Mycroft looked at the handsome man at the corner table of the Starbucks with a little anxiety and a little perfectly understandable nervousness. He swallowed, noticing how dry his mouth had gone all of a sudden. He glanced at the corner again. Good. The man hadn't seen Mycroft yet. He could plan his approach for a moment longer.
It felt strange to be doing this, but he was determined to go through with it. Just wanted to see what it was like--just once. He knew he needed to try more new experiences--isn't that what Greg had been telling him for months? Be more adventurous?
Well, Greg was usually right: The bicycling and kayaking certainly were enjoyable, as were the car sex and the train sex and even the awkward quickie airplane sex. So this was, Mycroft thought, just another step on his path--letting go of his inhibitions.
However, this time it was his very own idea. Something he, not Greg, had dreamed up. Mycroft guessed that's why it made him feel so wicked.
Other people did this all the time, didn't they? You see someone you fancy and just go chat him up. Maybe . . . well, maybe you end up in bed together, if you're lucky. That's how it always happened in films. He tried to list five films in which one-night stands didn't end in tragedy, comedy, severed limbs, or all three. Hmmm, perhaps he was just stalling. He'd have Anthea draw up a list later.
A shiver of fear and excitement tickled up Mycroft's spine as he let himself think about what it might be like to just take that manly cappuccino-drinker over there home with him, and . . . Oh bother. Now he had an erection. And it really seemed wholly inappropriate to be queuing up for a latte with a raging hard-on, as Greg would say.
Although now that he looked at the situation-- the low lighting, the generic rhythmic jazz-indie-world music, the clouds of steam, the sight of all that whipped cream being dolloped so generously . . . was it possible that Starbucks was designed specifically for such illicit encounters? Something else for Anthea to research.
No, no. Stop it. Must focus. With some difficulty and a strategically placed Financial Times, Mycroft took his latte, walked over to the corner table without alarming the other patrons, and sat down.
"Good afternoon. I'm so glad you could make it," said Mycroft, blushing nearly crimson as he saw what appeared to be a glimmer of desire in the man's eyes.
"Me too. I have to say I was surprised when you called, and glad I could take a few hours off work. I'm very, uh . . . eager to hear whatever you have in mind, Mr. Holmes," said the man, as he sipped his cappuccino and licked his lips to savor the traces of sweet, hot foam.
Mycroft glanced at the torn jeans, faded plaid flannel shirt, and sturdy work boots. Obviously, a manual laborer, given the dirt clearly visible under his fingernails. He might even be Canadian. How stimulating.
"Oh well, I . . . I . . ." Mycroft stammered, his well-planned seduction speech vanishing from his mind. He had expected to run through small talk, flirtatious compliments, seductive glances, careful touches of knees to knees or elbows to elbows, before declaring his desires, but he realized he was too weak. The man's shirt was unbuttoned almost halfway down his chest, revealing a perfect resting place for Mycroft's cheek, he thought. A blank canvas for his teeth to mark. And the man's eyes were so dark and knowing. This stranger would know Mycroft's desires--now morphing into urgent needs--without having to be told, Mycroft was sure of it.
So Mycroft held his breath and extended his hand across the table, then dragged his fingertips along the thick, soft beard.
He hadn't expected it to be so soft. With his right index finger he gently pushed one long, shaggy strand of hair away from the man's forehead, and admitted in a desperate whisper, "Oh dear heaven. I have to kiss you right now."
"So kiss me," said the man with an eager smile as he pushed his chair back and opened his arms wide.
Mycroft knew it was beyond inappropriate to do this here--even if Starbucks was, as he now suspected, basically a bourgeois sex club. He knew he would regret it very, very soon, but he felt his body compelling him forward, out of his chair and into the lap of this man who had apparently bathed in testosterone that morning-for really, what other explanation could there be for the power of this attraction?
Mycroft closed his eyes and nudged his nose between the man's neck and the frayed collar of his shirt, into the sweet-smelling (testosterone and vanilla shower gel?) expanse of his shoulder. He dragged his tongue and teeth across the nape of the man's neck, sucking and tasting the tender flesh. Then Mycroft pulled away in a heady, intoxicated daze and nuzzled their cheeks together, exhaling a low groan of satisfaction. The man's left hand wrapped around Mycroft's knee to pull him closer onto his lap while his right hand pressed hard against Mycroft's spine, before traveling down to cup his bum.
There was a momentary frenzy of discovery as Mycroft enjoyed the new sensation of so much long, silky hair to wind around his fingers and tug, and felt the tickle of a beard against his nose and tongue for the first time. Mycroft pressed one hand to the man's chest so that he could better feel the heat from his body and the reverberations of his quiet moans. As the man began to nibble Mycroft's Adam's apple and then moved to wrap his own slick tongue around Mycroft's--fitting their mouths together seamlessly, pressing so insistently . . .
It certainly seemed time to adjourn to another venue where their activities would not elicit as many stares and disapproving whispers. They're all jealous of me, thought Mycroft, both his heart and his cock swelling with pride.
The man pulled away to take a gasping breath, and said, "We'd better get out of here. I know in a few hours you and Anthea are going to be running around like mad trying to erase the CCTV footage of this. Let's go home, where we can do this properly, My."
Mycroft planted one last lingering kiss on Greg's burnished, wet pink lips and stood up, again grabbing the trusty Financial Times for cover.
"How much longer are you undercover on the docks?" Mycroft asked, trying not to sound too eager.
"Only another week, My. Sorry. Then it's a haircut, a shave, and back to normal."
Mycroft tried not to look disappointed. "Well, let's make the most of it while we can," he said, as Carlos arrived and walked around to open the car door.
Mycroft leaned over as Greg climbed into the back seat--emboldened by the sight of his arse in those tight jeans, "Let me ask you, stranger, have you ever experienced fellatio in a rapidly moving government vehicle?"
The answer, technically, was yes, of course, but Greg just smiled and pulled Mycroft into the car. "No, Mr. Holmes, but I'm up for anything . . . eh?"