Page 36 of Dangle

Afew weeks ago, a thumping bass line and flashing lights in a nightclub triggered me so badly my friends worried I was spiraling into a depressive episode. Tonight, those same lights flashed, and a similar beat thumped, and I only felt exhilaration. My guys were around me dancing with their partners and each other, and the hockey players were celebrating Nashville’s unexpected win.

Drinks flowed. And every few minutes someone screamed over the music, “We’re going to the playoffs, baby!”

All of it should be overwhelming me—strange place, strange people, flashing lights, loud music, the press of bodies.

All of that sat on the periphery because Trey Malachek had planted himself in front of me to put on a show.

He danced. The kid could fucking move, and it gave me so many ideas. Ideas that kept my eyes locked on his sexy as fuck body as he writhed with the twins on his team, Aiden, Gavin, and Shane. He smirked and winked, and whenever he got close, he rubbed some part of his body against some part of mine.

And I enjoyed it.

Immensely.

My throbbing dick was proof enough of how much I enjoyed it. But my erratic heartbeat and the itching palms of my hands wanted to pull his ass against my straining cock.

I stepped forward to do just that several times only to stop. If his ass got anywhere near my dick, I’d come in my fucking pants like the teenager I hadn’t been since before the boy was born.

After the third or fourth time, I pushed my back against the wall, stepping forward to pull him to me, as he wiggled his ass at me. He stopped in front of me, staring into my eyes, barely a breath of space left between us.

With only a slight jut forward of his chin and a cock of his head, Trey whispered in my ear, “You should dance with me.”

His words erased the space. Our chests met and then our gazes. And they held. And held. My lungs burned at the contact, and my eyes did the same from refusing to blink.

I shook my head to force my body back under my control. His full-bottom lip rolled out in a pout. Fucking menace. A delightful, adorable, sexy as fuck menace.

One I wanted.

Under me.

Over me.

Wrapped around me.

Maybe even in me.

“Please,” he begged, the sound more whine than anything else, and there went the space.

His dick, just as hard as mine, brushed against me. He gasped. The sound shot an arrow of fucking need to my already pulsing groin.

“Kid, you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I like surprises.”

Fuck me.

He jerked back before I could respond, pulled away by Aiden, who yelled, “I’m going to the playoffs, baby!”

Even dancing with Aiden several feet away, Trey’s eyes remained locked on me, and my cock stayed rock hard.

Closing time edged in on us. Almost all of the Maulers and Nighthawks had gone, either calling it a night or bar-crawling their drunk asses down Broadway to yet another bar. Trey was the last Mauler left. As for the Nighthawks, their first line cuddled up in our booth, putting on a show.

Ewen and I planted ourselves in front of that booth the minute Sasha, Priest, and Cam pulled their boys down onto the circular bench seat.

Trey, whether he knew what we were doing or not, slotted himself into the mix next to me, his body so close I felt every breath, every twitch.

“Kid, you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“You said that earlier.”