Irish Lovers 1: Who Says Shamrocks Aren't Lucky

The man who'd spoken smiled at me, and I just managed to stifle a moan. I did lean back so my arse rested on the edge of the wobbly counter, one I had been trying to make look like something from an Irish pub from the fifties. The position let me disguise the growing bulge in my pants.

"Just a bored hanger on. Want some help?"

"Union job."

He nodded and climbed up onto the sound stage. His short shorts drifted up his muscled thigh, the fringes of the cut-off denim mingling with his own dark hair. I swallowed. Hard. "Everything's a union job. Everything is also behind schedule, and Ricky's freakin' out a bit."

"Ricky." The reminder that the guy was fucking my boss, or, more likely, knowing Richard Cornwall, being fucked by him, settled my erection in a hurry. "Did he send you to check up on me?"

"No. He sent me to find something. And get out of his way."
A slight frown marred his expression and curled full lips down into a pout I felt the sudden urge to suck away. His body heat clung to me—and the scent of sex mingled with sawdust and set paint. It shouldn't have been a turn-on. I was so far gone. If I held my breath any longer, I thought I might pass out.

"'Scuse me." I backed off, jumped from the stage, and hurried toward Richard's office. Maybe if I knew what David was supposed to be looking for, I could help him find it. Some twisted logic told me that would get him far away from me and my weak ability to resist temptation. And at the same time, I hoped it would keep him close by while we searched. Normally, I didn't let my cock do my thinking for me. Normally, I wasn't confronted with eager, completely fuckable men with bodies like David's just looking for an excuse to piss off their current, cranky lovers. I wasn't under any delusion he wanted me specifically. I was just open, gay, and single. Convenient.