Touch of a Wolf

A motion disturbed the mist under the streetlamp haloes up ahead. Matt could just see a hazy figure resolving out of the icy murk, walking toward him.

There was no one else on the sidewalks and few cars moved down these streets at this hour. No one was out here who didn’t have a better place to go.

Matt didn’t.

He couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think about anything but his loss, grieving as if he were the only person in the world who ever broke up with a cheating lover.

He knew he presented an easy mark. He had left the safety of the gayborhood behind, and this was no kind of place for cruising.

There were worse neighborhoods in Philly. But not too much.

Matt shouldn’t be out here. He was asking for it.

Fine. He didn’t care who was coming at him. Just so he could feel anything other than what he was feeling now.

The figure took on shape in the misty gloom.

The stranger was bare-headed. His trench coat flapped open to the seeping November cold and he didn’t seem to give a rip, while Matt hunched in his short navy pea coat, its wool collar turned up around his ears, his hands fisted in his pockets.

Even at a distance the stranger looked forceful, dangerous, from the proud set of his shoulders to his swift gait. He held his head bolt upright except from the quick alert turns to either side. He had the look of a man owned the street and you can just back the hell off.

Crossing the street would have been a good idea right about now, but Matt was locked in a moth-to-flame spiral.

The man’s features came into some sort of focus passing under another streetlamp -- white guy, overdue for a haircut. He was wearing mainstream clothes complete with a necktie, except that the knot was pulled away from his throat so that the tie hung like a noose. Even at a distance Matt could see the face was hard with eyes that had seen everything.

The man’s gaze connected with Matt’s and locked. Matt could not look away.

Closer, Matt could see the man wasn’t too much older than he was. Twenty-something but fearless and definitely like a man who had been around a long time.

They were on a collision course and both of them knew where this was going.

I don’t do this kind of thing.

The inevitability hardened as the distance between them closed.

This was going to happen.

Matt couldn’t say how he knew. He just knew.

Every fiber in his body was awake, ready, begging. His breaths became shallow. His cock stirred. His heartbeat stepped up to an expectant thrum. Common sense flew away. He didn’t feel the cold anymore.

The distance between them disappeared.

And the man was here—close enough to smell—walking past him so close Matt felt the edge of his coat slap against his thigh. Passing.

Matt’s hopeful fear plunged into a bewildered letdown.

Then a strong hand closed round his upper arm.

Matt’s breath caught. He could have cried for joy if he were not so terrified as he was pulled off the sidewalk and into the blackness of an alley.

It was very dark. Matt could see with all the clarity of a dream.

The stranger pushed him up against the wall. Matt felt the hard, cold brick at his back through the wool of his coat. The man’s knee pushed between his thighs, wedging his legs apart. His hipbone pressed against Matt’s groin. Then the man shifted so his sexual bulge pressed against Matt’s own swelling erection. Even clothed the touch sent a thrill through Matt’s body like soothing fire.

The man’s body was warm, utterly male, utterly here. Matt felt another heartbeat, another desire close to him, and it was all he wanted.

Matt’s arms draped themselves around the man’s shoulders. The cold fabric of the trench coat felt starkly real under his palms. Matt opened his mouth in relief and hunger to receive the stranger’s plunging kiss. Matt had come to the streets lost, goaded by inexpressible need. Now he knew what he was searching for. He needed this. He needed him.