Anthony Jensen

The bass is a physical thing, a deep, resonant pulse that travels up through the floor and into my bones, syncing with the frantic rhythm of my heart. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, cheap cologne, and the sweet promise of intox ication. Strobe lights cut through the haze, illuminating glimpses of laughing mouths, glistening skin, and moving bodies. I'm lost in the crowd, just another guy trying to find his place in the chaos.

And then I see him.

He's across the room, leaning against the bar with an effortless calm that seems to repel the frenzy around him. Older. Salt-and-pepper hair, a sharp jawline shadowed with stubble, and eyes that, even from here, look like they've seen everything and are still hungry for more. He's wearing a simple, dark shirt that strains slightly across his chest and shoulders. He's not dancing; he's just watching, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips. And his gaze is fixed on me.

My breath hitches. A jolt of pure, electric heat goes straight through me. He doesn't look away. He simply pushes himself off the bar and starts moving through the crowd, his eyes never leaving mine. People part for him without him even asking. He stops just inches from me, not touching, just letting his presence envelop me. He smells incredible, like sandalwood, whis key, and clean, male skin.

Without a word, his hands find my hips, pulling me against him as the music swells. Our bodies slot together perfectly. I can feel the hard, solid strength of him against my front. We begin to move, a slow, grinding, hyp notic rhythm that is utterly, blatantly sexual. His grip on me is firm, possessive. My hands are on his shoulders, feeling the powerful muscles working beneath his shirt. He leans down, his lips brushing my ear, his stubble scratching my cheek in the most delicious way.

"You've been driving me crazy all night," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble I feel more than hear. His breath is hot on my neck.

I can't form words; I just press closer, my back arching. His hands slide down from my hips, over the curve of my ass, pulling me even tighter against his growing hardness. We're not just dancing; we're simulating everything that's about to happen. Every roll of his hips is a promise. Every graze of his teeth on my earlobe makes me shudder. The world narrows to this point of contact, to the heat between us, to the pounding beat that matches our frantic heartbeats.

He pulls back slightly, his dark eyes burning with intent. He takes my hand, his fingers lacing through mine with a certainty that brooks no argument. He doesn't lead me toward the exit; he leads me through the throbbing crowd, toward the back, toward the dimly lit hallway that houses the bathrooms. He pushes the door open, checking it's empty, and pulls me inside, locking the door behind us with a definitive click.

The sudden relative silence is jarring, filled only by our ragged breathing and the dull, muffled thump of the music. He pushes me against the cold, tiled wall, his body a furnace against mine. His mouth crashes down on mine, not gentle, but hungry, demanding, all tongue and teeth and raw need. This is it. This is the fantasy. And it's just beginning.

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