Five more minutes.
Craig took a sip of his latte and forced himself to lean against the coffee shop wall and stare at his phone screen. If the guy didn’t come in five minutes, he had to leave and get to work.
This was a huge day. That promotion would make the difference in—well, everything. But the guy was his good-luck charm. He really didn’t want to miss him. Maybe the kid would wear that shirt stretched across his lean chest. Craig swallowed hard and sipped the coffee.
Craig looked up as the door opened, then sighed softly when he saw a woman with two kids. The little boy and girl were pulling on her arms and yelling at each other. She got in line and let the two kids go. The boy grabbed for his sister, missed, flew across the store, and smashed into Craig’s legs. Craig grabbed his latte, dropped his phone, coffee splashed, and he jumped back to keep it off his suit. The woman behind him hollered and pushed him as his foot sank down on her toe.
Turning, he came face-to-face with her frown. He mirrored it. “I’m so sorry!”
A scream ricocheted off the walls, Craig looked back to see the kid in a heap on the floor, yelling his lungs out as people stared at Craig like he was a child molester.
The mother rushed over, grabbed the kid up in her arms, and carried him back to the line. No apology, no recognition of Craig’s existence. Jesus, what the hell was he? Invisible? He knew the answer to that one. His father had certainly told him often enough. With a sigh he reached down for his phone. Somehow it wasn’t broken.
He glanced at the door and then at his watch. Damn. Two more minutes.
People in the line chatted as they waited for Ida and Will to serve them. Craig didn’t actually know Ida and Will, but he’d heard him—the kid in the T-shirt—say their names a couple of times.
Thirty seconds. Come on—
The door pushed open. Oh yes, thank you, God. Every time, it was like some commercial on television for perfume or something. Time slowed down. The guy’s long, black-denim-clad leg stretched through the door, the fabric tightening across his thigh muscles. Another step and the jeans cupped his package like a jeweler showing off a diamond. The guy wasn’t real tall. Maybe five foot ten—inches shorter than Craig—but he added up to Craig’s idea of perfection.
That face. Half god, half elf. On the one hand, he had high cheekbones and a nicely shaped jaw. Real architectural. But that was in total contrast to the bright, crinkly eyes, the turned-up nose, and dishwater-blond hair that looked like it had been hacked into submission with a lawnmower—a very sexy lawnmower.
Craig sighed. Above the jeans, the guy wore a windbreaker with the hem of a white polo shirt sticking out. No black T-shirt. No shirt of Craig’s dreams. The shirt that ran through his mind as he sat at his desk working out strategic plans.
The one that said I Would Bottom You So Hard.
The kid had only worn it once that Craig had seen. That was all it took. Sure, he would have noticed this guy no matter what. He was that delicious. But he was also maybe twenty-one or twenty-two, which was at least four or five years too young for Craig. But the shirt. He saw it and the promise seeped right into his heart. His soul.
I would bottom you so hard. Damn, no one ever let Craig top. In thirty-two years of life, he’d never once topped. Even though he was tall, there was just something about him that screamed Shove my feet over my head and fuck me. Hell, he wasn’t complaining exactly. At least he got fucked—sometimes. But nobody thought of him as a top. Anywhere. He wasn’t even sure he bottomed hard.
The kid danced in the line. He didn’t have earbuds in, so he must be dancing to the music in his head. Craig glanced at his watch. He should go, but it was hard to leave that flexing ass. What would it be like to push his cock into that cute crack outlined between the denim pockets?
Whoa! He adjusted his suit coat over his bulge.
The kid’s pretty voice sang out—a little high but still real masculine. “Hey, Ida, babes. Do you have three caramel macchiatos for me, puh-leez?”
The older woman, heavyset, wearing an apron over her jeans and shirt, laughed. “For you, sweetheart, anything.”
Man, that was the truth. This was one of those genetically gifted charmers.
The man he’d heard called Will, who seemed like the owner of the coffee shop, leaned over the other end of the counter and waved. And then he said it. First time Craig had heard it. “Hi, Jesse. How you doin’, kid?”
Jesse. Jesse. Jesse. Perfect name.