Page 2 of Taste

I doubted he even knew it was me. I hoped that he did, yet feared that he didn’t. His eyes were still closed, lost in his own head, just the way I liked it. Anonymous, hot and dirty, I thought to myself, as I fished the condom out of my pocket then swiftly freed my cock that was getting uncomfortably strangled in my briefs. Not that I judged him for giving himself away so easily, I’d done it myself more times than I really wanted to remember. Hot, fast, dirty hook-ups were my thing, No talking. No responsibility for anyone else’s heart. I didn’t engage with feelings of any kind.

But the way his body moved beneath me was doing all kinds of things to those feelings that I was trying so hard to keep in check. My cock was rock hard, grinding against him, almost panicked in my frenzy to get the condom on. I had a packet of lube between my teeth, one hand still firmly on his back, the other coating my condom-clad cock in lube. Yet it wasn’t enough. It felt wrong. It felt weird. And there were voices in my head arguing so loudly I could barely make myself think.

He was panting, perhaps out of an instinct to fight me and flee. The music was too loud, so I couldn’t really hear it, but I could feel it. Feel his body almost as frantic as mine, asking for it. His hips ground into the wall, trying to get some friction for himself, and his hand made a swift dive for where he needed it, palm on cock to relieve his tensions, but I caught his wrist and slammed it back against the wall, which made him shiver and jerk even more.

Just the thought of him so lost and horny was almost enough to make me come there and then, painting his body with my jiz right here in front of everyone. I wouldn’t last much longer anyway, not with how desperate he was. Not with the taste of his skin as I nuzzled his neck, my nose in his sweat-damp hair and the hitched breaths escaping his mouth. I wanted to kiss him so badly, and the realisation hurt like a cricket bat to my skull. But not yet. Not until I was inside him.

My finger was already firmly wedged between his buttocks, tapping at his arse hole as I roughly smeared lube around it. He clenched around my slick digit, opening and closing, his chest rising and falling far too fast with my body pressing him against the wall. He was so fucking pretty. So perfect in his imperfect self.

His earlobe was in my mouth, the sharp taste of his sweat like nectar on my tongue. I felt the vibration of his groans when my finger slid inside of him, all the way in, pushing through the tight ring of muscle. I was a bit of a bastard, I knew that. I wasn’t a lover, or even a sensual being. I liked it hard, rough and fast, and he wasn’t pushing me away. He grabbed my hand and dragged it around him so he could kiss my fingers, sucking the tip of my index finger into his mouth as I breached his arse with a second digit. Prodding and moving, I scissored him loose to the heavy beat of the music.

He added a second finger to his mouth, sucking them as far as he could take them down the back of his throat, mimicking the movement of the fingers of my other hand fucking his arse. I moved in and out at speed, my head hanging clumsily over his shoulder as he devoured my fingers, my cock rutting desperately, smearing lube over the bare skin of his hip. I wouldn’t normally take my time like this, but today wasn’t normal. I was enjoying this far too much and not in the way I’d expected, because he was just far too tempting. Too much him, moving his body against mine, making me shiver and twitch where I would usually just be cold and methodical.

I slammed his shoulder back against the wall, twisting his face towards me, capturing his mouth with my own. An angry growl escaped my mouth as my fingers slid out of him so I could aim my cock towards his opening. I was utterly losing my shit, dizzy from the sensations swirling around my body. This wasn’t me; I definitely didn’t kiss. I’d never enjoyed the sensation of being so close to someone else, but I wanted to scratch that itch, and he just wouldn’t let me, slowly drowning me in everything he was. Because he was. Mine.

I thought I could fuck him and stay in control, but I was struggling not to let go. I could have come just from the smell of him lingering on my fingers, from knowing my hand was wet from his mouth. I could have come simply from the taste of his tongue against mine, the softness of his lips and the staggered breaths escaping his throat as I slammed my cock into him.

I didn’t last long, but I’d known I wouldn’t. A few desperate thrusts into his warmth and I was roaring against his teeth in my release, lips on lips, his tongue down my throat. My hand found his, and his cock thrust through our joined fingers as he convulsed in his own uncontrollable release, his whole body shuddering against me as we smeared his come all over the wall in front of us in frantic, jerked muscle spasms as we struggled to come back down.

I’d thought this would have been an easy fix, imagining I could just pull my trousers back up and ditch the condom, let it be someone else’s concern. Instead, I leaned against him and let myself feel, wondering if this had been a mistake. A fucking huge, massive, irresponsible error of judgement.

I didn’t get to finish that thought, as he violently pushed off the wall and dragged his jeans back up. He swung around before I could stop him, my movements still clumsy and slow, and grabbed my shirt collar, fisting the fabric tightly into a firm grip against my neck.

“This is never happening again. Is that clear?” he shouted, his mouth too close to my ear. “Never again, Finn!”

Then Mark Quinton let me go, slammed his palm into my chest and gave me a firm shove into the wall.

“Never. Again,” he snarled as he backed off, holding up his hands as if to protect himself, his face full of fear and regret, the remains of his shirt wet from perspiration.

Astounded, I stood there with my pants undone and my jaw hanging slack, and all I could do was watch him leave.

MARK

Six months earlier

I’d known who Finn Christensen was before I’d even set foot in the Clouds Westminster Hotel. His reputation was infamous within the hotel industry, and the rumours about him were rife and terrifying. As a union rep and part of the company’s senior management group, his name spread terror and fear in its wake. If you were called in for a meeting with your manager and found Christensen leaning against the back wall? Then you might as well go and pack your desk up and get out, because you were probably about to receive the bollocking of the century or, worse, get sacked.

Finn Christensen was hard as nails, scorching hot on union rules and right on the ball with any regulation, so if he was sitting in on a meeting you were called to attend, it basically meant you stood no chance of defending yourself. Well, that’s what they all said. The other staff. The managers. My old boss had quoted him all the time, obviously having consulted with him at least once.Christensen said this. Christensen advised that.Always a stickler for guidelines and contracts, he was usually right too. Bloody Christensen.

Not surprisingly, my opinion on him was all set before I’d even met him, which I unfortunately had and now frequently did, being as I was officially in charge of food and beverage at the Clouds Westminster Hotel. It also meant I had to endure the weekly Friday morning management meetings sitting opposite him at the glass table in the Cloud’s first-floor boardroom. The upside of these meetings was the plentiful supply of nice coffee and fancy biscuits. The downside: having to endure my fellow managers drone on about their achievements and weekly goals. I had to prepare my own weekly speech, of course, where I pimped my department and claimed I was mind-blowingly successful. Which I kind of was. My department enjoyed a celebration-worthy profit margin. I had a new employee who was proving a brilliant addition to my team. The apprenticeship kids were performing to expected levels, and my customer satisfaction figures were on a steady upwards curve. I had nothing to remotely worry about during this meeting, except for Finn Christensen’s nonchalant manner and easy shrug every time I caught his eye. He had something up his sleeve, and I didn’t like it.

I finally had the job I’d always craved. It was the same job I’d perfected at my previous hotel, overall manager of the restaurant and bar departments. The old Clouds Thameside Hotel, my former place of employment, had been falling apart at the seams and in need of tearing down. Now, thanks to me, their F&B department was growing and making a decent profit. I’d brought about the opening of their award-winning in-house eatery; I’d initiated the staff training and performance management protocols. In recognition of my achievements, I’d been promoted to the top three years ago, but I’d still wanted to head downtown to Westminster, the Queen of the Cloud Hotel portfolio. The sharp glass new build with the perfect riverfront location and stunning skyline views. I’d been itching to get my hands on its underperforming F&B department.

I could’ve done this job in my sleep, made it easy for myself and cleaned up the small disasters left for me to deal with, but I had to do better. I’d never been someone who’d settled for mediocre, and I fully intended to put my mark on the London culinary map.

Hence, here I was, prancing around like a proud mother hen, churning out small talk with my fellow managers, twirling a Viennese whirl between my fingers while I waited for my coffee to cool down. My restaurant downstairs was slowly becoming the hottest eatery in town, thanks to my new and improved concept seating, our awesome new bar area, the uber-cool, LGBTQ-friendly atmosphere and, of course, the locally sourced, simplified, home-cooked menu. The management team had been understandably sceptical at first, but the numbers were on my side, and we were pretty much the darling of the cash-rich local clientele, bringing in big accounts simply on our reputation of not giving a fuck about the rules of the culinary world. Because we didn’t, and I was more than happy to boast about that to my fellow managers.

“Great feedback on the new menu, Quinton.” Someone slapped my shoulder, and I complimented their haircut and asked about their smart-fitting suit in return. I air-kissed a female colleague and cooed over her snazzy dress. I threw out compliments like confetti, my over-the-top charm working the room like magic, the way I did with our customers downstairs.

The old-fashioned idea of giving our guests what they would expect from a mid-range business hotel had no place in my establishment. There were no soggy burgers or late-night pizza being microwaved in my kitchen. We focused on flavours and local cuisine, seasonal vegetables and mouth-watering quirky meals that changed weekly to create delightful variety for our regular guests. Each staff member was handpicked for their sassy attitude and tested on their quick thinking and aptitude for treating every customer like a long-lost friend. I didn’t skimp on my standards, and I would proudly tell anyone who would listen to remember my name because Mark Quinton was pushing this hotel into culinary stardom.

Making friends had always come easy to me, but so had making enemies, and while the team at the Clouds Westminster had, surprisingly, welcomed me with open arms, I was nowhere near treading on safe ground yet. After all, I came with a bit of a reputation myself, and not necessarily a good one. Yes, I was known to have skills on the kitchen side, treat my staff well and run a tight ship. Rumour had it that I was also a party animal, off my head with crazy ideas and the source of untold troubles, and I was well aware that those rumours were far too true.

I was still swallowing down my Viennese whirl when the meeting started in earnest with the purchasing manager arguing once again with our lead housekeeper over the cost of toilet rolls. These exchanges were usually the thrill of my week, but today, I was already rolling my eyes and letting my mind drift. It may have been Friday morning, but my anxieties were playing up, obsessively returning to the night out earlier in the week, replaying what had happened and looking for clues as to what drama Christensen had up his sleeve.

Monday nights in London were known to cater for the exhausted hospitality sector, offering a well-deserved night off where discounts were expected and hangovers were mandatory. Those establishments which welcomed us, even invited us, were keen to keep us happy and drunk, since we would, in return, feed them with customers for the rest of the week. It was all about give and take, lining each other’s palms with favours and gold.

Those nights out were also integral to boosting my team’s morale, so every Monday, my core staff and I left the temps and agency staff to fill our shoes under the hotel duty manager’s watchful eye. We clubbed. We partied. We drank. We gossiped relentlessly with other hospitality staff. We all loved rumours and drama, and the tall tales were rife in our line of work. I listened with a smile on my face, of course I did, and sucked up all that juicy information. How else could I keep my fingers on the fast-beating pulse of the restaurant world? I knew the head chef with the cocaine addiction, and the bartender who was wanted by the police. I knew the sommelier who would get you any drug you could possibly fancy and the restaurant that sold black market alcohol and where the drinks were more often than not spiked. I also had a long list of establishments in which I would never set foot or put anything from their kitchen anywhere near my mouth.

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