Nick’s ex-boyfriend Chris has stolen his heart, and he wants to get it back no matter what it takes. Enter Niles Ginger, who represents the Department of Revenge. Honestly, there’s no better group -- and handsome man -- to hire for some professional and discreet revenge/payback. The Department has quite the unflappable reputation to help those in need when it comes to cheating, lying, corrupt boyfriends, and those who purposely wreck lives for others. In fact, there’s no one else to call to achieve subtle revenge.
When Niles is hired for Nick’s case, both men seem to hit off quite well. Too well, in fact -- there's a powerful attraction between them. Is this just a fun, temporary, work-related fling for them? Or do the men feel something stronger for each other that might continue when the job is done?
Sitting at the coffee table, diagonal to each other, he passed me a slice of pizza: ham and pineapple. My favorite. Did he do his own creeping on me? Perhaps. For sure. I could have bet money on it.
I poured us the red wine. Another one of my favorites. Did he also know that? Sure, he did. He was such a good stalker. Kudos to him.
“Your case is pretty much closed.”
“Case? Is that what your company calls their clients’ problems?”
“It is. I know it sounds so FBI or the X-Files, but it is what it is.” He winked at me, spread his legs somewhat. Did he purposely show off the mound of lumber there: two inches thick, cut cap in the sheer material, six inches long and soft; accented with two ping pong balls.
Did I lick my lips? Maybe. Yes. I did. Shame on me. What the fuck was I doing? Yes, he was handsome. And yes, I liked gingers. In fact, they were a weakness of mine. A total aphrodisiac of mine. That didn’t mean we were going to get naked and ride each other’s sticks, though. We weren’t going to bang the bolognas together. Our afternoon wasn’t a date. He visited me because he was simply on business. Because of his job. It wasn’t a Taylor Swift love story unfolding between us. And he certainly wasn’t going to be my Prince Charming or Mr. Right. We weren’t going to fall in love. None of that shit was going to happen.
“I’m not intruding. Right?”
Too late for that question. Whatever.
“Of course not.” I chuckled. “You’re far too handsome to intrude.” It sounded cheesy and cute and exactly what I wanted to say.
“Because if I am interrupting something ... I can leave. We can arrange for a different time and day for me to visit.”
I shook my head. “Stay. You brought food. You brought my favorite wine. It’s raining outside. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you planned this. Plus, you have a great looking chest for me to ogle. Stick around. I’m having fun with you.”
Jesus. Did I really just say that about his chest? What the fuck was I thinking? It was so high school. So stupid and silly and ridiculous and immature and fairy tale-like and ...
“I like you,” he said. “You’re funny, and fun. And you make me smile. Not many guys can do that.”
It was my turn to wink at him. I could do so much more to him. He had no idea.
“Thanks, Ginger.”
He chuckled, blushed. Probably because I called him by his last name. Who knew why, or how, or because? None of that mattered. What mattered was simple: I had the working stranger exactly where I wanted him. All of him: in my presence, inside my living room, half dressed, with food and his good looks, under my spell, and maybe falling for me. Somehow. Someway. All irreversible actions on my part, and maybe his also.
He ... he ... he was taking a glance at my crouch. I caught him in the act. Ginger held a slice of pizza up to his ever so slightly parted lips. I studied his eyes as they made contact with my parted legs and his steady, unmoving, hypnotic gaze concentrated on the loose fabric of my running shorts and the somewhat hidden outline of the prize underneath. He couldn’t deny such an act if I questioned his action.
In truth, we both knew he couldn’t see much. Just a mere curve of my dick’s cap in the sweats. Maybe a firm vein running along my cock that pushed through the material’s cotton. Nothing more. Nothing less. Hardly anything exciting or sexually alluring.
He looked up at me: instantly, out of the blew ... I mean blue.
“What?” uncomfortably exited his lips behind the slice.
I grinned, blinked. “You have things to tell me about my case.”
He licked his lips. “Yes. Your case.” He nodded. “Yeah ... that ... sure ... I do have things to say.”
I saw the semi-hardness, pudge, bump, erection, mound, whatever wonderfully built piece of attraction came alive between his legs, and ultimately had changed those few seconds that reflected our questionable pairing.
I said, “Tell me what you know, Ginger.”
“About my heart?”
I shook my head. “You mean my heart,” I whispered to him, and shared a polite smile.
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