“What about you, Brian?” Emmett asks. “What did you do?”

I hesitate as I reach for my coffee cup.

I was at the top of my game, flawless in my approach, impeccable in my delivery, and in line for a first class fuck with not one, but two, of the hottest guys in Babylon.

Then it was all swept away by some scrawny twink with an attitude.

I wasn’t jealous. Jealousy is the providence of henpecked husbands and castrated queers. Any fag in the place would have given up his left ball to go home with me.

I watched him press himself against their bodies, lean into their touch, and I wasn’t fucking jealous.

But he was mine. Mine, the tenacious little fucker, and I wasn’t about to let him throw himself away on an overdeveloped gym bunny and an arrogant prick with no fashion sense.

So I stepped between them, took back what was mine, and pretended not to notice the way our bodies fit, the way he shuddered against me when my tongue lapped at his chest, the way he arched his back as I sucked glitter and sweat from his skin, trusting me to hold him. I took his mouth, rediscovering the pliant softness of his lips, the eager thrust of his tongue, his fervent sighs almost lost in the driving beat of the music.

I lifted him in the air, and felt alive.

One song melded into another, and our bodies moved together restlessly. My hand roamed across his smooth back, rubbing circles in his flesh. My lips nipped at his earlobe, stinging and soothing in equal measure, and I relished his hiss of pleasure. I circled his nipple with my tongue as glitter rained down and his hands clutched reflexively on my hips, my shoulders, my arms.

Another song, and his fingers tangled in my hair and I let him lead me into a kiss.

“Brian,” he whimpered as I pulled away. He draped an arm around my shoulder, lithe perfect body still moving in time to the music, and I crushed him against me and spun with him and watched his face transform with surprised glee in the light show.

My hands caressed his body as my lips skimmed across his skin and I kept him on the edge, always on the edge.

“Brian.” My name a moan then, a plea, as my hand edged beneath his waistband and my finger brushed lightly at his crack.

Fuck, I wanted to hear him say it. Wanted to hear him beg for it.

Instead I leaned back, keeping my hips flush with his, and when his upper body tried to follow mine, I planted my hand at his shoulder to keep him at bay.

“You’re not coming home with me, Justin,” I told him, and watched as the light drained from his face, as his gaze dropped to the floor, as his mouth opened and not even the strobe lights could cover the slight quiver of his lower lip.

Then he straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin, his eyes meeting mine defiantly. “Fine,” he said. “I’m sure I can find someone here who’ll be willing to--”

“You’re not coming home with me,” I repeated, letting my hand drift across his chest and stomach to the front pocket of his jeans, “but I expect you to be waiting and ready when I get there.”

His eyes widened as my hand dipped into his pocket. His cock twitched against my fingers as I deposited the key. I smirked at him before turning away, heading toward the catwalk.

I didn’t look back.

I glance up at my breakfast companions, both of them paused in the act of eating and waiting expectantly for an answer.

I shrug and bring the cup to my lips.