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Kamesh fucks both at the same time in the Resort.

I'd never seen him with another man or a woman for that matter, only his bandmates. The way he swaggered off solo after a show, his open invitations to have at his ass . . . maybe I wondered if he traded his body for cash the same way he gave his voice in song.

"Okay." Jack hit me with a shy grin.

Okay to the money? Okay to coming home with me? Fuck it, I'd take him either way. Before he got a chance to backtrack or disappear or change his mind, I shouldered his ever-present backpack and the electric guitar case.

Tapping a black pick against his widened grin, he asked, "Eager?"

Yes. And cold. And hornier than I could ever remember. So that was just a rhetorical question I wasn't gonna answer. After he took my silence for the agreement it was, he bent over to pack away his second guitar, the Hagstrom. I really wanted to shove my hands down the back of his pants and grab hold of his ass.

My face flamed some more when he caught me ogling. There was no way to explain my shameless staring-drooling-so I simply shrugged and set off in the direction of my truck.

During the short ride to my apartment, he alternated between playing with my radio and cupping his hands over the hot-blowing air vent. I curled my fingers tighter and tighter around the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white. When I parked in front of the Charleston Single House in one of the 'bad parts' of downtown that was undergoing a rebirth-or so the real estate developers hoped-Jack swiveled in his seat.

"C'mere."

I dragged in a shaky breath. Inclining toward him, I shut my eyes at the first feel of his lips brushing the crest of my cheek, sliding toward my ear. "Don' be nervous, Beef." One hand skimmed up my thigh to squeeze the aching ridge of flesh in my leathers. "I ain't g'on eat ya. Less you wan' me too."

Oh God. The Cajun accent came out heavy when he was turned on apparently. Or maybe he used it to arouse me more. That and his hand lying atop my cock worked. Worked real well.

Pulling back with a groan, I climbed out of the truck. I grabbed all his shit-I'd keep his guitars hostage if I had to-and led him up the walkway, up the stairs, and into my apartment.

It was nothing fancy inside. None of the seasonal shit the lowcountry was festooned with from street-to-street heralding the happy holidays. On the scarred kitchen table, one fat red candle sat in a circle of holly. Merry Christmas.

Jack strolled around the three-room-plus-bath affair, his scuffed cowboy boots ringing loudly on the aged oak floors. Opening the door to the third floor balcony, he quickly closed it up tight when an icy draft swept in.

"Nice digs."

"Keeps me warm." I came from a hardcore working-class Midwestern Lutheran family-one of four kids-where we learned early hubris was an even bigger sin than in the Greek tragedies. "I took it for the kitchen mostly."

In spite of my shabby, bach-pad furniture, the kitchen was always well stocked. That room was the largest and I'd given it the DIY treatment when I moved in with a fresh coat of paint, new cupboards, the works.

Maybe that shoulda been an indicator I was gay.

Wet from the snow, his shaggy damp hair falling across his brow, Jack standing in my living room hypnotized me. He also made my brain short-out again because I asked, "You want payment up front?"

His low dirty chuckle shot straight to my straining hard-on, which hadn't gone half-mast the entire time I'd been with him. "I don't want your money, cher. And I might even suck your cock for free. If you ask nicely enough."

Holy fuck.

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