Beautiful Box Set

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Three strong drinks later, Johnny leans against Brett, legs weak, feet clumsy, hands unable to stay in one place for long. They find the buttons on Brett’s shirt and slowly work them free, one by one, starting at his waist and moving up, until they smooth over the flat, tanned swath of belly above his jeans. Johnny’s fingers are insistent, picking at the button fly, as well. He gets the first button undone and manages to rub the faint hair that trails from Brett’s navel down into his pants, but he doesn’t move much farther before the photog catches his hand. “Not here,” Brett says, but his body seems to disagree. It’s in the way he steps closer, the way he bends down, the way his lips close over Johnny’s earlobe as his tongue licks out to wet the hidden spot behind his ear. He is officially all over Johnny. “Upstairs.”

That’s what Johnny wants, more than the bulge in Brett’s pants or the heat of his kiss. Access to the VIP lounge, a chance to hobnob with the rich and famous, a glimpse at the life he deserves. The life to come. Downing the last of his drink, Johnny leaves the glass on the bar and takes Brett’s hand. With the photog in the lead, they wind through the undulating crowd, hips bumping into strangers, bodies swaying with the beat. Johnny finds himself moving in rhythm with the crowd around him, dancing his way through. A tight grip keeps him on track, trailing behind Brett, who moves ahead like an unseen guide leading a wayward traveler. Hands reach out, arms brush over him, legs and asses and torsos grind into Johnny. He feels like he’s in the heart of a living, writhing creature, and every touch cranks up his libido another notch, until his d**k is raging in his pants, aching for release. With the hand that isn’t attached to Brett’s, he fondles himself through his jeans, pushing the erection there, rubbing the coarse denim against his sensitive skin. His c**k throbs, and his balls pound in time with the music. When he finally breaks free from the crowd, following Brett up a narrow staircase, which leads to the lounge above, his hand is fisted at his crotch, his fingers squeezing, his whole body eager to come.

A bouncer blocks entrance to the VIP section of the club. Brett flashes something—a badge? His card? Johnny can’t tell. He stands behind the photog on a lower step and, when Brett stops, Johnny leans his forehead against his ass. Beneath the cottony smell of denim, there’s a faint odor of musky s*x that drifts over Johnny, spurring his desire, and he buries his nose against the seam that runs between Brett’s buttocks. He shakes his hand free from his friend’s and grabs those cheeks, kneading them through the jeans, lifting, separating, his breath hot and fast. His teeth slide over the worn denim, seeking purchase. His tongue licks out, wetting taut fabric. If the jeans were gone, and they were alone, he’d be nipping at the doorway to paradise.

Suddenly Brett turns, and Johnny stumbles up the stairs. Strong hands catch his arms, hauling him to his feet. “Are you through kissing my ass?” Brett jokes.

His steady grip keeps Johnny from falling. “I wasn’t….”

Damp lips cover his. It’s just a quick kiss, but it silences Johnny and takes his breath away. “It’s much more private in here,” Brett purrs, leading Johnny through a door held open by an impassive bouncer. The man ignores them, his gaze surveying the crowd below.

Johnny glances down at the surge of people and feels faint.

Brett takes his hand to steer him away from the stairs. His other hand is now on Johnny’s waist, now on his elbow, pulling him into the VIP lounge. Johnny lets himself be led into a darkened corridor that curves into a mezzanine above the dance floor. Tables edge the railing on his right, overlooking the stage and bar; the wall to the left is lined with one long seat, the red patent leather like dark blood in the low light. More tables are pushed against the seat, making a narrow path along the balcony. With Johnny’s hand in his, Brett starts down the aisle.

Johnny teeters on his feet, head swimming, eyes unable to focus on any one face for long. All the stars are here, all the names he reads in the tabloids, all the people he envies because he no longer lives like they do. All the hot stars, the pretty starlets, the singers, the athletes. The superstars, each glowing with an internal light, each an individual sun revolving within a private galaxy. Individual rulers, minute kings and queens, basking in the adoration of private entourages, bevies of hangers-on. Here are the dreamers, Johnny tells himself, and here are the dreams.

Here is where he is meant to be.

He follows Brett to the far end of the lounge, where the wall-length seat curves around to meet the railing. There’s an empty spot in the corner, overlooking the dance floor below, and Brett drops into place, then scoots over to make room for Johnny. He pats the seat, right next to the railing, but it’s unnecessary—Johnny stumbles over himself to sit down. The drinks he’s had conspire against him, and he falls like a graceless fop, sprawled halfway into Brett’s lap. “Sorry,” he says, snickering. When he leans back against the railing, the room spins dizzily.

Sure fingers brush up his inner thigh, over his crotch, to tug at the zipper on his jeans. Brett leans down over him—in the darkness of the lounge, it’s hard to see the photographer’s features, and Johnny’s already begun to forget the exact shape of his face, the curve of his jaw. Cute, he remembers, and that’s about it. Light from the floor below glistens like starshine in Brett’s eyes. “Hey,” he sighs, his breath like fire igniting the kerosene of sweat sheathing Johnny’s skin.

“Hey,” Johnny whispers. He likes it here. He doesn’t want the night to end.

The fingers at his crotch have worked his zipper down an inch, two, and the AC-cooled air of the lounge nips at heated skin, exciting his d**k. Being here, in public, with the rest of young Hollywood, only heightens his desire. Fisting his hands in Brett’s shirt, he pulls the photog down to steal a kiss as he arches his hips away from the seat, against Brett. At the sweet pressure that spikes through him where his c**k grinds between them, he moans, “Yes.”

Brett needs no further encouragement. His mouth grows insistent on Johnny’s, pinning him back to the seat, the crown of his head pressed up hard against the railing. A warm tongue fills Johnny, licking him, staking claim. His jeans are fully unzipped and fingers twine through trimmed hair, circling his c**k, grasping his balls, stroking along his length. “Commando,” Brett breathes. Johnny feels him smile against his lips. “Nice.”

Johnny bucks beneath him, lost in an alcoholic haze of lust and greed. The hand on his d**k gives a gentle squeeze, and Johnny’s body shivers in response. As Brett kisses him, Johnny scoots back, sitting up a little, legs spread wide. His jeans stay in place, sliding down his thin hips, and the leather seat feels hot and alive against his backside. His d**k juts from his crotch at an obscene angle, the shaft hidden in Brett’s fist, the bulbous tip like a ruddy mushroom that has bloomed in the darkness of the lounge. Leaning against the railing, Johnny throws his head back and lets out a guttural growl that sounds playful and kittenish. He can’t believe he’s doing this, here, not in some sleazy gay bar on the outskirts of town but here, among stars. “Please.”

“You’re so damn sexy.” Brett’s words are mere breath on Johnny’s chin, and his kisses chase after them, down Johnny’s jaw, down his throat, over his Adam’s apple. Each kiss is punctuated by a mind-numbing tightening of the fingers around his d**k. His heart beats in his c**k, drowning out the music thudding through the club. “These bitches have nothing on you. How lucky did I get tonight?”

Johnny doesn’t know—he’s pretty damn lucky himself. He lays back as Brett massages his d**k, lips suckling his neck. Brett’s thumb has found a tender spot just beneath the tip of Johnny’s c**k, the nail tracing up and down the slit with maddening ease. Johnny’s breath quickens, coming in short pants, words of affirmation intermingled with unintelligible gasps of delight. “Yes,” and “please,” and “God,” the words mean nothing but more. He sets his head back on the railing, stares at the ceiling far above, and savors the waves of pleasure crashing over him with each little kiss, every stroke, Brett’s very touch.

At the first bubble of pre-c*m, Brett moves back and Johnny feels that harsh mouth close over his cockhead. The tongue is softer than he imagined, the lips like velvet, hot and wet and so unexpected that Johnny digs his heels into the seat, raising his buttocks up to drive as much as he can into that willing hole. He gasps, “Yes, yes,” clutching at the railing, the table beside them, the wall, as he f***s into Brett. A hundred shiny eyes seem to watch them, but as Johnny glances around, no one meets his gaze. Below them, the music swells, the crowd continues its ancient dance, laughter drifts over to their darkened corner, turning the moment unreal.

Then Johnny meets Brett’s gaze. He’s taken Johnny’s length in completely, and Johnny’s pubic hair looks like a dark beard on the photog. Inside that mouth, Brett’s tongue swirls around Johnny’s c**k, the thick muscle massaging the hard shaft, guiding it to release.

“Please,” Johnny whispers.

The word is lost in the noise around them. As he watches, Brett’s hand drops between Johnny’s legs to fondle his balls, and one inquisitive finger dives deeper to breech Johnny’s puckered hole.

He comes in an explosive rush that sets the whole world spinning out around him. Yes.