The garage apartment was a shrine to unfinished business both mechanical and carnal. The air hung thick with the scent of gasoline, old leather, and the sharp, sweet burn of whiskey. A single bare bulb swung lazily overhead, casting long shadows over the poker table, its surface scarred by ring stains and the ghosts of past games. The table was a battlefield: stacks of cash, smudged glasses, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey, its label peeling at the edges, the glass slick with condensation and fingerprints.
Craig leaned back in his chair, his sandy blonde hair damp with sweat, his t-shirt clinging to the ridges of his abs. His thighs strained against the denim of his jeans, the fabric doing little to hide the heavy outline of his cock. He shifted again, his fingers tapping restlessly against the table. "Fuck, it's hot in here," he muttered, his voice rough. He reached down to adjust himself, not even bothering to hide it. The women at the bar last night had taken one look at his boy-next-door grin and dismissed him as "too nice." Too nice. Like that was a goddamn insult. His cock twitched at the memory of the brunette who’d laughed when he bought her a drink, her eyes flicking to Jack before she sauntered off. As if.
Jack, ever the picture of polished control, had his tailored shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease the defined planes of his chest. His dark hair was slicked back, but a few strands had escaped, clinging to his forehead. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, his gaze flicking to Craig’s crotch before he looked away, his jaw tightening. "You’re telling me," he said, his voice smooth but edged with something darker. "That blonde at the club? The one in the red dress? She took one look at my Rolex and called me ‘daddy.’ Then she spent the night grinding on some trust-fund kid with a nose ring." His fingers tightened around his glass, his other hand slipping beneath the table to press against the growing bulge in his slacks. He’d spent the last three months buried in spreadsheets and boardroom handshakes, his bed colder than the numbers on his balance sheet.
Luka, sprawled in his chair like a king holding court, took a slow drag from his cigarillo. The smoke curled around his face, catching the light and highlighting the ink snaking down his arms with saints and sinners, engines and snakes. His gauged ears caught the dim glow, and the heavy rings of his nipple piercings pressed against the thin fabric of his wife-beater. He’d been winning all night, his pile of chips growing like a monument to their collective frustration. The denim of his jeans was threadbare at the thighs, the fabric so worn in the groin it clung to him like a second skin. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath. He never dd. The thick outline of his cock was impossible to miss. When he shifted, the glint of metal at the tip of his dick flashed in the low light, the Prince Albert piercing a silent dare.
Craig’s eyes flicked to the glint, his throat tightening. He swallowed hard, his own cock twitching in his jeans at the thought of that metal inside someone—inside him—before he forced his gaze back up to Luka’s smirking face.
"You two are pathetic," he said, his grin all teeth. "Craig, you’re too busy being ‘sweet’ to close the deal. Jack, you’re too busy being a fucking ice sculpture." He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, the movement making the chain of his nipple piercings drag against his shirt. His fingers brushed over the bulge in his jeans, the metal of his piercing pressing against the thin fabric.
Jack’s gaze snagged on the movement, his fingers freezing mid-adjustment beneath the table. The image of that piercing—what it would feel like—flashed through his mind, hot and unwelcome. He looked away sharply, but not before Luka caught the hunger in his eyes.
"Me? I don’t even bother anymore," he continued, his voice rough. "Women take one look at this—" he gestured to his tattooed chest, then lower, his palm pressing against his cock just long enough to make the piercing glint again, "—and either run screaming or try to ‘fix’ me." His laugh was low, dark. "Like I’d let some chick with a savior complex anywhere near what I’m packing."
Craig scoffed, but his hand twitched toward his crotch again. "At least we try, Luka. You just scare them off on purpose."
"Damn right I do," Luka shot back, his eyes gleaming. "Why waste time on some chick who’s gonna cry when I tell her what I really want?" He reached for the whiskey bottle, his biceps flexing as he poured another round. The liquid sloshed, golden and dangerous. "Besides, you’re both full of shit. You don’t want ‘nice.’ You don’t want ‘classy.’ You want someone to use you. To make you beg." His gaze lingered on Craig’s lap, then Jack’s, his smirk deepening as he watched them both squirm.
Jack’s fingers stilled against his cock. "We’re here to play poker, not therapy," he said, but his voice lacked its usual bite. His mind flickered back to the last time he’d been touched. Some faceless woman in a hotel room, her nails digging into his shoulders as he fucked her from behind, her moans high and fake. He’d left before she could turn over, before he had to see the disappointment in her eyes when she realized he wasn’t going to cuddle.
Craig’s laugh was bitter. "Yeah, well, maybe we’re just picky." He shifted again, his cock throbbing. The memory of the last girl he’d brought home flashed through his mind. Her gasp when she saw his size, the way she’d backed off like he was some kind of monster. "Or maybe we’re just sick of the goddamn games."
Luka’s grin turned predatory. "Then let’s play a real game." He slid the last of his chips into the center of the table. The clink of the stacks was loud in the heavy silence. "One more hand. Winner takes all."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "What’s the catch?"
"No catch." Luka’s voice was a dark purr. "Losers owe me a favor. No questions asked."
Craig’s cock jerked at the words, his breath hitching. "What kind of favor?"
Luka’s smirk was a promise. "The fun kind." He dealt the cards, his fingers brushing against Craig’s as he slid one across the table. The touch was electric, deliberate. "You in or out, golden boy?"
Jack’s gaze flicked between Luka and Craig, his cock aching. "Fine." He tossed his chips into the pot. "But if I win, you’re buying the next round. And the next. And the next."
Craig hesitated for half a second before shoving his own chips forward. "Deal the fucking cards, Luka."
The garage seemed to hold its breath as the cards hit the table. The whiskey burned, the air was thick, and the three of them were already lost.
The cards hit the table with a sharp snap, the sound cutting through the haze of whiskey and sweat. Luka’s straight flush lay spread out like a taunt, the king of hearts smirking up at them. The garage seemed to shrink, the air thick enough to choke on. Craig’s fingers twitched against his thighs, his cock still half-hard from the earlier teasing, the memory of Luka’s piercing glinting in the dim light. Jack’s jaw was clenched so tight it could’ve cracked a tooth, his glass of whiskey untouched, the amber liquid trembling with the vibration of his restrained breath.
Luka leaned back, his chair creaking, and slid the last of their chips toward his already obscene pile. His grin was all teeth, his eyes dark with something that wasn’t just victory. “Strip.”
Silence.
Craig’s laugh was sharp, disbelieving. “The fuck—” He pushed back from the table, his chair scraping against the concrete floor. “You’re out of your damn mind, Luka.” His hands were fists at his sides, but his cock betrayed him, twitching at the command, the word echoing in his skull like a dare. He could still feel the weight of the brunette’s dismissal from earlier, the way she’d laughed at him like he was some overgrown puppy. But this? This was different. This was real.
Jack didn’t move. His voice was ice, but his fingers betrayed him, tightening around his glass until his knuckles went white. “We’re not stripping, Luka.” His mind raced—this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening—but his body was already reacting, his cock thickening in his slacks, the memory of Luka’s piercing flashing behind his eyes. He’d spent years cultivating control, but one word from Luka and it was crumbling like ash.
Luka didn’t flinch. He poured another round of whiskey, the liquid sloshing into the glasses with a sound that was almost obscene. “Craig first,” he repeated, his voice a velvet whip. “Jack, you’re gonna describe every inch of him like you’re auctioning him off. And you better make it good.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, the movement making the chain of his nipple piercings shift beneath his wife-beater. The metal glinted, a silent reminder of what was hidden beneath his threadbare jeans. “You lost. Rules are rules.”
Craig’s breath hitched. He could feel Jack’s eyes on him, heavy and expectant, and the weight of Luka’s gaze was a physical thing, pinning him in place. “This isn’t funny,” he muttered, but his voice lacked conviction. His fingers twitched toward the hem of his t-shirt, his mind racing—what the hell am I doing?—but his body was already deciding for him. The garage was too hot, his skin too tight, and the thought of Jack’s voice describing him, wanting him, sent a jolt of heat straight to his groin.
Jack’s throat worked, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “You’re serious.” It wasn’t a question. His gaze flicked to Craig, then back to Luka, his mind already spinning with the words he’d have to say, the things he’d have to admit. His cock was a traitor, pressing painfully against his zipper, the thought of describing Craig—his shoulders, his cock, the way his thighs flexed when he was nervous—making his mouth go dry.
Luka didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His smirk said it all as he took a slow sip of whiskey, his eyes never leaving theirs. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the sound of Craig’s ragged breath and the creak of Jack’s chair as he shifted, his own resolve crumbling.
Craig’s fingers found the hem of his t-shirt. He hesitated for one more heartbeat before he yanked it over his head, the fabric catching for a second on his ears before he tossed it aside. The garage air hit his bare chest, cool against his heated skin. His cock was a heavy weight in his jeans, the denim suddenly too tight, too restrictive. “Happy?” he muttered, but his voice was rough, his eyes locked on Luka’s, daring him to push further.
Jack’s breath came faster, his gaze raking over Craig’s chest, the defined lines of his abs, the way his jeans hung low on his hips. His own cock was a brand against his thigh, his mind already racing with the words he’d have to say, the things he’d have to voice. He reached for his own shirt, his fingers trembling just slightly as he undid the buttons, one by one. The fabric parted, revealing the smooth planes of his chest, the trail of dark hair disappearing into his slacks. “Fuck,” he breathed, but it wasn’t a protest. It was a surrender.
Luka’s grin widened, his eyes dark with satisfaction as he took in the sight of them. Craig’s broad shoulders, Jack’s chiseled chest, the way their bodies reacted to his commands, to each other. He took another sip of whiskey, the glass clinking against his teeth. “Now that’s what I call a winning hand,” he murmured, his voice a dark purr. “Jack. Start talking.”
The garage air clung to their skin, thick with the scent of whiskey and something darker, something hungry. Luka’s voice cut through the tension like a blade, low and commanding. “Jack… I said, start talking.”
Jack’s throat tightened. His fingers twitched against his thighs, his cock straining against his slacks as he forced his gaze to Craig’s half-naked body. He started fast, his words clipped, almost clinical. “Craig’s got broad shoulders. Tan. Muscles from hauling lumber or whatever the hell he does.”
Luka didn’t move, but his voice was a whipcrack. “Try again.” He swirled the whiskey in his glass, the ice clinking. “This isn’t a fucking grocery list. This is worship. Describe him like he’s the last thing you’ll ever see. Like you’re memorizing him for prayer.” His eyes flicked to Craig, who stood frozen, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. “Turn around, golden boy. Hands on the table. Spread ‘em.”
Craig’s breath hitched, but he obeyed, turning slowly, his back to Jack, his palms pressing into the scarred wood of the poker table. His fingers trembled as he reached back, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of his jeans. Jack didn’t wait for him to hesitate. He gripped the denim and yanked it down, exposing Craig’s ass completely, the fabric pooling just above his knees. “Bend over,” Jack growled, his voice rough, and Craig obeyed, arching his back, his cheeks parting slightly, his hole shadowed and tight.
Luka’s grin was razor-sharp. “Now his ass,” he prompted, his voice a dark purr. “Tell me how it looks. How it’d feel.”
Jack’s breath came faster, his cock throbbing as he took in the sight. Craig’s ass bare, his cheeks smooth and flexed, the faintest hint of his hole clenching in the dim light. “It’s thick,” Jack started, his voice rough. “Round. The kind of ass that fills your hands when you’re kneading it, spreading him open.” He leaned in slightly, his breath hot against Craig’s skin. “Tight. Hairless. Smooth as fucking sin. And his hole—” His voice cracked, just for a second. “It’s pink. Tight. Clenching like he’s already thinking about what’s gonna stretch him open.”
Craig whimpered, his fingers digging into the table, his cock dripping, trapped against the wood. The vulnerability of the position, the way Jack’s voice dropped to a growl as he described him, made his hole twitch.
“Good,” Luka murmured. “Now his cock. But first—” He nodded to Craig. “Stay just like that. Let Jack see what he’s working with.”
Craig stayed bent over, his ass on full display, his cock engorged and leaking between his thighs. Jack’s words came slower now, thicker, his eyes locked on the sight before him. “His cock is thick. Veiny. The head’s flushed, already leaking down his thighs.” His own cock was an iron bar in his slacks, his voice rough with want. “And his balls—full. Heavy. Hanging low, like they’re begging to be sucked.”
Luka’s grin was razor-sharp. “Better.” He took a slow sip of whiskey, his eyes never leaving them. “Now you, Jack. Strip. And Craig—” He turned his gaze to Craig, who was still bent over the table, his cock dripping, his ass on display. “You’re going to describe Jack like he’s a goddamn sacrament. And when you get to his scent?” His voice dropped, dark and dangerous. “You’re going to get close enough to taste it. To breathe him in and tell me what he smells like.”
Jack’s fingers trembled as he undid his slacks, letting them pool at his ankles. His cock stood proud, dark and thick, the tip already wet. Craig’s eyes were glued to him, his own cock twitching as he stepped closer, his voice rough with devotion.
“Jack’s body is like a fucking temple,” Craig started, his voice low, almost reverent. “His chest is smooth, but there’s a trail of dark hair below his navel, leading right to—” He reached out, his fingers hovering just above Jack’s cock, not daring to touch. “His cock is dark, thicker than mine. The head’s broad, already leaking. And his balls—” He inhaled sharply, his eyes flicking up to Luka, who nodded once, urging him on.
Craig dropped to his knees in front of Jack, his face inches from the other man’s groin. He inhaled deeply, his eyes fluttering shut for just a second. “He smells like whiskey and salt. Like sweat and something dark—musky. Like the kind of sin you’d commit on your knees.” His voice was a whisper, his breath ghosting over Jack’s cock. “Like leather and smoke and man.”
Jack’s hands flew to Craig’s hair, his fingers tangling in the sandy blonde strands as he let out a ragged breath. “Fuck, Craig—”
Luka’s chair creaked as he stood, his movement slow, deliberate. The garage seemed to hold its breath as he peeled off his wife-beater, revealing the expanse of his tattooed chest, the heavy rings of his nipple piercings, the chain between them glinting in the low light. His jeans followed, the threadbare denim pooling at his feet. Finally his cock springing free, thick, cut, and with the Prince Albert piercing gleaming in the light.
The room went still.
Craig and Jack both froze, their eyes locked on Luka’s body. His tattoos were a map of sin, saints and snakes, engines and skulls. His cock was a monster, the piercing at the tip catching the light, his balls heavy and full. The sheer size of him was overwhelming, his presence filling the space, his scent of whiskey and oil and male flooding their senses.
Luka’s voice was a growl, his cock twitching as he looked down at them. “On your knees.” His command was absolute. “You’re gonna earn the right to touch me.”
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