Undertow - 2. Chapter 2

One day, when Sam is sick of the endless sunshine, easy money, and no-strings fucking, he'll go back to college and write a dissertation titled Can't Buy Me Love, which, while lacking sophistication, has more truth in four words than this club's seen in four years.

In Miami the bars are three stories tall and thump like a human heart, playing one identical song after another. The only thing that changes is the singer's name. Sometimes. Depends on the DJ. But this is the dark side of the moon. The Gulf Coast. Better beaches, worse surfing, old money, less flash, and gay clubs that open onto dark side streets instead of lighted thoroughfares. To be fair, any proclivity that threatens the city's perfect façade fares the same. Still, business thrives. Sam knows of two clubs in a six block radius where, for enough cash, he could have someone strap him to a pole and whip his cock with a cat o' nine tails, if that were his scene.

It isn't.

Neither is this, to be honest. Dingy and over-warm, the club stinks of sewage and beer. Lighting is sparse: a tube of flickering neon molded into a series of cresting waves hangs over the bar. The only other illumination comes from the listing EXIT sign by the corridor leading to the bathroom. The edges of the space are invisible in the dark, like someone carved the room out of a vast cavern. Sound echoes more than it should, given how small the club is, lending too much validity to the cave scenario for Sam's taste.

For once, the music doesn't hurt his ears. It's low enough for him to hear the sex going on in the dark corners. Why he agrees to meet Tim in places like this is a mystery.

Except it isn't.

Craning his neck, he leans over the railing that surrounds the dance floor. It must be the signal for a free grope; immediately two hands land on his ass. The one on the left is gentle, tentative, and only manages a few pets before the larger, more aggressive one pushes it away. "I saw him first," he hears. Sam smiles and leans into the winner's touch.

The small hand slaps his ass. "Bad choice," the loser's voice says in his ear. "He's just going to use you."

"Could be that's what I'm here for," Sam replies.

"So fuck off," the winner adds. There's a scuffle behind him, but Sam keeps his eyes on the dance floor. Just the other side of the metal rail, maybe three feet away, two kids are writhing against each other like feral cats, hands kneading whatever skin they can reach. They're wearing identical jeans and skin-tight t-shirts, and every stitch of clothing is black.

Tim returns and reaches around to cup Sam's cock through his jeans. "You like that?"

Sam settles his ass into the warm vee of Tim's splayed legs. "What part?"

"The kids. You like watching them?"

One of the boys looks like he might be hyperventilating. His mouth's hanging open, and his forehead's on his partner's shoulder. Clumsy with lust or drink or drugs, his hands work unsuccessfully at the buttons on his pants. Then his mouth turns up in a lopsided smile of success, and in the sea of black clothing, Sam sees a flash of skin, glistening with moisture. The boys moan in unison. Sam's cock swells.

Warm breath bursts over his neck. A laugh. "You do like it."

What's not to like? Sam's lolls his head back onto Tim's broad shoulder.

The boys are into it now. A small, appreciative audience has formed. Sam swallows, straining for another glimpse of that smooth, pale skin. His throat is dry, but his hands are slick with sweat, slipping off the railing's peeling paint. His cock's pinned in his jeans, clammy and aching. Tim flicks the snap open. "Okay, I see the appeal. They're cute." Two finger slide his zipper down. "Bit young, though. Barely legal. Thought you liked them older."

The irony. "Jealous?"

"Sammy." Tim's fingers trace the outline of his erection through his underwear. "Do I need to be?"

While Sam ponders, Tim sneaks a couple of fingers inside the worn elastic waistband of his briefs. He scoots closer, pressing Sam into the railing. Heat pours off him, and his scent, Armani's unmistakable Attitude, burns through Sam's system. It eclipses the club's more unpleasant odors and makes him rock hard in three seconds flat. His eyes flutter shut.

Tim grips Sam's chin, tilts it up. "Thought you wanted to watch the little boys." His nails press hard enough to mark, and Sam chokes back a groan. He has some idea that the two kids dry humping on the dance floor aren't the only ones being watched. An unfamiliar hand sliding up his thigh confirms it. Tim's free arm falls across Sam's chest possessively. "Fuck off," he says over his shoulder. "How many times do I have to tell you? Touch him again, and you'll regret it."

Fuck. Yes. Sam's knees start to shake, and he braces them against the metal bar. The arm around his chest is for the crowd. Mine, it says. But it isn't until Tim's forearm slides up to lock around Sam's neck that he says the word aloud, hissing it in Sam's ear. The pressure on his windpipe doesn't frighten him; it's desperate, not threatening.

"You know I am," Sam says. "Yours." Since day one, pathetically.

"Damn right." Tim's voice shakes. With emotion, Sam likes to pretend.

A press of lips to Sam's temple escalates his vertigo and his skin prickles, hot with fever. There's enough pressure in his balls that if someone doesn't touch them soon, he's going to go after them himself. Agitated, he wiggles in Tim's hold, and when that doesn't work, peels a hand off the railing, grabs the fingers roving across his stomach, and shoves them down his pants.

Tim groans in his ear. "I could live like this, you know," he says. "With my hand around your dick. All the fucking time." To prove his point, he wraps it up tight, but as good as it feels, Sam wants something different, which Tim knows, the bastard.

"Look at that," Sam hears to his left, and he opens his eyes, wanting to see what the boys are doing now that instills such reverence in the speaker's voice. He can barely tell them apart; they could be brothers with their sun-bleached, tousled hair, rich tans, and matching black ensembles. Their pants are folded open, and neither is wearing underwear. The one on the left has his arms slung over his partner's shoulders. Gone is the pretense that he's dancing. His hips are snapping forward with the beat of the music while the other clutches their cocks in his fist, guiding them together. They've made enough space between them to watch the show, and Sam has a front row seat.

He's stopped breathing, which he only realizes when he gasps for air and inhales a cloud of cigarette smoke. Coughing, tears in his eyes, he misses the big finale, but swipes his vision clear in time to see the kid on the left pull his partner into a deep, wet kiss while squeezing the last drops of semen from his softening cock.

"You okay, Sam?" Tim's hand strokes down his side. The tenderness is abrasive, unwanted, like the way a cat must feel when its fur is brushed the wrong way. He wants to fuck, not cuddle.

"Fine," Sam says, covering another cough. Except that he's so turned on he can't get enough air, and what he can pull in tastes like Attitude. It's been three days since they've seen each other, and if Tim would stop teasing, would just touch his sac, roll Sam's balls in his hand, he could come.

Then he could say, This is it. The last time. That's his grand plan.

"Drives me crazy when people smoke in here." Tim pulls back. "Come on."

"No, please." Sam leans over the railing, dizzy. "Just…" His own hand is never as good, the pleasure never as sharp, but he can't stop himself. He dives inside his briefs, past his aching dick. His balls are so heavy and sensitive that the first touch hurts.

"Sammy." Tim catches his wrist. "Jesus. Stop."

"Can't," Sam grinds out.

Tim spits another curse and pins him against the rail. The icy bars cut into him at the chest and knees. He can't move, but because it's Tim that has him trapped and helpless, who's rutting into him with the same out of control fervor that Sam's feeling, there's no fear.

"Tim, please," he wheezes, stretching his trapped hand, but all he can manage is to scratch his fingernails lightly against the base of his dick.

"Was it those kids that got you like this?"

"No," Sam answers, because Tim wasn't teasing. He wants the truth.

"Then what was it, Sammy?" He kicks Sam's legs apart, and the denim pulls taut against his sac, snugs it closer to his fingers, but not close enough.

"You," Sam says. He blows out the confession on one long breath, then sucks it back in when Tim extracts Sam's hand and replaces it with his own. He never gets a chance to add the are a complete bastard that's on the tip of his tongue, because Tim latches onto his neck and sucks, working his fingers deep into Sam's briefs.

"This what you want?"

Sam can only nod. He can't say lower or tighter or I’m coming, because he's bent double, riding out the buildup. Tim senses it, growls in his ear. His fingers reach deeper and clamp roughly around Sam's balls, and with a shout, Sam sprints to the end. His dick swells, jerks against Tim's wrist, and shoots, each pulse perfectly synchronized with Tim's rhythmic compressions on his balls.

His knees give out, and he crashes onto the lower rail, a chorus of catcalls and a spattering of applause ringing in his ears. Tim pants against his neck. "Okay, Sammy? You okay now?"

Still shaking with relieved tension, Sam laughs, muffling it in his elbow in case Tim takes it the wrong way.

He doesn't.

He laughs too, and they race to make Sam presentable, fingers banging together as they do up his jeans, and Sam's so high on Tim's kisses that he can ignore the come leaking through the gap in his underwear and down his leg. They pass the EXIT sign and stumble down the hall to the bathroom, a sign that Tim's just as desperate as Sam was, because he's one stuck-up, fastidious bastard who doesn't like to fuck in dirty club toilets.

"Sorry," he says, as if Sam cares. "Can't wait."

Miracle of miracles, there's a free stall near the end, though the latch is broken, and the door keeps swinging inward. Sam pushes Tim against it. "Hold that," he says and collapses onto the toilet seat.

Sam's euphoria is different now, buoyed by Tim's amused huff and stuttered breaths, and is closer to 'blissful' than the much safer 'sated'. The most horrible, terrifying part is… he doesn't care.

"God, yes." Tim's fingers sift through Sam's hair. His cock's harder than Sam has ever felt it. Hotter. His thighs tremble under Sam's splayed hands, and the moans he always tries to hold back at the end echo through the stall. When he comes, he clutches Sam's shoulders and babbles nonsense over his bowed head. "I'll never get tired of this. Never. Do you hear me, Sammy? Never."

Sam dips lower and sucks harder, his goodbye speech a distant memory.