By Mia Watts
Rook knew what he had to do. The man had brought it on himself, the asshole. There were rules among alpha dogs. You pissed on the property, not the other dog. He needed to be taken down a peg, sent through the doors with his charismatic tail tucked between his legs and yelping. Strip his alpha. Make him a bitch. Besides, Rook had the undeniable urge to taste those sarcastically twisting lips.
He caught the man behind the neck with lightning speed, cradled his nape with laced fingers, and drew him in. The man looked surprised. He should be. It kind of surprised Rook with how easy it was to suck face with the enemy.
Rook’s lips made contact, claiming the other man’s mouth with firm pressure. The man’s bottom lip felt fuller than the top, soft, unexpectedly so. He grabbed Rook’s forearms and pulled, but Rook held fast, stroking his tongue in and deep when the man grimaced. Rook held him as his tongue explored. Fingers bit the insides of Rook’s wrists. He ignored the pain.
Free fucking beer for a month. He’s gonna give in soon. Any minute.
Hoots sounded around them. There was a cheer, some chanting. Rook heard Fucktardpissant above the bunch shouting something lame. The digging fingers hurt a little less, the grimace relaxed, and in another second the tables turned.
Aggressive dominance was stolen from Rook as the man responded, tangling his tongue with his instead of pulling away. Rook’s stomach spiraled downwards, made the floor unsteady again. It changed everything, softened, ripened, stretched until the only thing holding his wayward stomach up, was Rook’s stiff cock playing kick-stand to his shivering insides.
His pulse raced, his head swam, and Rook almost lost touch with reality as he barely strangled off the groan rising in his chest. He pulled away first, stumbling backwards. He stared at the other man, dragged the back of his hand across his mouth.
Gedry yelled, “The ninth ain’t got their own beer and pretzels?” Peripheral sound came rushing back, reminding Rook what he’d been doing and why he had thought kissing the man had been a good idea. Why had that been, again?
“What the fuck was that?” one of the ninth asked, his voice high pitched and nervous.
Rook shored himself up with arrogance he didn’t feel. He turned to the other four with a wide, knowing grin. “Who’s next?”
“The fucking seventh wants to have your baby cops, Nate,” another said, sneering. Nate’s friends laughed tightly.
He didn’t look at Nate, certain he’d notice how shaken the kiss had left Rook. Nonetheless, he listened for Nate’s response as he opened his arms in a “bring it on” gesture.
The bar continued to chant. The bar tender yelled to take it outside.
“Let’s go,” Nate said. His voice was barely loud enough to carry.
The bar cheered. Rook turned a slow circle like the champion in a fight, a cocky grin on his face as he bounced his wide-spread arms to the time of their chants. “Rook! Rook! Rook! Rook!”
The ninth began to file out and Rook kept his back to them, a deliberate show of disrespect and lack of concern.
A sharp, stinging slap zinged his ass. A warm body pressed up close to Rook’s back preventing him from turning. Nate, the fallen dog, whispered close to Rook’s ear from behind.
“It took one kiss to get you hard enough to pound nails. Another one, and your ass is mine for the taking. Next time we meet, I’m going to Queen your Rook, bitch.”