[ he's already made a few assumptions about this man — this isn't their first meeting, no matter how little he's seen of him until this point, and their actual first meeting had been, frankly, revealing as shit. embry had been the one to offer up that he's never patronized a glory hole before. he hadn't gotten any kind of resounding agreement to his comment. hell, the guy seemed pretty damn comfortable getting serviced through a wall, though embry reminds himself to rein in his judgment when he thinks about how thoroughly the situation had turned him on in return. just the memory of it has his cheeks darkening in the moonlight, a flush creeping up past his collar. there's no question as to why the two of them are here, skulking about in the darkness. they both have things to hide.
he turns his face away in an attempt to preserve his dignity, lounging casually against the statue. the lights of the house seem faraway, a dollhouse twinkling in the distance, and he's glad for the isolation because he's ashamed of what he's doing — not because he's with another man (his bisexual crisis lasted about twelve seconds as a boarding school preteen), but because of how this is happening. he can feel that tight, itchy feeling that only spells trouble, that leads to an inevitably ugly end where he's shown the worst parts of himself, bitter and soulless, selfish as hell and lacking anything resembling a conscience.
because otherwise he wouldn't be here. he would be trying to make amends with greer. he would be thinking of ash's career and the best way to preserve it. he wouldn't be salivating at the memory of a stranger's cock shoved into his mouth, and orchestrating ways to get it to happen again. ]
I left my gloves. [ he sounds petulant — like a fucking brat asking the servants about his jizz-soaked underwear. ] Do you have them?
[ they were nice gloves, is all, and embry likes nice clothes. the man is standing close enough that he can feel the heat of his body, though embry stubbornly refuses to look over his shoulder, leaning back on one hand as his knuckles tighten against the cool marble. ]
You work in politics, don't you? [ he ventures his guess with an air of casual confidence, grasping for the upper hand. ] You talk like you do. You did on the other side of that wall — which you seemed pretty damn comfortable behind, by the way, which tells me you're a model closeted citizen, aren't you?
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he turns his face away in an attempt to preserve his dignity, lounging casually against the statue. the lights of the house seem faraway, a dollhouse twinkling in the distance, and he's glad for the isolation because he's ashamed of what he's doing — not because he's with another man (his bisexual crisis lasted about twelve seconds as a boarding school preteen), but because of how this is happening. he can feel that tight, itchy feeling that only spells trouble, that leads to an inevitably ugly end where he's shown the worst parts of himself, bitter and soulless, selfish as hell and lacking anything resembling a conscience.
because otherwise he wouldn't be here. he would be trying to make amends with greer. he would be thinking of ash's career and the best way to preserve it. he wouldn't be salivating at the memory of a stranger's cock shoved into his mouth, and orchestrating ways to get it to happen again. ]
I left my gloves. [ he sounds petulant — like a fucking brat asking the servants about his jizz-soaked underwear. ] Do you have them?
[ they were nice gloves, is all, and embry likes nice clothes. the man is standing close enough that he can feel the heat of his body, though embry stubbornly refuses to look over his shoulder, leaning back on one hand as his knuckles tighten against the cool marble. ]
You work in politics, don't you? [ he ventures his guess with an air of casual confidence, grasping for the upper hand. ] You talk like you do. You did on the other side of that wall — which you seemed pretty damn comfortable behind, by the way, which tells me you're a model closeted citizen, aren't you?