Good Luck Piece [The Brotherhood 4]
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by Willa Okati
Category: Erotica/Gay-Lesbian Erotica/Fantasy
Description: Finn's had a run of bad luck lately. An eon's worth. But one magical night at Amour Magique, he's going to find a good luck piece...a handsome lawyer named Simon. [Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Male/male sexual practices.]
eBook Publisher: Loose Id, LLC, 2006
eBookwise Release Date: May 2008
38 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [116 KB]
Reading time: 70-98 min.
Simon stepped out of the Amour Magique rest room and stopped to shiver. By God, it was colder in the club than it had felt when he'd been swaddled up in a three-piece suit! Bits of leather and non-warming plastic didn't lend themselves to keeping a fellow toasty--that was, until he got out on the floor to dance.
He glanced down at himself, silently approving. The shop boy had told him he looked good enough to lick up, and while he'd gone red and embarrassed at such frank wording by a stranger, he'd secretly ... agreed.
He wasn't in bad shape at all for a man his age, although it wasn't quite so awfully advanced. He had yet to see forty for another couple of birthdays. He jogged and occasionally lifted weights--he'd seen too many other lawyers either grow sour and painfully thin from living on coffee, or bloated with lunches at their local diners, and dreaded the thought of ending up in that condition. Therefore, while he might not make the cover of Fit Monthly, he had nothing to be ashamed of with his tone and tautness either.
He straightened up with a brisk shake and tested out a bold stride toward the doors that would lead him back onto the main dance floor. As he passed a bank of pay phones, out of the corner of his eye he saw a ripped young ebony man and his partner, skin tone rich as butterscotch, twined about one another. The dark man glanced at Simon and grinned as their eyes met, letting out a low wolf whistle. His partner dropped his eyelids to half-mast and blew Simon a kiss.
Simon had to laugh for glee. Fortunately, he thought they understood he wasn't amused at them. The dark man said in a heavy Jamaican accent, "Pants like that, I can tell a man's religion." He gave Simon a cheerful leer. "Jewish, no?"
Simon winked, rocked his hips, and sailed on, proud as he could be. The men's appreciative laughter behind him gave him all the hope he felt he was possibly able to hold.
Opening the doors to the dance floor, he took a deep breath of men, sweat and sex. The aroma washed over him in a dizzying wave.
This is my moment. * * * *
The bell above the Last Chance bar sounded like a damned dinner gong. Finn glared fiercely at Trey, who, without so much as a blink, took it down and wrapped it in a towel, then shoved it underneath a box of empty bottles. They could still hear the chimes, a sort of damned tell-tale heart, but at least they were somewhat muffled.
"Finn..." the light-saber shirted twit dared to venture. "Come on, man. Be reasonable."
Finn winged an empty martini glass at him. Well, a plastic glass, if that was even a viable phrase. It didn't hurt the guy, just splashed him with a bit of leftover day-glow strawberry juice, but it got his point across. He hoped his glare conveyed the message. Not another word. Not another single word from any of you.
Gods, one would think they were happy to have another poor bastard join their ranks.
Reasonable? Fuck reasonable! Simmering, Finn turned back to the screen. He couldn't bear to look away for long--the need to seek out Liam or one of his groupies had almost become an obsession. He jonesed after the sight of the men like a hooker after grade Z street crank.
The camera angle switched suddenly and Finn groaned, wishing he had something else to throw. It had trained its all-seeing eye on the opening doors to the main dance floor, through which was entering...
Finn's mouth fell open. By gods, by gosh and begorra, if that wasn't the most delicious looking piece of sub candy he'd ever seen in his hundreds of long-lived, bad luck-filled years. Dressed in straps of leather and barely there PVC pants with clear plastic windows that displayed one shapely ass cheek and lengths of thigh and calf, as well as a seriously impressive package right where it should be--oh, sweet Patrick, have mercy!
He ignored the tortured, longing groans going up from the Last Chancers behind him. Anything besides the sight of that man, every bit of him on display from kohled eyes to trim black boots, from tousled hair to bulging cock--which had to have a ring or a cage on underneath those pants--wasn't anything Finn wanted to be distracted by.
He lifted someone else's glass to his mouth and gulped to ease the dryness. He fidgeted to take off the pressure in his suddenly aching cock. That man was an invitation to boner-dom on legs, he was, and if there was one piece of good fortune ever due to come Finn's way in the past present, or future, he'd have wished for it to be that gorgeous, drool-worthy hunk of man, on his knees before him.
"Ah, gods," he whispered, completely forgetting himself. "May you have the best night of your life, laddie."
The Last Chance bar went utterly silent and still.
They all heard the Loser-Bell pop out of its hiding place and hit the floor, chiming like a cuckoo clock gone mad.
Finn shut his eyes and groaned. Oh, shit. Oh, gods. Oh, no. He looked up, praying he could fix the damage before it was--
Nope. Already far too late.