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CHAPTER 1
The elevator doors at the hotel lobby slid open with a soft chime.
The man waiting to exit stopped mid-step.
Mike Hansen filled the doorway—six-foot-four of deliberately displayed muscle, the kind of body that made other men forget how to breathe. He stepped out, brushed past the stranger with casual force, then glanced back once.
He was dressed for maximum effect. The red shirt hung open almost to the navel, fabric stretched taut across a chest so thick and carved it looked sculpted from warm marble. Dark hair dusted the heavy pectorals in a neat, deliberate trail that disappeared into the deep valley between them. The same dense, short hair continued over the hard ridges of his abdomen, never thick enough to hide the eight-pack that flexed with every slow breath. Broad shoulders filled the elevator frame. Arms heavy with vein-mapped muscle spoke of years of serious lifting. Sleeves rolled to the elbows showed thick, hair-dusted forearms.
Below the open shirt, charcoal trousers sat low on narrow hips. The expensive fabric pulled tight across powerful thighs and an unmistakable, heavy bulge the cut of the pants made no effort to hide. The outline of his cock was clear—long, thick, resting against his left thigh—and he knew it. He always knew it.
Mike’s face completed the picture. Short, dark-brown hair, perfectly styled, the kind of cut that looked effortless and expensive. A full, neatly trimmed beard framed a strong jaw and a mouth already curved in that lazy, knowing half-smile. Sharp blue-green eyes flicked over the stranger with casual assessment, the same way they assessed every man who looked too long. He was the kind of man other men checked out from head to toe and then looked away from, half-ashamed of how openly they had wondered what that thick cock would feel like buried inside them.
Mike’s cock was a heavy, deliberate statement of what he was. Even soft it hung thick and long, a dense, weighty length of meat that rarely rested fully quiet. The shaft was a deep, flushed rose that darkened toward the head, the skin smooth over a core of rigid potential that never truly slept. When he was even half-aroused the length pushed past eight and a half inches, and fully hard it reached a solid nine and a quarter, thick enough that the average man’s fingers could not close around it. The…