Sonata

Prelude-1

Prelude

Thirty-six shouldn’t feel old, Ian told himself, watching the dancers dance and the lights blink on and off. Amber liquid shone within his simple rock glass; the napkin underneath blue then pink, green, then yellow. The bartender leaned over the bar at the far end of the unit, propping himself majestically, doing his best to highlight musculature and form for the two young twins in front of him. Less than eight feet away, a young body swayed for the one against it in an alluring tease that made Ian’s skin prick with sweat. Only Ian seemed to mind the heat.

The three scotches meandering through his bloodstream should have been easing the tension in his shoulders, not increasing it. Yet even with his jacket off Ian could somehow still feel the constriction of the fabric, as if it were the very thing binding him into his middle-aged hole of an existence.

With a snarl and a frown, Ian reached up to tug his tie down. He should have changed, tried harder to blend in. His clothes screamed out the warning of too-old-to-be-cool and yet still too young to be the daddy replacement the rest were looking for. “Twenty-five or fifty-five, anything in between is simply viral,” Ian’s flamboyant ex used to always tell him. And while Ian would casually roll eyes at the comment and tell Madison he only thought that way because he was an attention w***e, Ian couldn’t help but feel that there was more truth to it then Ian wanted to believe. After all, it’s not like the young men were scoping him out. And God knew, the men his own age all wanted babies.

Ian swallowed back a sigh and topped it with the remaining scotch. It was time to go; the bar was only making him feel worse. He waved off the bartender’s attempt at feigning interest in his empty glass and grabbed his jacket off the bar. He tapped his pockets to confirm keys and wallet, pulled the fives out of the pile of change that had been so graciously provided instead of the twenty, (because, hey, just because I’m chatting up two gorgeous young dudes instead of paying the slightest attention to your needs doesn’t mean I still don’t want a tip) and just left the singles.

The washroom was packed with people, none of who seemed to have any interest in the urinals at the far wall. In a club like this, washrooms were made for snorting and f*****g. Why owners of said establishments didn’t just say, “f**k it” and put in private rooms was beyond him. Regardless of commotion, privacy, or filth, the minions were following the citation to the letter. And while it shouldn’t have—he was well past the age when bathroom s*x sounded enticing—the process made Ian’s chest tighten up on him. It was an ache that reminded him that no matter what the excuses were that he was telling himself, the truth of the matter was that he was too much of a chicken-s**t to shove a straw up his nose, and too damn boring to be summoned into one of the stalls.

He stood up to the urinal, flipped his jacket over his arm, and caught his own dark brown gaze in the mirror to the left of him. Maybe if he did something about the strands of white creeping into his otherwise dark hair. Maybe if he traded the semi-casual business wear for something more daring. Maybe if he got his eyes touched up and traded in the ever deepening lines for Botox-infused expression-free clarity. Maybe then.

It wasn’t until he was gritting his jaw at his own pity-party and turning his head away in disgust that he caught a similar set of brown that were (Were they?) staring at him (No, flicking past…no…definitely staring.) Recalled fiction pinged the term “root beer eyes” and in that instant Ian finally understood what the author had meant: gold yet brown, highlights and lowlights, warm and beautiful.

From there things just got sweeter: pale skin, shock-blond hair shaved short on both sides with the middle left longer and swept back, his eyebrows and the barest brush of facial hair disproving the blond as brown. A sexy smirk played over the young man’s lips—glossed with a sheer pink, Ian was sure of it—and the only flaw on his skin, a mark Ian wasn’t even convinced he’d call a flaw if asked, was a tiny mole high on the kid’s right cheek.

“Don’t hold eye contact,” internal reasoning seemed to hiss in his ear and Ian instantly lowered his eyes. Yet he found he was fighting himself not to pull them back up again, to check, to see. It was a foolish notion that a pretty kid would be trying to catch his attention and he silently called himself every name in the book for considering it, but he failed in his attempt not to look.

Not that Ian needed to see how close the other man was. He felt it; nudging against his shoulder, leaning into his ear. “How bad do you need that piss?”

Ian opened his mouth to reply and snapped it shut just as quickly. Anything he said would sound either lame or stupid. His breath caught when the young man brushed fingertips down his spine. More so when a finger caught his back belt loop and tugged him closer.

“Do I know you?” was all that Ian was able to come up with.

“Nope,” the man said, smirking at Ian’s reflection. “Perfect, right?”

“I—” and Ian had to stop. Right there. Mid-speech. Because the young man was pushing his hips into Ian’s upper thigh like they were old friends. With benefits.

“Interested?”

“I—” Ian repeated, swallowing on a suddenly dry throat. “Yes?”

Yes, as in, how much do you charge by the hour. Yes, as in, is this some kind of joke?

“In here,” the man said, pulling Ian towards one of the few empty stalls.

Ian felt like a colt just learning his legs as he stumble-trailed the blond towards the open door.

Impossible. He’s going to steal your wallet. This can’t happen.

Not to you.

Yet there he stood, in dumfounded awe, already breathing like he’d run five miles through the rain, as the door was shut and locked behind them.

The young man didn’t wait for an invitation. He pressed Ian into the metal sidewall and reached for Ian’s belt buckle.

“I…I’m Ian,” Ian said and felt a hot rush of embarrassment color his cheeks at the look he was tossed.

“I don’t care,” he was told, fingertips making easy work of the fastenings that held Ian’s body behind cloth.

“What’s your name?” Ian asked, surprising himself with the question, knowing damn well it was neither the time nor the place to be asking something so obviously redundant.

“Nobody,” the man said, pressing down Ian’s pants and underwear in one push. Ian stifled a breath of shock, want—uncertainty even—as the young man began to kneel.

“Shut up! Shut up and just go with this,” his c**k told him, rising slowly despite the incessant poking of Ian’s conscience insisting he was too old for nameless games, too far into life to need the touch of a stranger. Too lonely for something like this to be enough.

Sensation bested common sense. And how could it not, Ian decided, as the young man began to drag his tongue over the head of Ian’s d**k, as gold-flecked brown eyes were draped by eyelashes so long they looked like feathers against cheeks. It was beautiful. It was mesmerizing. It had been far too long since Ian had looked down and watched someone blow him.

When tasting became the hot, wet drag of swallow Ian was sure he was going to melt into the wall. “This is insane,” he whispered, bucking his hips into the vibration when the young man chuckled over his c**k. Fingertips dug into Ian’s hips, motion intensified, and the slide of another zipper signified the man’s give in to his own pressures. It was a sound that couldn’t go ignored. Ian forced himself to lean to the right, to sidestep slightly, and caught the frown that lit on the other man’s forehead.

“I want to see you,” Ian said, almost choking on the words.

An odd expression flicked over the young man’s face and he released Ian’s body with a wet smack. He stood and Ian’s mind screeched at the obviously mistimed request, but the man wasn’t leaving. On the contrary, he stepped back, leaned against the opposing wall of the stall, wrestled his pants down further, and began to stroke his own c**k, posing for Ian’s visual pleasure. He didn’t even flinch when Ian reached for the hem of his shirt and lifted it.

Ian used his wrists to push the t-shirt so he could drag his fingers and palms over torso; the kind of torso Ian knew without doubt that only a young man could have without hours in the gym. “You’re gorgeous,” he murmured, doing everything possible to commit the body to memory: the sight, the feel, the smell.

He lowered his hand, hovered it at hip level, “Can I…”

“Touch?” the other man prompted when Ian’s tongue refused to continue. He grinned when Ian nodded. “How about you touch while you f**k me?”

A rush of desire powerful enough to make fluid leak and c**k dance had Ian questioning his ability to hold everything back long enough to get any further. “You want me to f**k you?”

“Hell, yes,” the kid said without missing a beat.

Ian closed his eyes and took a breath. “You are old enough to be in the club, right?”

“Twenty-two.”

Ian’s eyes dropped to the apex of the young man’s body, at a strain no less than his own, and cautiously wrapped both hands around the man’s hips. Perfect. He fit perfectly in Ian’s palms, felt perfect in Ian’s palms. Ian used his thumbs to trace the curve of bone. And couldn’t stop himself from asking again. “What’s your name?”

His request was ignored, his shoulders secured. “Do you have a condom?” the man asked. “If not, I have some in my jeans.”

“In my jacket,” Ian said, and then before the man could reach for the necessary clothing, Ian lifted both hands and cupped his face. “Tell me your name.”

Another emotion flickered through the man’s eyes and even while Ian’s internal berating told him he was being ridiculous, that the young man would just give him a fake name or worse, up and leave, Ian couldn’t stop his need to know. To make it at least that personal, if nothing more.

Ian’s heart tripped far more than it should have when the man looked up, held his gaze, and whispered, “Jordan.”

Ian smiled. “Hi, Jordan.”

“Hi, Ian,” Jordan mumbled back, a nervous frown darkening the gold out of his brown eyes. “Are we done bonding now?”

He didn’t wait for Ian’s reply. He reached for the jacket, dragged it off the hook, and handed it to Ian. “Let’s fuck.”

* * * *

Ian’s hands were shaking as he fumbled the key into his ignition. “Can I buy you a drink?” he’d asked, still panting from release, still trying to convince his legs that he could, in fact, remain standing.

“Nope,” Jordan had said, tucking away body parts and straightening his clothes. “Now you can piss off.”

It had caught Ian off guard. It shouldn’t have; Jordan had made it more than clear what the game was. But his tongue hadn’t stopped even though his brain had begged it to. “Maybe your number? I could call you sometime?”

Jordan had just shook his head, clicked his belt closed and unlocked the door. “Nope.”

Ian had stood alone for a long minute, willing breath and heartbeat back to normal as his c**k softened and his confidence died just a little more.

He’d tried to stop at the bar for a drink. To kill the trembling. To quiet the nervous hitch in his guts. The shot just made it worse.

So when he finally laid his head back against the seat of his car and stared into the rear-view mirror, his mind’s eye replaced his own brown pair with the blue eyes of his ex and he sighed. “Madison, I’ll never figure you out.”

Because how could a person want this? What was the point to a random encounter? Where was the attachment, the meaning?

Or was he the crazy one? The only person on the face of the earth that actually felt worse after blowing a load into a willing stranger? Maybe he was the anomaly.

“f**k,” Ian hissed, shaking his head at his reflection. With gritted teeth and a headache starting in his temples, Ian slammed the car into reverse, revved the engine, and peeled out of the parking lot.