Free Bad Attitude by K. A. Mitchell

hugged another tall blond who approached from the left.
    “Gavin. Drinks in the kitchen, poppers in the fridge. Action all around. Flipper’s here.” The last was added with an emphasis that suggested an in-joke.
    Based on Gavin’s grunted answer, Jamie guessed Gavin didn’t find it all that funny.
    “This is Jamie.”
    “Hi, Jamie.” Soren wore a tight pair of gray boxer briefs, Armani figuring prominently on the waistband. But he didn’t seem to have much else to offer unless he’d just gotten out of an ice bath. Of course, the pipe in his hand might have something to do with the disinterest.
    “Flipper?” Jamie asked in a low voice.
    “You don’t want to know, but you may find out later, unless you brought earplugs,” Gavin explained.
    “You two going to stand there all night?” Soren said.
    Gavin shrugged out of his jacket and pulled his shirt over his head. His shoulders looked broader now, the muscles running into his collarbone beautifully defined. The rest of him was smooth, not soft, but not gym-bunny ripped either, and no winter tan, creamy skin with swirls of dark hair around his coppery nipples. Jamie had to fight the urge to lick his lips.
    A grunt of pleasure echoed off the high-beamed ceiling, followed by a “Fuck yeah” from someone out of view. The smell and sounds of men and sex sent a fresh flood of heat to Jamie’s dick, a sensation like a tongue running over his balls. He yanked off his shirt and kicked free of his sneakers. A glance at Soren and Gavin had him toeing off his socks.
    “Nice.” Soren offered the pipe to Jamie.
    “No thanks.” Jamie turned away.
    “Not at the moment,” Gavin said, and Jamie looked back to see him wave the pipe away.
    Soren shrugged as he took a hit. From the smell, it was just weed. Jamie relaxed a little.
    One solid stroke of his hand over his jean-covered dick and he knew things were good to go. He undid his fly and stepped out of his jeans. He’d decided if clothing was optional, he’d might as well freeball it.
    “A commando operation?” Gavin asked.
    “Don’t like to waste time. And I’ve got nothing to hide.” Jamie straightened from making sure his phone was buried but still accessible in the pile of clothes on the counter.
    “I wouldn’t say that at all.” Soren’s gaze dropped, and he licked his lips in appreciation.
    Gavin slid out of his jeans, legs as leanly muscled as Jamie had imagined, a nice bulge in the bright blue boxer briefs. “Want me to introduce you around?”
    Jamie didn’t need his hand held to get laid. He’d been doing just fine since he turned fourteen.
    “Nah. I’m good. Catch you later.”
    He moved through the archway toward the sounds. Track lighting fell on a couch facing the fireplace, a pair of guys fucking at each end. There was a three-way blowjob on the floor between here and the fireplace, and a guy spread-eagled against a picture window, two guys kneeling behind him taking turns eating his ass.
    The gut-stringing tension of walking into an unpredictable situation faded. Sex Jamie got. It wasn’t complicated. It felt good. And it was all around him. Testosterone seeping into his pores, filling his head and his blood, the groans vibrating into his bones right along with the pulse of the bass from hidden speakers.
    Didn’t matter if it was The Arena, the grocery store, the gym, a parking lot or even once over an M198 Howitzer stowed in the hull of the USS Wasp , Jamie knew how this worked. He knew the rules and was good at the game.
    All the players there were occupied, so he moved along a hallway. A twink with a hard-on stretching his microscopic briefs shook his ass to the beat as he bounced down the open stairs.
    Jamie stopped to watch him. As soon as the twink felt Jamie’s gaze, he paused and put on a pout. Yeah, the guys at this party might all be worth more the GNPs of most of the hellhole countries Jamie had seen during his time in the Marines, but they still played the same way.
    Jamie