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It’s all in the way he snaps his hips, head thrown back, music flowing through him, some retro disco hit that becomes a part of his being as much as the low-slung cargo pants and the T-shirt that clings to his sweat-soaked skin. He sways, raises his arms, lifts his face, lets himself be bathed in the falling glitter. On the dance floor, he is the King of Babylon -- and he knows it, he can feel the eyes watching -- and maybe he puts an extra swing into his hips. Maybe he smiles and licks his lips, because the creatures of the night who haunt Babylon’s catwalks can drool and gawk and crave all they want, but he knows who he wants to arouse. He knows whose heart he wants to quicken with desire. He knows exactly what turns Brian on.
Brian watches, propped against the bar, drink forgotten in his hand. He watches, silent witness to Justin’s sensual display, because that’s his role. They’ve played this game before. He watches Justin’s eyes close as he becomes mesmerized by the music. He watches Justin’s hand slither across his chest, fingers barely grazing his nipples, Justin’s hips roll with the beat of the bass, his mouth drop open. He watches as the strobe lights blanket Justin in soothing blue and blistering scarlet. He watches until his mouth is dry, until nerve endings sizzle beneath his skin, until it feels like it’s been weeks, months, fucking eons since he’s pushed Justin to the mattress and… Brian slams his drink on the bar and heads to the centre of the dance floor. He grips Justin’s bicep and swings him around, and his fingers tingle at the touch. “Enough,” he rasps. “Dance with me,” Justin says, smiling blissfully, sliding his arms around Brian’s neck, pulling Brian close. Close. Closer, until their bodies glide together, and Brian slips his leg between Justin’s thighs, rides the beat of Justin’s pulse, shifts a little to the music, letting Justin’s rhythm carry them along. Brian skims his teeth along Justin’s neck, nips at his soft round earlobe. “We’re going home.” “Hmm,” Justin says, body still moving in time with the pulsating beat, his cock picking up the cadence, insistent pulse-throb-push against Brian’s thigh, long pale neck arched in pleasure, glitter glistening on the slick sheen of sweat on his skin until Brian thinks he has never been so hard, so hot, so desperate. “Justin,” Brian warns. A quick swipe of his tongue along Brian’s collarbone, then Justin is smiling. “Sure,” he says, “just let me get a drink first.” “Now!” Justin disentangles them so quickly that Brian finds himself lurching forward, his body aching for the lost contact. “Okay,” Justin agrees, smug smile firmly in place, “I’ll get our coats.” He disappears into the crowd, and Brian watches until the sight of Justin is swallowed by the writhing bodies on the dance floor. He feels the appraising eyes on Justin, on him, on them, and he doesn’t give a fuck. He knows who he wants to arouse. He knows exactly what turns Justin on. |
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Severina
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