Cannabis. Holt McCoy shut the door behind him and breathed in the waves of the oily, pungent scent surrounding him. The farmhouse seemed to be rocking from the blast of the music and the bodies gyrating to the throbbing bass.
Someone handed him a bottle. The smooth burn of whiskey settled in his belly, and his body began to warm, chasing away the cold emptiness of his mother’s exit from his life.
Holt came here to forget, and he would do anything to numb the pain, even if it only lasted a few hours.
A man stepped in front of him, blocking his way. In the dim light, Holt could only tell that the man was of medium height and dark-haired.
“Share with me?” the man demanded before the end of the joint glowed orange.
A rough hand in Holt’s hair jerked him forward. Lips locked down on his, and the man pushed the marijuana smoke into his mouth. Holt inhaled, letting the weed work its soothing magic.
Pushing on the man’s chest, he broke away and turned toward the other side of the house where a group of people swayed to the music. Holt wanted to dance. He wanted to forget.
Raising the bottle, he took a few more swallows of whiskey. His gaze settled on a figure over in the corner of the room. The man sat swaying in a wheelchair, a joint held limp between his lips.
Holt made his way through the dancers, stopping to lock lips with whoever wanted to exchange smoke, drink, or press up against his body. His prick plumped up under the grasping fingers, reminding him it had been too long since he’d shot off his wad with anyone.
Once he reached the wheelchair, he said, “Hey, you want to dance?”
Large eyes stared up at him from a thin face. “Sure, Tango or Waltz?”
“How about down and dirty until we go out back and have sex?” Holt countered.
“What? Do you have a weakness for gimps in wheelchairs?” the man challenged.
Holt shrugged. “I think you’re cute.”
“Yeah?” The man looked Holt over. “You aren’t too bad yourself. I like the glasses.”
Holt pushed his thick black plastic glasses farther up his nose. “Thanks.”
“Why don’t you have a seat and we can dance,” the man offered.
Holt looked down at the lap the man was patting. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re pretty tiny.” The man laughed. “I don’t think you can.”
“You’re one to talk,” Holt countered. He was sick of everyone commenting on his five-foot height. “You couldn’t be any thinner.”
The man’s chin jutted out. “But I’m taller than you.”
“I don’t think so,” Holt challenged. The odds weren’t good, but too bad.
The man grabbed onto the arms of the wheelchair. With slow jerky movements, he managed to stand upright.
Holt smirked. The guy was still short by society’s standards. “Okay, you have me by three inches. What’s your name?”
The man braced his hand on Holt’s shoulder. His skin under that palm sizzled.
“Daniel Powel. What’s yours?”
“Holt.” He slid his arm around the man and grabbed the joint. After pulling a hit, he tipped his face toward Daniel.
Their lips met and locked. Over the buzz from the drugs and booze, a sense of belonging hit Holt square in the chest. Daniel’s answering moan vibrated through his being. Holt wanted to stay attached to the man forever.
“Damn, that’s nice.”
Holt blinked and broke the kiss. He looked up, way up, to see who had interrupted his getting-to-know-you moment with Daniel.
Giant, was his first thought. Dark and dangerous, was the second. Well over six feet, the man in leather was big, broad, and damn fine. Long black hair pulled back with a thong and a shadow of a beard covering his jaw emphasized the man’s handsome face. Shivers of awareness radiated over Holt’s skin.
“Do you mind?” Daniel challenged.
“Not at all,” the man answered, stepping around them and sitting in the wheelchair.
The next moment Holt found himself being pulled down onto one of the man’s huge thighs while Daniel was set on the other.
Holt met Daniel’s gaze. Both men broke into big grins. Yeah, they were more than ready for whatever this sexy guy had in store for them.
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