Chapter 1

Blaine sat on an empty barstool between a likely prospect and King-fucking-Kong. He lifted his chin, summoning the bartender as he ran freshly manicured hands over the textured cashmere of his Kiton pinstripe suit, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles.

“A Skinny Pirate, please.”

The bartender quirked an eyebrow but otherwise kept his face expressionless. “Coming right up.”

Blaine’s peripheral vision picked up movement to his left. King Kong was looking him over. He turned his head to the right, ignoring the hairy behemoth, to check out his hopeful hookup for the evening.

Maybe a couple inches taller than himself, the man was casually dressed in freshly pressed khakis and a clean navy polo shirt. His dark wavy hair was neatly trimmed, and his hands, while not professionally manicured, were well maintained.

The man concentrated on a Screwdriver, studiously ignoring him, though.

The bartender placed the drink in front of Blaine, and he slapped some bills on the bar.

“Why’s that called a Skinny Pirate? Looks like rum and Coke to me.”

Blaine sighed and turned to the muscle-bound hulk. “Because it’s made with Captain Morgan rum and Diet Coke.”

He picked up his drink and spun on the stool to cast his gaze over the room. No prospects. No singles, anyway. The patrons all appeared to be in couples.

King Kong turned on his seat and brought a domestic longneck to his lips. The man was big and hairy—except for his bald head—but basically clean, albeit slightly rumpled, in jeans and a snug T-shirt. Minute traces of grease stained his cuticles, and his beard could use a trim. A gold hoop glinted on his right earlobe.

“Not much hope out there. I’ve already scoped the place.”

Blaine glanced at the guy on his other side. Maybe there was still a chance.

“Preppy there’s got someone who’s going to be joining him.” King Kong shrugged. “I already tried.”

Blaine heaved another sigh and took a more thoughtful look at King Kong. How bad did he really want to get laid tonight?

King Kong grinned. “Feelin’ desperate, are ya?”

Maybe not thatbad. Fucker.

King Kong actually waggled his eyebrows. “I showered and everything.”

Blaine crossed his arms, and his jaw tightened. The man was laughing at him. Sure, he was picky, but he had a right to be, goddammit. He sucked in a deep breath and slowly blew it out, then took a sip of his Skinny Pirate. “What’s your name? Or should I just call you ‘King Kong’?”

The man’s laughter reached his eyes. “That depends. You wanna be my Ann Darrow?”

“Blaine will do fine, thanks.”

“George. My name’s George.”

It fit him. Not as well as Harry, but it matched him.

Blaine put out a hand. “Pleased to meet you, George.” What the hell, the man had “showered and everything.” He was huge, but not fat. Not Blaine’s typical hookup, but perhaps he’d do. He certainly had a nice firm grip. “So what do you do? Mechanic?”

George smiled and looked at his hands. “Never can get it all off, no matter how much I scrub.”

“It’s honest work.” Blaine was choosy but didn’t consider himself an elitist. Hell, he was lost under the hood of a car and had plenty of respect for those who understood an engine.

George leaned back and considered him. “It is. Hard, sweaty, and grubby.” He grinned. “Kinda like good sex.”

Jesus. Didn’t sound too much like the sex Blaine was used to.

“How ’bout you, Blaine? I don’t get the impression you work with your hands.”

“I’m an attorney.”

“I was gonna guess either that or some kinda corporate raider.”

Blaine smiled. “Well, I’m the attorney fora corporate raider, so you got a pretty good read on me.”

“There now, you see? We’ve got two things in common. We’re both pretty astute observers.”

“That’s one thing. What’s the other?”

George inclined his head. “We’re both horny gay men.” He grinned again. “And here I’d just complimented your powers of observation.”

Blaine laughed. “You got me there.”

“So the question is, what are we going to do about it?”

“I believe this is the point where one of us asks, ‘your place or mine’?” Blaine tossed back the rest of his drink and raised his eyebrows.

The lines around George’s eyes crinkled to life with his renewed smile. “I cleaned my apartment and everything, too.”

* * * *

George’s place was small, but tidy and clean. Blaine preferred not to bring hookups home with him, but it was often a germaphobe’s worst nightmare going home with them. Some of the most well-turned-out men were such total slobs it was hard to even hold a boner in the surroundings. He gazed around the room, taking in the tasteful, if inexpensive, furnishings.