the craving for more gets even more unbearable.

“What are you doing to me?” I ask, my lips exploring the back of his neck and shoulder.

Suddenly, he spins and drags me against him, so our chests are touching as he crashes his mouth on mine. His kiss is warm and brutal as we stumble against the wall. I shove myself hard against him. It feels impossible to satisfy this need, as if I can’t get enough of his skin against mine. I desperately need more.

Our kisses don’t stop as we grind against each other, and it’s all happening so fast. His taste, his smell, his touch, it’s a kaleidoscope of bliss—him and me together—and it’s making me crazy.

Grabbing the back of his neck, I growl into the space between us. “You make me fucking crazy.”

“Then go fucking crazy,” he replies in a low, breathless whisper, his voice like a dare.

I hook an arm under his leg, lifting it up so I can grind even closer, our cocks rubbing together in an exquisite sensation of scorching heat and delicate friction.

This is my best friend—my best fucking friend—and I want to fuck his brains out right now.

“I’m gonna come,” I grunt before looking at him. “Then I’m going to take you home and fuck you while my wife watches.”

He lets out a shaky breath, a long groan following as he fills the crevices between our bodies with his cum. I take his lips between mine as I unload too.

We are falling down the hill on a train with no brakes. There is nothing we can do to stop this, except for crash at the bottom. And I know, eventually, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.