Stray for You (Rainbow Rescue Cat Café #3)

Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Cameron

I MUST BE SOME sort of idiot to find this dinner charming. The wine was incredible. The fish was perfect. Even the conversation was good. I mean, it was okay, but at times it was sort of good. Julian threw his money around, or his company’s money, I guess, but he was a little less annoying than I expected. Only a little.

None of that explains why I’m following him to his hotel.

He walks half a step ahead of me, his shoulders broad in his tailored suit. Everything about him is calculated and clean, from his tidy hair to the way his belt matches his shoes. He’s always been this way, even before it was his job. The Julian I grew up hating always knew what to say, when to smile, how to bullshit his way out of any situation. That slickness stuck to my skin like oil, a film I couldn’t wash off.

Tonight was … different. He was different. I almost cracked and actually answered his questions about me and Mom, but that’s not information I’m willing to put in his hands. Even if this is a new and improved Julian Brooks, I’m not ready to trust him. That guy who badgered me relentlessly when our moms were dating is still in there somewhere.

Which Julian is leading me toward this nice hotel downtown? He holds the door for me when we reach the entrance, his hand grazing my back for a moment to steer me toward the elevator bank. That fleeting touch sizzles through me, as powerful as that kiss outside the bar the other night. Maybe this is how he acts when he wants something. Maybe this is that charisma that’s gotten him so far in his career. Anyone could step into this elevator with him, and he’d turn the very same smile on them.

We stand at opposite sides of the elevator as it shudders upward. Julian holds the bar behind him, leaning back, open and easy, his suit jacket unbuttoned. He loosens his tie and unbuttons his shirt, and my traitorous eyes go right to that chaste little V of skin below his neck.

He must catch me at it. When the elevator stops, he’s wearing an irritating smirk as he pushes away from the wall and leads me out of the elevator and down the hall.

Our footsteps thud through the hall, amplified by the thumping of my heart. My opportunities to run from this are shrinking, especially when Julian stops before a door and pulls out a key card. He glances back at me, uncertainty dancing in his blue eyes. Is he as weirded out by this as I am? That kiss was one thing, but this … this would be…

“Are you going to open it or not?” I say.

It’s like the words come from someone else, someone who isn’t terrified of this before it’s even started. Julian startles back into motion, finally opening his door.

I’m on him before it shuts.

Fuck it. If this is going to happen, then let’s cut the bullshit and do it. I don’t know what this temporary madness is, but it has me throwing Julian against the wall before the door has even shut. Maybe it’s because this is temporary. He’s leaving. In less than a week, he’ll be three thousand miles away. For now, letting years and years of pent up frustration boil over feels too damn good to deny.

He hits the wall with a grunt that turns into a sigh when I seal my lips against the side of his neck. I kiss my way down to the place where he loosened his tie, that V of skin that taunted me in the elevator. His hands roam as I kiss and suck. He groans when I nip at him, his hips lurching at me.

“Fuck, Cam,” he moans.

I pull away, leaving a red mark behind. We’re close enough in height that the moment I lean back, we’re basically eye to eye, which makes it trivial for me to take him by the jaw and force him to look at me.

“For once in your God damn life, Julian, shut the fuck up.”

I smash my mouth against his before he can reply. He moans and whimpers and whines into my mouth. It’s far from silence, but at least he can’t talk anymore this way. He’s just lips and tongue now. That warmth trickling down my throat could be because of anyone; it doesn’t need to be him I’m kissing. Those hands roaming down to squeeze my ass and pull me against him could be anyone’s hands. The hard cock trapped against my hip doesn’t need to be his; it could be any cock.

I keep my eyes closed, keep kissing him, keep urging myself on with these tiny, comforting lies. Anonymous hands slip around my waist to work my jeans loose. I follow their lead, undoing a belt and then the trousers beneath.

Our mouths fumble, sliding apart as our focus dives lower. The hand on my cock is strong and sure, no hesitation, no stumbling or dallying. I try to mirror it, fishing a cock out of trouser pants and stroking hard. A voice rasps in rapture above me, but these dry, urgent hands will begin to burn if we barrel on this way. The alternative is addressing the man I’m touching, acknowledging him, looking him in the eye, giving him a name.

Hell no. I’ve come too far to get derailed by something like that. The threat of personalizing this repels me like a cold wind buffeting me. Instead, I grab the hand stroking my cock and yank it up to my mouth, shoving the fingers inside to lick and suck on them.

“God, that’s fucking hot.”

His voice cuts through the veil of self-deception cloaking this whole experience. I can’t afford to let that happen. This has already gone too far for regrets.

I release his cock and shove my fingers in his mouth. He doesn’t object, moaning around the intrusion, dutifully sucking on anything I give him.

I should have learned to shut him up this way ages ago.

I pull my fingers free, but hold my hand up in front of him. He takes the hint, licking my palm, laving his tongue all over my hand. I do the same to his hand, indulging well beyond practicality.

The next time I grab his cock, my hand is slick with spit. It’s not the greatest lubricant in the world, but it barely matters. All that licking did more than make my hand wet. He’s desperately hard in my grasp, and I’m doing no better when he reaches down for me. Heat and tension build up like a cresting wave as we stroke, Julian groaning out pathetic little noises when I thumb over his head or squeeze him for a beat.

He seems liable to speak more, so I kiss him before he can. At least, that’s what I tell myself. I don’t know what Julian sounds like in a moment like this. I’ve never seen him like this; I was never supposed to see him like this. He could be the type who starts babbling, he certainly has the personality for it, but that’s not a risk I can take. I’m way too worked up to have this idiot go and ruin it by saying something stupid the way he always does.

Just keep not thinking about it. Just keep focusing on the moment.

He moans against my mouth, reciprocating the kiss as our hands keep working. His free hand slides up into my hair, fingers tangling between the dark strands and pulling until a pleasant tingle shivers down the back of my neck. I press my hips at his diligent hand, working myself in his grasp while his tongue invades my mouth. My free hand clings to his suit jacket, crushing the expensive fabric in my increasingly desperate fingers.

He thumbs over me. His hand twists as he rides down my shaft. His tongue forces my mouth open, and a moan surprises me as it crawls out of my throat.

I snarl, searching for control. I find it in the plushness of his bottom lip, which I seize between my teeth. I tug until he groans, then let go only to press our lips immediately back together. I’m focusing on my mouth almost as much as my cock, which should not be the case when I’m on the verge of exploding, but just like with that kiss in the parking lot, there’s something about Julian’s mouth that commands my full attention.

No. Not Julian’s mouth. Just a mouth. Any mouth. Any mouth that may so happen to be extraordinarily good at kissing.

I squeeze my eyes more tightly shut, banishing all thought from my brain. This isn’t about thought. It’s raw physicality, raw sensation, two bodies crashing toward each other with animalistic need. We are satisfying a physical condition, nothing more. There’s no need to worry about little details like who is satisfying that physical condition.

I stroke harder and faster, heedless of the burn. If it hurts him, he doesn’t show it. He simply follows my lead, lips sloppy as he tries to keep up with me. This frantic mistake is coming to an end, and my mind is blissfully blank at last. There’s no space to worry about consequences or regrets as my body barrels toward what it so imminently needs. Whatever this is, it definitely isn’t something as pretty as fate. What our hands and mouths are doing to each other is far too raw and ugly for such delicate sentimentality.

Sure enough, the end arrives in a messy, crashing clamor. I groan as I spill over his hand. Julian moans higher and higher, short bursts of desire eventually punctuated by a shout. He tries to throw his head back and hits the wall with a thud I’m sure his neighbors can hear. Hot cum spurts over my fist. I catch as much of it as I can, mostly so it doesn’t get on my clothes. He can probably get a new suit on the company card, but I enjoy no such luxury on my barista and musician salary.

Fuck, I’m thinking about it again, even as the release shatters my body and leaves me leaning shakily against him, his mess in and all over my hand. I keep my eyes shut and lean forward to press my forehead against the wall. His mouth is beside my ear, his panting tickling my neck.

“Cam,” he whispers.

My name breaks the spell. I lurch away, ignoring the cold that hits me as soon as I stumble away from him in search of the bathroom. It’s directly to my back, and I escape into it to busy myself with washing my hand and fixing my pants. I catch a quick glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’m a disheveled mess, my lips bright, my hair askew, my eyes wild with lust.

Julian slides up carefully beside me, silently cleaning off his hand. He ditched the suit jacket, but the rest is still there, the expensive slacks, the loose tie, all those markers of the differences between our worlds.

He follows me in a rush when I leave the bathroom, but I kick off my shoes and collapse onto the edge of his bed. Julian watches me, wary, as I pull off my shirt and throw it on the floor.

“I’m not driving right now,” I say, looking at the floor instead of at him. “Don’t even think about touching me while I’m asleep.”

He puts up his hands. “Far be it from me.”

It’s good enough. I don’t want to think about this night anymore. I don’t want to think about why my legs are so shaky I don’t trust myself to get all the way home. I’ll sleep it off for a couple hours then get the hell out of here and try my hardest to never think about Julian Brooks again.