X-Rated Mercury Rising Excerpt!

Warning: This excerpt involved man on man smooching, groping, as well as what those things lead to. Read at your own risk!

Also, if you're a blood relative of mine, turn back now!! Don't say I didn't warn you.

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Dillon stepped off the water-taxi onto the Solstice's custom-built staff entrance. The pockmarked kid guarding the door to the ship's interior raised an intercom to his mouth.

"Hey, give me a second before you call up!" Dillon shrugged his backpack off his shoulder and then tugged his T-shirt off. He worked his arms into his uniform, leaving the front unbuttoned, and flashed the ID hanging from his pocket at the boy. "I'll let the boss know I'm here."

The kid shrugged. "Lanus should still be supervising the cocktail party clean up, but they posted a list of assignments in Ballroom Seven."

Dillon nodded and searched through his bag for his phone. It flashed about fifteen text messages, all from his boss asking when the hell he was gonna get there. His email, on the other hand, was still empty. He'd just have to hope his professors were cool. With a shrug, he slipped the phone back into his pocket and walked through the door separating the salty harbor from the dank, narrow hallways behind the kitchens.

The paint might once have been turquoise, but had taken on a tannish-gray hue. Beads of condensation dripped down the walls. Abandoned paper bags and half-full beer bottles with floating cigarette butts lined the sides.

He sank his hand into his backpack and pulled out the crisp box of Camels he'd bought expressly for the trip. Dillon didn't smoke as a general rule, but working gigs for Lanus called for every possible mechanism to blow off steam.

He tapped the lid of the box on his hand. The hoodlums he'd hung out with as a kid had done that, and Dillon had picked up the habit, though he had no idea what the purpose was.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't see you."

At the comment, Dillon looked up to see a guy in an Italian suit standing in an open doorway—probably one of the conference attendees. His thick black hair flopped at odd angles and bags hung under his otherwise bright eyes. He towered in the low-ceilinged hallway, broad shoulders contrasting with a slim body. The guy steadied himself on the wall with a hand, but he didn't look drunk, just dead tired.

"No worries. You want one?" Dillon positioned a cigarette on his lips and held out the pack in the man's direction.

The man's midnight blue gaze lingered a second too long. "Um, yes. That would be great." He licked his lips.

The devil riding his shoulder, Dillon approached the guy. He pulled a cigarette out of the package and lifted it to the politician's almost-pretty face.

With a shy grin, Mr. Sexy bit the cigarette out from between his fingers. He smelled like scotch and privilege and all kinds of wrong.

Dillon brushed against him when he rose on the balls of his feet to give him a light. He sparked his own and leaned against the wall beside the man—maybe the guy was a diplomat—to take a drag. The nicotine sizzled along Dillon's nerves, making him shaky and excited, and eager to see what the other guy did next.

Mr. Handsome sucked in a drag too. Smoke lurched from his nose, and he bent double, hacking.

In a fit of machismo, Dillon grabbed the cigarette from the dumb-ass's grip and crushed the ember between his calloused fingers. Then he used the guy's frantic coughing as an excuse to rub his back. "You okay?"

"Yes, yes. I'm fine." The guy's hand slipped into his pocket and pulled out a flask. With a sheepish grin, he took a small sip. His eyes closed in ecstasy. "Oh, that's better."

Dillon snorted. "Why'd you take it then?" The guy didn't seem the type to harbor bad habits. More like an early-to-bed, early-to-rise type.

Mr. Gorgeous gave a self-deprecating smile and took another sip. The roped muscles of his neck led down to pecs visible even under his shirt. "It seemed appropriate."

Another snicker escaped Dillon's nose. "We're in a loading dock." He cast a look at the garbage lining the walls.

The diplomat's serious expression told Dillon he hadn't gotten the joke. "My point exactly." He drank again, relaxing as the liquor colored his cheeks.

Dillon waved his hand in a gesture for him to pass the flask. "I can't argue with that logic." He tilted the metal and felt Glenlivet warm his throat. He hadn't eaten in hours and the high-end liquor tasted sinful. "Thanks."

"No worries."

Thumbing the hem of his shirt, Dillon waited for the diplomat to ask why he wasn't upstairs cleaning, but Mr. Tall, Dark and Edible didn't ask. The tension in the guy's shoulders made Dillon suspect he was concerned about the same type of question.

He handed the flask back and their fingers met. The flush on the diplomat's cheeks darkened. Looking around nervously, the guy scooted his back down the wall a few inches and casually stepped his legs apart.

Dillon smiled.

The stance made the politician seem shorter, but stretched him out, so he filled the hallway like an open invitation. Not saying a word, Dillon stepped into the space between the guy's legs. His forefinger slipped between the politician's lowest shirt buttons and hooked into the top of his pants. With a half-smile, Dillon raised his chin.

He waited for the politician to kiss him first. Guys like this were almost never openly gay. Sometimes that was the appeal. But Dillon always felt the need to push, to make them admit they wanted it, if only for a night. "Tell me you're hot for me, " Dillon whispered.

Mr. Luscious drew closer. Panic flashed in his blue eyes, fear mingled with heat. "I'm engaged," he whispered, but his already damp lips told Dillon he didn't care and didn't expect Dillon to either.

"Aren't all of you?"

Mr. Beautiful smiled. "Yes, probably."

Dillon tugged the guy's hips forward, thrilled when the man's over-sized hand touched his bare stomach. Heart pounding, he watched Mr. Hottie's eyes trace his torso.

"Do you want to touch me more?" He didn't hide the smirk in his voice.

The politician's mouth hung open and he nodded slowly. His hungry gaze didn't leave Dillon's six-pack.

With a grin, Dillon slipped his waistband lower. He fed the guy's hand into his pants, gasping when cool fingers wrapped around his hard-on.

Their lips locked. The politician shoved his tongue down Dillon's throat. Apparently, he wasn't the first guy Mr. Delicious had made it with in a deserted hallway. The politician wove a hand into his hair. His strong grip wrenched Dillon's erection from base to tip.

He moaned into the politician's mouth. The guy was good, so good. He clenched his muscles against the come already climbing his shaft.

The guy slid his touch lower and cupped Dillon's balls. His finger rubbed at Dillon's "taint" and searched for the pucker beyond. The movement forced Dillon onto his toes. Pale fingers tore the shirt off his shoulders, and perfect teeth closed on his neck.

Dillon thrust his hips so that his naked cock rubbed on the guy's dress shirt. His fear of being caught mingled with his arousal to create a high even more intoxicating than a drug. He swept his grip up the guy's back to clutch his shoulders.

The politician's free hand wrapped to his ass and squeezed. He scooted down the wall in order to pinch the ring on Dillon's nipple between his teeth and pull.

His control fading fast, Dillon bucked into the guy's grip. He placed his hands on the wall on either side of the larger male's head and kissed him, gasps escaping his lips.

"Do you like that?" An edge of conceit flavored the politician's voice.

Dillon wanted to say no, but the politician chose that moment to snatch one of Dillon's hands away from the wall and press it to his own crotch, and Dios Mio, but the guy was hung. His fingers wrapped around the manaconda through Mr. Perfect's pants. Dillon's groan rose higher and his balls tucked up under his body. Ninety-nine percent of the time with closeted guys, he was the one in charge of his hook-ups. But this guy smoothed his touch under Dillon's waistband and into his sweatpants, like he had every right to fuck him six ways from Sunday.

"You think you're all that, huh?" he said between groans, trying to regain the upper hand.

The politician licked his lips and watched Dillon's face. He tunneled a finger into his ass, and then added a second. "And a bag of potato chips."

His breath whooshed out and his cock pulsed. Dillon's knees buckled so that only the other man's grip held him upright. White-hot spasms locked on his groin and shot up his spine, bringing a strangled cry to his throat. Dillon buried his teeth in the man's shoulder and shot goopy strands into his hand.

The guy kissed him—lips soft, adoring, like they were in love or something. Before Dillon could catch his breath, Mr. Hunky unzipped his pants and his cock fell into Dillon's palm. The politician spun them so Dillon's back was to the wall. He gripped himself at the base, and wove pale fingers into Dillon's hair, pulling Dillon's face toward his crotch.

Dillon looked at the purpled cock, and then up at the politician's expectant expression. He narrowed his eyes and yanked his head out of the other man's grip. "What the hell are you doing?" Fair was fair, but the guy was being fucking presumptuous. Not to mention pushy.

Mr. Conceited frowned and snatched Dillon's wrist, even while he curled his fingers tightly around his dick. "You know what I want." He wrapped a hand behind Dillon's neck again, pressing. "Now hurry. Someone could come any minute. And I want it to be me."