“That’d be me,” Neal said, slipping a finger behind the knot of Harvey’s tie and easing it loose.
Harvey’s head tilted slightly and an “are you serious?” look spread across his features; he unbuttoned Neal’s waistcoat. He shook his head, saying, “I think you should prove it.”
Neal licked his lips and smiled broadly, “You’re not taking me at my word?” He slid Harvey’s shirt off and tossed it over the back of the chair. “Ok. If I must.”
“You must,” Harvey said, losing his words to a groan as Neal licked up the line of his cock.
Harvey took two glasses of champagne off the server’s tray and handed one to the gentleman with the impeccable style who was admiring the gallery’s featured painting.
“A collector?” Harvey asked, conspicuously running his eyes down the man’s body; they both smiled, the heat immediate.
“Of a sort,” the man replied coyly; Harvey didn’t mind a little mystery. “You are obviously a collector, too.”
“Perhaps not of paintings,” Harvey said, stepping closer, his proximity a clear suggestion of his intentions.
In the cab, the man whispered creative suggestions along Harvey’s neck and kneaded his thigh, high and to the point. At the hotel, registered under the name Chris Gates, the man was assertive in precisely the way Harvey liked, leaving his tie on while they fucked. In the morning, he was gone in exactly the anonymous way Harvey anticipated, and Harvey went to Pearson Hardman with a bounce in his step and a satisfied smirk for anyone who crossed his path.