A hand traces over the small of his back and even through layers of expensive fabric and hand tailored material Justin can feel it. Like a brand on him. He can't possibly get used to it, and he's been trying for too long without any results. He can't escape the way it makes him tingle and react, can't seem to make a stoic reaction appear. His grip tightens on the crystal, an expensive import and he's always known for his class so there is really no reason to think about dropping it, to spin around and lunge at the other man. Breath millimeters away from his ear, telling Justin secrets with no words. He lets their bodies do the talking. The strong capable hand is settling on the small of his back again, that hand that excels at tearing things down and building things back up, taking a body and making it sing, taking a body and breaking it. Benton Callis is a bastard, he gets what he wants when he wants it, and for the time being he wants Justin. Yes, Benton might be a bastard but the same thing could be said about Justin. It's eerie how similar they are, how much they have in common. Benton Callis, shrewd businessman, callous asshole ... Texan, and doesn't that really explain it all? Benton builds companies up, breaks them apart, sells them for a profit. And what a fucking profit it is. Justin Taylor, once gifted artist, shrewd businessman, bastard, a high class hustler with a heart of gold. Justin smiles, a smile that never seemed to be that wolfish, that conniving. He was never Julia Roberts. And Benton has never, will ever be a Richard Gere. Maybe an older Matthew McCougnehey but that's another Miramax feature presentation. An image of Benton, naked, high, and beating on a battered pair of bongos comes up out of nowhere and Justin chokes on his whiskey. "Jesus, just what in the hell are you laughing at?" Justin leans closer to Benton, free hand casually coming up to stroke the smooth fabric that covers Benton's own back. "How much more fun this would be if we were high." Benton smirks and Justin wants to lick the small crease at the corner of his mouth so much at that moment. It was something down there in the water at Texas, he was fucking sure of it. They bred their queers to be smooth, to be like fucking ice. Soothing and stinging all in fucking one. "Am I the only one in this city that knows what a goddamn pothead you are?" Benton smiles, lips stretching over white teeth to tease Justin. Justin actually smiles, the whiskey he'd been drinking for two straight hours is slowly but surely hitting his system. And it's about time too, because there's two more fucking hours of this shit and there better fucking be some gratuitous sex. Justin smirks this time, leans on Benton even more. "If you don't watch out, people might think we're actually a couple." Justin whispers in his ear, lips brushing over spots that he knows the older man finds titillating. Benton's age is undeterminable, but to Justin it isn't about that, it's his attitude, it's fucking everything and if anyone knows that more than Benton it's Justin. He can't be older than forty, Justin finally lets himself think and only then does he whisper it quietly in his mind, careful Taylor, he might actually hear you. Short stubble tickles Justin's cheeks and he grins. Benton had shaved his head recently, the soft sharp spokes that Justin had never found even remotely attractive, ever, on anyone, but on Benton it had managed to cause an instant reaction in Justin. Something that the newly buzzed man had managed to alleviate instantly. "They wouldn't dare...surely not two attractive gentlemen like us, necking in the corner." He feels Benton's grin on his neck, feels teeth graze sensitive skin and sink in...just a tiny little bit. Justin stifles the moan, teeth digging into a bottom lip. A crystal glass going down to slosh amber liquid on the table beside them. He fights to look straight forward, eyes watching men and women, elegantly dressed, elegantly behaved, circle and dance with words. Such bullshit, and he feels a sardonic grin overtake his face and he lets it rest there. He hears a roaring laughter and it must be Benton's lawyer, because he knows that shrill anywhere. "Your lawyer is a twelve year old girl on the inside." Benton lets out a surprised huff of laughter, his mouth leaving Justin's neck for the moment, arm drapes casually over his shoulders. There was never the usual uncomfortable ness with Benton as with the others, long before, long before what he was now at this very moment. A kind of kept man, wasn't that the expression? Wasn't that laughed over at Sunday brunches and shopping excursions in Milan? Wasn't it just a little bit funny how Justin hardly ever even fucked anyone outside of Benton, and most the time the older man was there? Wasn't he just a fucking humanitarian to buy Justin the penthouse and keep him there, buy him the clothes and dress him in them. Keep him clean and fed and pretty and kempt. Wasn't it grand? Sometimes thoughts like that would sneak up on the young man, and sometimes he couldn't push them down, couldn't let them go because Justin as is let's too many things go. Justin's defiance was not evolved into him, he was born with it and everyone knew that when he came kicking and screaming out of the womb. A quickly dying womb of a slowly dying woman. He feels a prickle in his eyes, like he always does when he thinks of his mother and wants to toke a joint, wants to swallow a pill, or snort a line to get that out of his head. "Really, Justin, I thought I told you, don't make fun of Shrillin'." He blinks and they both laugh quietly at the nickname Benton had come up with for the little lawyer after two joints of quality weed and even better sex. It somehow stuck. The crowd breaks apart for a moment and a man appears in Justin's line of sight. Tall, lanky, and fuck-me so breathtakingly beautiful that for one second, one short moment Justin, shrewd businessman, callous bastard forgets how to breathe. Benton leans down again, a mocking smile in his voice, "He only tops sweetheart...and the only difference between you two ... is you get paid." Sardonic grin appears again just as Benton's tongue pokes out, for a split second, tracing the shell of his ear and through a haze of lust, Justin watches the man walk toward them. Benton's arm still drapes over his shoulder, head still leans dangerously close to Justin as the man approaches. He holds out a hand, and Benton returns it and all Justin can think that there might actually be a time where he would pay to fuck. Looks over at his glass and wonders just what the fuck did they put in that whiskey. "Kinney." Justin now feels vaguely uncomfortable, the man's eyes on him, intently. "Didn't think I'd see you here." He nods, like the entire conversation is an afterthought. And Benton never gets jealous, but it's the Texan in him (Justin knows) that tightens his arm over Justin's shoulder. Justin wants to drink again, for some inexplicable reason, maybe just because he can, maybe just because he needs it. Kinney, no first name, smiles. Smiles like one of them, like he knows how to take the world and spin it to his advantage. And Justin is positive that he does. He's so like them, he gets what he wants, when he wants it and when the world fucks him, he fucks the world right back. He looks Justin up and down and there is the slight presence of condescention when he does it. "Who's your little friend?" It's a sneer and an invitation all rolled into one. He's openly appraising Justin before Benton, before the rest of the socialites in the room, and in front of Justin himself. And Justin's never (once, twice maybe a million years ago) let himself be affected by a seductive look. He feels Brian's eyes rake and rake and leave bloody trails where nails have dug in. And this time maybe it is jealousy that makes Benton's arm tighten further. And doesn't he fucking know that he practically owns him? He's putting him in that stereotype and all Benton needs is a wife and a kid on the side? Justin doesn't even know if Benton's ever even fucked a woman. Maybe in a time a million years ago. "This is Justin." Justin falls into routine automatically, hand sticking out to shake the brunet's. Strong, sharp, long fingers trailing and touching him, and burning him in ways that Justin didn't ever think existed. He wants to jerk his hand back, because God, that's not right, that's too intense and no, don't read deeper into this. Don't. "Brian Kinney." And even now, with hazel eyes looking into him, already bending him over and Justin already laying down...he knows this isn't good. Nothing that feels like that can be good. Benton is speaking again, about ad campaigns and deals with marketers and business shit that Justin kind of always found a little interesting, just to get an inside view of all the technicalities involved in fooling the public and selling the shit that isn't worth its weight in paper. But he can't seem to focus on it, can't hear the words or the other men's soft, seductive voices. His eyes roam over the man in front of him, over the tantalizing strip of bronze skin covering Brian's collarbone. His shirt is unbuttoned, one...two...three and the skin showing is glowing and Justin yearns to lick it, bite it, taste it. Taste the man. His eyes move up, taking in the strong neck, the even stronger jaw line, that mouth, those eyes. And fuck me, he is beautiful, isn't he? Wonders how big his cock is, and how good it will feel to have it inside of him. He looks away, embarrassed and god he can't possibly be getting hard but is it really that surprising? Really? With this god like man in front of him? And when Brian steps forward and Benton pulls him backward, two sets of hands wrapped around torso and ass, he follows and gives Benton a bewildered look but lets them guide him through the hotel, through the banquet hall, through the lobby with Brian close to him, so close that he can smell the man's scent, the sweet cologne, the cigarettes, the whiskey. Can smell it like a visceral memory. Justin reminds himself of money left on dressers and income tax forms that never get filled out. He reminds himself that this is who he is and what he does and goddamn anyone who thinks he's not doing it to survive. Using skills to make money, taking out trade for a profit that keeps him alive. That's what it is, isn't it? When it's simplified down to the tiniest denominator, he's just like everyone else, and really like no one at all. They don't say anything during their walk but both gentlemen pass hands over parts of his body, groping and palming and pinching and squeezing. And Justin isn't aware whose hands are doing these things because he's been taught to look straight forward, don't speak unless spoken too, and always, always be mindful of the clientele out in public. And the expensive hotel is brewing with people, dressed impeccably and some raising eyebrows as the three walk past. Soon enough the elevator looms forward, made empty by the glare the three women receive by the two men beside him. He's thrown against the wall as soon as the elevator doors chime shut and two mouths are tearing at his neck, his mouth. And this man, this Brian, is devouring him whole, mouth and lips and teeth sucking his soul out one useless bit at a time. And Jesus he never thought kissing could be that intimate, or that fucking good or he would had made a rule a long, long time ago to not do it. "Touch him, Justin." He hears Benton's soft demand, opens his eyes and stares at the man's clouded eyes. He's grinning, that fucking wolf smile again and Justin feels an ache in his stomach that can't be determined by anything but the look on Benton's face. Justin grins back, the smile that never reaches his eyes unless he's stoned or drunk or high from whatever his dealer gives him. Justin hasn't really smiled in years, and how would Benton know that? How would he know when he's never, never really seen Justin smile. Justin's small hand comes to Brian's crotch, alternating between hard kneading strokes and soft, feather light touches actually enjoying the moans coming from the man leaning over him, hands on either side of his head, hot breath wetting his neck. Benton attacks the other man's neck, kissing and sucking and laving and everything a person can do with their mouth. And it takes a moment, a long moment for Justin to realize that the elevator has actually stopped for their little rendezvous. His eyes watch Benton for a moment before he slips down on graceful knees, hands that he thinks were born to do really nothing more than this unzip and unbuckle and pull out. He's amazed and incredibly turned on all at once. And that was the trick of it, to push the actual knowledge of doing this out of his mind, to push, push, push until all he knew and felt were the motions and the heat and the lust. Until that completely took over his brain, took down his morals and values and destroyed them with each blowjob and each fuck. Looks at the cock in his hands and hear the moans above him and opens wide, adjusting and stretching and cranking jaw muscles to work against each other, to bring the man the maximum amount of pleasure. Swallow and slowly take it all and lick and suck and make it worth whatever Benton owes him. He places palms, open, on the man's thighs steadying him, keeping him upright by slightly pushing him onto the wall, Benton helping with the process. The man groans, hisses and arches towards Justin's open, inviting mouth. And Justin doesn't just go through the motions, doesn't just kiss and suck, but takes his time because fuck him, that was a magnificent cock if he's ever seen one. And he's seen lots of them. Beautiful and perfect and Jesus fucking Christ he's getting reverent over some guy's dick? But he can't help himself when it's all around him, the smell and the taste and the feel of all that velvet steel. And was it ever this pleasurable with anyone else? And the man, this beautiful man strains and bucks and Justin sucks it all down when the tidal wave comes. Brian's eyes are still closed when Benton lifts Justin off his knees. The older man nuzzles his neck and Justin can't keep his eyes off Brian, can't look away from the tongue that pokes out and licks rasberry lips, a small smile splaying over a laxed expression. "Fuck..." The quiet awed statement whispered in the cavernous elevator makes Justin giggle, unexpectantly and slightly embarrassed because of it. He's grabbing life purely by the balls when he leans forward to take those lips, those irresistable lips with his own. Lets the man taste himself and moves closer, feeling another growing erection rub against his hard on, so fucking hard right now that he might come from just thinking about it. "You're so fucking hot ..." And yeah, Justin's heard some cheesy lines in his line of work, but it doesn't matter because with those words, rasped out in a voice sexier than anything he's ever heard, he lets himself melt, lets himself be fondled and grabbed by the man and he didn't want to roll his eyes afterward, except to roll them up. He lets himself get lost in the bump and grind the older man starts, and feels Benton come up behind him. Men on both sides of him and he forgot that he loved this. Forgot what a wonderful fucking feeling it was to know that you were surrounded by cock, both sides and everywhere that he could feel. And Justin lets himself think about this man in a way that he never lets himself think about men. In one microscopic instance he thinks about a sort of future with this man. But it's an instance too much. Because no matter what his one time boss or his jaded ex-boyfriend said, he's not made of stone, and Justin is not cold inside all the time. He feels a heat rear up just from being around this man. And god fucking damnitt that's one of the most terrifying things he has come to know.