“I need a butt plug.”
Scott nearly fell off his stool behind the counter. No one had come into Up Close and Personal since he'd arrived, nearly three hours ago. He'd been lost in his book, roaming La Mancha with Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. The warm tenor voice burrowed into his consciousness, pulling him abruptly back to the present.
He looked up from the page, stifling his annoyance. Guess Harry had been right, keeping the store open on Christmas Eve. Anyway, it wasn't as if he had anything better to do.
His gaze met deep, chocolate-hued eyes framed by trendy square glasses. Mouth watering, definitely, especially when complemented by fashionably ragged black hair, alabaster skin, model's cheekbones, and ripe lips nestled beneath a pencil mustache. The guy looked like an art student, though the broad shoulders and trim waist revealed by his navy turtleneck sweater suggested he didn't spend all his time in the studio.
“Um – ah – sorry. Can I help you?”
“A butt plug. You carry them, right?” Scott's handsome customer gave him a weak smile. He shifted from one foot to the other, clasping and unclasping his elegant hands. Scott noticed smears of purple and orange on the back of one wrist and felt ridiculously pleased at his correct guess.
“Ah – yeah, of course. Over there.” He indicated a display to his right. The painter strode over to the glass case, giving Scott the chance to admire his lithe movements and the muscular butt that moved under his tight jeans. La Mancha was totally forgotten.
“Gee – there's a lot of them.” The poor guy sounded lost. “I really don't know which one...” He trailed off, clearly overwhelmed by the variety that confronted him.
Scott slipped out from behind the register, glad he'd worn the jeans without any rips. “Well – probably the first consideration is size. How full do you like to feel?”
A flush of pink climbed into the artist's cheeks. “I – um – I don't know really – I've never tried....” He flashed an apologetic grin. “Sorry. I'm a bit new at this.”
“Never mind. That's what I'm here for.” Scott resisted the urge to pat the other man's shoulder in sympathy. He knew that touching the guy would not help his concentration. It was bad enough that he could smell him – a combination of pot, sweat, and linseed oil. “If it's your first time, you probably want something on the smaller side. How about this one?”
Sliding the glass door, he reached inside to pull out modest plug of smooth, black silicone, about four inches long and an inch in diameter at its widest point. He held it out. His customer's eyes widened behind his glasses, but he seemed reluctant to touch the toy. Scott laid it on top of the case and picked up another plug, neon green glass, about the same size but with ridges and a curved tip.
“This one's really great for stimulating the prostate. And this model,” he added, reaching for a rocket-shaped red plastic model with loop at the base, “has a compartment where you can insert a vibrating egg. Adds a lot to the experience.”
“Oh God, I don't know.” It was snowing outside on St. Mark's Place, but sweat beaded the young man's forehead. He wiped his face with his sleeve. His blush had deepened. “Can I sit down for a minute?”
“Sure.” Scott led him to the hassocks near the erotic books section. “Want something to drink? I've got a couple of Heineken's in the fridge out back.”
“That would be fantastic. Thanks!”
“My pleasure.” As Scott went to retrieve the beers, he wondered whether that might be prophetic. He certainly hoped so.