The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,78
smile, the entertainer sauntered toward him, and they both grinned. Then, without saying a word, the young man perched in Carmine’s lap and slung his arms around his neck. Both of their towels came undone, but didn’t fall away entirely, and the men ignored them. Instead, they grinned at each other, and then the young man kissed Carmine. As they always were, his lips were insistent and aggressive, his kiss giving Carmine a taste of how eager and hungry he was tonight. He wriggled in Carmine’s lap, moaning in delight at the erection beneath Carmine’s towel.
And Carmine…
Felt nothing.
His body responded, and he could have gone through the motions, but he wasn’t so sure he wanted to anymore. Wasn’t this exactly why he’d come here? To lose himself in someone eager and beautiful?
Except everything reminded him of Danny. Every low, masculine moan was a sound he wanted to hear from Danny’s lips. Every slap of skin against skin he heard from nearby made him wish it were his body against Danny’s. Every touch of the gorgeous entertainer’s soft lips just made Carmine want to know what Danny’s would feel like instead.
In this building were dozens of men in search of other men. There was at least one with whom he’d enjoyed plenty of encounters. Probably more.
Every rendezvous within these walls was dangerous, but none more dangerous than even imagining himself tangled with his Irish rum runner. Except that dream was nothing more than an impossible fantasy. Even with this lithe, beautiful dancer on his lap, erect and ready, all Carmine could think about was the man he could never touch.
Finally, he broke the kiss and sighed.
The man in his lap looked down at him, and he trailed slim fingertips down Carmine’s cheek. “What’s the matter?” The absence of that familiar lyrical accent was unsurprising but jarring.
You’re not Danny.
No one here is Danny.
“I…” Carmine shook his head. “I don’t think I can do this. Not tonight.”
His would-be lover cocked a brow. “You sure feel like you can.”
“I know. But I…” Carmine sighed and again shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
The man eyed him, then shrugged and—in a series of motions only he could make so graceful and effortless—moved to his feet. The towel barely hanging around his narrow waist was tented just right to make Carmine briefly reconsider the rejection, but…no. He’d never be able to satisfy him tonight.
“Maybe another time,” the young man said, and he strolled away into the steam before Carmine could respond.
Exhaling, Carmine leaned against the cool, damp wall. It would be a matter of moments before someone else had the Acid-Tongued Pansy writhing in ecstasy and nearly sobbing for more. If Carmine moved quickly, he could still be the one to make the young man’s kohl run with muddy tears of pleasure.
I let him go? I could have…
Carmine closed his eyes and sighed. He was an idiot. For letting the beautiful man go. For thinking he could have performed if he hadn’t let him go. For being so distracted that even in this place—especially in this place—his thoughts all led to a man who’d sooner sell his soul to the literal Devil than lay an affectionate hand on Carmine.
Well, there was no point in staying here, so he didn’t. After he’d dressed, he walked out into the cool night. Absently, he started to put his hands into his overcoat pockets, but they were, as they’d been for a long time, sewn closed.
At the corner, half a block or so from the bathhouse, he paused before crossing the street, and he looked back. The bathhouse’s exterior was, as they always were, discreet. No one strolling by would realize there was such an establishment here. But Carmine knew. He knew what went on behind those plain wooden doors and innocent brick façades. He knew who was there.
Who wasn’t there.
With a shiver, he turned and continued down the street, once again imagining it had been Danny being ridden by some unseen man behind the semi-opaque steam. Or in his arms and tangled up in a kiss that said everything they couldn’t put into words.
You’ll never have him that way. Stop being stupid.
He and Danny had reached something like a truce. The hostility that had laced their early conversations was a distant memory, and things were different. Much different. There were long looks and odd smiles and those moments when a blush darkened Danny’s fair skin.
None of that meant Danny would ever look at him the way men in the bathhouse sometimes