“I’m not gay,” the stranger mumbled, lips sloppy on the side of his neck.
“Duly noted,” he growled, his fingers struggling to untie the knot of a frankly ridiculous cravat. “It would help me if you tried and kept still though.”
“Mm,” the other man hummed noncommittally, his fingers sneaking beneath the hem of his shirt. “You’re – nicer.”
“I can assure you I’m not,” he stated, somewhat grimly. “This is, after all, my stag night. Shoes off, now.”
“I was married, once. Bad idea, that.”
He paused, shrugged in feigned disinterest. “I’ll bear that in mind,” he said, busied himself with the buckle of his belt.
One last night. He needed that, needed the comfort of a man’s embrace before he firmly shut the door to that part of his life. His soon-to-be wife owed him that at the very least, especially when he had reasons to doubt that her condition was as accidental as she wanted him to believe.
“Greg was never this nice with me,” the stranger sighed happily, and for a moment he wondered if he was even sober enough to be consenting.
Just the one night, he told himself, and met that mouth for a kiss.