Disclaimer:
This story contains explicit adult content, including themes of sensual intimacy, same-gender romance, and sexually explicit scenes between consenting adults. It is intended for mature readers (18+). Reader discretion is advised.
The sliding glass doors of the Hyatt kissed shut behind DeVaughn like they were swallowing him whole.
The air inside was colder than he expected—cool blasts of hotel luxury after Miami’s thick, humid breath had wrapped around him like a second skin. But inside? Inside was a different kind of heat. A heat made of men.
This wasn’t just any weekend. This was Sizzle Miami 2007—the Black gay Memorial Day takeover, back when South Beach transformed into a five-day paradise of pulsing basslines, cocoa butter glisten, and sexual tension so thick it fogged your shades. Back when every hallway, every lobby, every inch of Collins Avenue was packed wall to wall with the sexiest Black men you had ever seen—chiseled, oiled, carved from fantasy.
And they knew they were fine. That was part of it.
The Hyatt was the host hotel, but it felt more like a temple. A living, sweating monument to masculine beauty. Every corner held a slow smile, a confident nod, a flirtatious glance that lingered a second too long. Fitted caps tilted just right. White tanks stretched over gym-sculpted torsos. Shorts hung low. Chains caught light. The scent in the air was cologne layered over weed layered over sweat, and it hit DeVaughn like a body shot.
He paused, breath shallow.
Damn.
It was like he’d been dropped into the middle of a private utopia—one built just for them. For the brothas who didn’t see themselves at regular Pride. For the ones who loved men but didn’t need rainbow flags to feel seen. This wasn’t about assimilation. This was about celebration. Black, bold, masculine, and fine as hell.
DeVaughn had seen flyers. Heard whispers. Watched a few shaky YouTube uploads late at night. But nothing had prepared him for this. For the volume of beauty in that lobby alone. For the way a thousand unspoken things could pass between two men just by locking eyes across the marble floor.
He adjusted his duffel, wiped sweat from his neck, and made himself move through it—through the jungle of bodies and bass and boyish grins that dared you to look longer.
It was only Thursday.
And already, Miami was breathing into him in a language he didn’t know he spoke.
DeVaughn froze for a second. Just one.
Then he exhaled and wheeled his suitcase through the current like a man learning to swim.
He kept his shades on even though they fogged. It made him feel like less of a deer in headlights. Nobody knew him here. He could be anybody.
Shit, maybe I need to be somebody else for a lil’ bit, he thought, adjusting his fitted and wiping sweat from the back of his neck.
The front desk check-in was a blur. Credit card, ID, “yes, it’s your first time at Sizzle?” Smile. Wristband. Room key. Floor sixteen.
He hit the elevator with a quiet heartbeat in his ears and that slow Texas stillness in his chest that never seemed to leave. The kind of stillness born from keeping your mouth shut too long. From hiding your tongue, your truth, your tenderness.
The elevator dinged open.
That’s when he saw him.
Leaning against the mirrored wall like he belonged there, he scrolled slow on his phone, unbothered and unhurried. His shirt—white, half-unbuttoned—hung open like a secret too fine to keep, framing a chest cut sharp and caramel-rich. A thick gold chain kissed his collarbones. Skin the color of warm sand in late sunlight. Fade tight. Beard lined with care. His whole body spoke in quiet confidence—the kind you didn’t earn in a gym, but in how the world responded to you.
When he looked up and saw DeVaughn, something flickered in his face—soft, sudden, like surprise dressed in delight. Like stumbling across treasure without looking. He smiled—not wide, not performative—just a slow, knowing curve of his lips, as if the sight of DeVaughn had just made his day. Innocent, but charged. Curious, but seductive. Like he’d recognized something in DeVaughn that he hadn’t even known he was searching for until right that second.
And DeVaughn? He felt it. In his chest. In his throat. In the hush that fell between the elevator’s mirrored walls.
It wasn’t loud. But it was instant.
“You just got here?” the man asked, one brow raised.
DeVaughn stepped in. Nodded slow. “Yeah.”
“You look it.”
DeVaughn smirked, head tilting just a bit. “What that s’posed to mean?”
“Means you still got that ‘damn, is all this real?’ look in your eyes.”
He chuckled under his breath. “It real?”
Avery’s smile turned softer, like he respected the question. “More real than most places we come from. What’s your name?”
“DeVaughn.”
“Avery.” He offered a palm. It was warm and strong, not rushed, like he wanted to remember how DeVaughn felt.
Avery let his eyes linger, then tilted his head, voice smooth like slow-poured Hennessy.
“So… where you from?”
DeVaughn shifted his weight, one hand still gripping his suitcase handle. “Texas,” he said—came out like Tehksis, lazy and stretched, like honey refusing to rush off the spoon.
Avery raised a brow, already smirking. “Oh yeah? What part?”
DeVaughn hesitated, just a breath, then gave in. “Houston.”
“Mmm.” Avery let the name roll in his mouth like he was tasting it. “Yeah… that tracks.”
DeVaughn squinted, amused. “How you figure?”
“You talk slow,” Avery said, eyes tracing the shape of DeVaughn’s lips now. “Like the heat out there. Like everything you say been sittin’ in your chest a minute before you let it out.”
DeVaughn let out a deeper laugh this time, something low and warm in his throat. “Ain’t no rush when you got somethin’ to say.”
The elevator kept climbing, soft hum underfoot, but time had folded around them.
Avery leaned in a little, voice dropping. “Then say somethin’.”
Their eyes locked. The kind of lock that didn’t need keys. Didn’t need context.
DeVaughn licked his lips, smirk crooked. “You real good at pullin’ words outta strangers.”
Avery’s eyes flickered lower, then back up, hungry but patient. “I don’t pull. I just… give you a reason.”
The air stretched between them.
DeVaughn licked his lips, a slow smirk tugging at the corner. “You always smile like that when you find somethin’ you like?”
Avery didn’t flinch. Just leaned off the mirrored wall and let his eyes drag over DeVaughn, slow and deliberate. “Only when I see somethin’ I ain’t tryin’ to forget.”
His voice had a low warmth to it—like a bassline tucked under silk. He wasn’t just flirting. He was feeling something.
And DeVaughn? He felt it too.
The tension bent like a bowstring. No one else in the elevator. Just quiet breathing and the hum of something electric underneath DeVaughn’s skin.
“You comin’ to the mixer tonight?” Avery asked.
“Mixer?”
“Yeah. Rooftop. Hyatt sponsors it. Free drinks if you got a wristband. DJ’s decent. And I’ll be there.”
DeVaughn tilted his head, half teasing. “And you think that’s gon’ make me show up?”
Avery grinned, eyes flicking from DeVaughn’s lips to his chest and back. “You was gon’ come anyway. I just wanna be who you come lookin’ for.”
The elevator dinged. Sixteenth floor.
DeVaughn stepped out, but turned around before the doors closed. “What time it start?”
Avery didn’t blink. “Nine. But don’t come early. I wanna notice when you walk in.”
The doors slid shut.
DeVaughn stood there in the hallway, a pulse in his throat, his heart knocking once or twice too hard.
Damn, he thought. It’s really like that.
He hadn’t even unpacked yet, and already, Miami had reached in and tugged something loose in him. Something that had been tied down too long.
Something ready to burn.
The rooftop smelled like sweat, sex, and tequila.
From the moment DeVaughn stepped out onto the patio, he was hit with it—the pulse of the music, the flash of skin under string lights, the way South Florida heat refused to back down even at night. It was packed. Fine-ass men in mesh tanks and basketball shorts, shirtless in linen pants, bodies slick and glowing like wet bronze. They moved like they had somethin’ to prove. Like they knew they were being watched. Like they wanted to be.
And in the center of it all—Avery.
Laughing with someone near the bar, head thrown back just enough for DeVaughn to see the line of his throat, that gold chain catching the light like it had its own agenda. He wore a sleeveless shirt now, open at the sides, his waist snatched in cargo joggers that clung just right.
DeVaughn didn’t even try to play it cool. His eyes found Avery and stayed there.
And Avery saw him.
That smile again—slow, pleased, innocent with teeth.
Avery broke off from the crowd and walked over, two drinks in hand. Passed one to DeVaughn without a word.
“What’s this?”
“Rum punch. It’s trash. You’ll want three more.” Avery grinned, eyes dancing. “Glad you came.”
DeVaughn took a sip. “Glad I did too.”
The night blurred like a heat mirage—everything slow and dreamlike, stretched thin and glowing.
They danced.
To Bobby Valentino’s “Anonymous,” hips rolling. To T-Pain’s “Buy U a Drank,” lips too close to ears. To Amerie’s “Talkin’ About,” sweat collecting at the curve of their spines. Every time Avery moved behind him, DeVaughn let him. Every time Avery touched his waist, DeVaughn leaned back just enough to show he wanted more.
He was buzzed, no question. But it wasn’t just the liquor. It was the freedom. It was being surrounded by beautiful, masculine Black men who loved other beautiful, masculine Black men—and weren’t afraid to show it.
At one point, Avery grabbed DeVaughn’s wrist and spun him, holding on too long just to feel the heat in his palm.
“You dance like you holdin’ back,” he said, breath warm at DeVaughn’s ear.
DeVaughn smirked. “Maybe I’m savin’ somethin’.”
Avery’s hand slipped to his lower back. “Then stop savin’. This weekend ain’t promised.”
It was during Ne-Yo’s “Because of You” that everything stopped mattering.
They were in the thick of it—bodies packed tight, the floor slick with condensation, the air sticky with lust and laughter. Avery pulled DeVaughn close, one arm around his waist. DeVaughn didn’t resist. Didn’t blink.
He just leaned in.
And kissed him.
Right there. On the dance floor. Surrounded by strangers and sweat and the kind of music that made you forget anything existed outside this exact moment.
Avery’s lips were firm and certain, but slow, like he was savoring something. Like he hadn’t planned it but couldn’t stop himself either.
DeVaughn’s hand found Avery’s chest—hot, damp, solid—and for a second, he let himself melt into the kiss.
Not lusty. Not fast.
Just full.
When they pulled apart, nobody had even noticed. Or maybe they had. But no one cared.
Avery touched his face, thumb brushing just beneath his bottom lip. “Been wantin’ to do that since the elevator.”
DeVaughn blinked, drunk off everything. “Shoulda done it in there then.”
Avery grinned. “Now you talkin’ like a man who ready for more.”
Later that night, back in his room, shirt off and heart still kickin’, DeVaughn checked his phone.
One new message.
Avery: You got plans tomorrow afternoon?
Yacht. Biscayne Bay. Let me show you Miami from the water.
DeVaughn stared at the screen, thumb hovering.
Then he smiled.
Not the cool one. The real one.
And typed back.
Bet.
The yacht rocked gently beneath them, slow like breath, like the city itself had exhaled just for this moment.
DeVaughn sat beside Avery near the back of the boat, away from the crowd. They weren’t dancing. They weren’t drinking. Just… leaning into each other, letting the wind do all the talking.
The sun was falling low, spreading gold across the water. It shimmered on Avery’s skin, kissed the sharp line of his jaw. DeVaughn reached out without thinking and traced his thumb along the curve of Avery’s knee, exposed through torn white linen. The touch was soft. Not sexual. Just real.
“You always this calm out here?” DeVaughn asked, voice a little husky from the wind.
Avery glanced at him, eyes warm, mouth soft. “Out here, yeah. Rest of the world be too loud. But this? This feel like paradise to me.”
DeVaughn smiled, then leaned in. Forehead to forehead. Eyes closed.
And for a moment, the ocean stilled. The music blurred. The crowd vanished.
Avery’s hand slid up the back of DeVaughn’s neck, resting there like he meant to stay.
“Glad you came,” he whispered.
“I ain’t leavin’ yet,” DeVaughn said, barely audible.
And they just sat there, pressed together under a Miami sunset, floating on basslines, breeze, and the quiet knowledge that something was blooming between them.
By 2 p.m., the Marseilles Hotel was damn near unrecognizable.
The pool boiled over with bodies—tattooed, glistening, dipped in oil and attitude. R&B thumped from giant speakers posted up at every corner. Inflatable rafts carried the cocky and the cut, sipping Henny straight from the bottle. Somewhere, a twerk contest broke out. Somewhere else, two men were definitely doing more than flirting in the cabana shadows.
DeVaughn stood near the deep end, drink in hand, sweat running down the back of his neck. His senses were on overload—music too loud, bodies too perfect, energy too charged. It was everything Sizzle promised and then some.
But the moment Avery leaned in and whispered, “Wanna dip out with me?”—he was gone.
They drove west, past the tourist shine, past the boutiques and neon hotels of Collins. The BMW’s AC worked hard against the sun, but DeVaughn didn’t notice. He was too busy watching the city change outside the window.
Glitter gave way to grit.
On the other side of I-95, the sidewalks cracked deeper. Graffiti bloomed in bold colors on boarded-up stores. Chain-link fences leaned tired over lots littered with faded bikes, busted couches, shrines of melted candles and plastic flowers.
“This still Miami?” DeVaughn asked, brows low.
Avery kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. “The Miami. Not the brochure version.”
They passed a plaza with faded yellow signs—CAROL MART blared in red block letters above the strip mall, just like in every Rick Ross video DeVaughn had ever watched.
“Yo… that’s the Carol Mart,” he said, eyes wide. “I seen this in like five joints. This where Ross shot ‘Hustlin,’ right?”
Avery nodded, grinning. “Yup. Told you. This city got layers.”
They rolled through Liberty City, then deeper north toward Little Haiti. The houses here were painted in bright pastels—turquoise, tangerine, faded lime. Flags fluttered from porches. Music blasted in Kreyòl from corner stores. Women sold patties from coolers in front of barbershops, their accents thick with rhythm and history.
“Come on,” Avery said, pulling into a small lot beside a tin-roofed restaurant painted red, blue, and white.
The smell hit first—seasoned meat, pepper sauce, fried plantains, steam, and spice.
DeVaughn followed him inside. The place was loud, alive. Locals posted up at plastic tables. A man behind the counter shouted orders in Haitian Creole. Avery dap’d him up like they grew up on the same block.
“Sit,” Avery said, pointing at a corner table. “I’ma order for you. Trust me.”
They sat side by side in a vinyl booth as the plates came—griot (fried pork chunks), pikliz (spicy slaw), rice and peas, fried plantains, and sweet-ass cola in a glass bottle.
“Damn,” DeVaughn muttered after the first bite, wiping sweat from his brow. “This hit like my grandma’s cookin’ if she was tryna kill me with flavor.”
Avery laughed, wide and unguarded. “That’s love right there.”
They ate slow, sipping and sweating and talking in between.
“How long you been out here?” DeVaughn asked.
“My whole life,” Avery said, wiping his hands. “Bahamas on my mama’s side, Haiti on my pops’. Born here, though. Grew up in this exact zip code. Never left.”
“You ever wanna?”
Avery leaned back, chewing his bottom lip. “Sometimes. But this place raised me. Made me sharp. Made me soft too—in certain ways.”
DeVaughn glanced at him. “Like how?”
Avery looked at him for a long moment, then shrugged. “Like… knowin’ when to show somebody where you really from.”
They walked outside after, the sun beginning to dip.
Kids chased each other barefoot down the cracked sidewalk. Reggae bass thumped in the distance. The air smelled like fried fish and salt.
Avery pointed toward a battered blue house with iron bars on the windows. “That was my auntie’s spot. Used to spend summers there before she passed. We’d have cookouts in the yard, dominoes, loud-ass uncles talkin’ shit, dogs barkin’, music bumpin’. That’s where I learned to dance.”
DeVaughn looked over, silent.
Then: “Why you showin’ me all this?”
Avery paused.
“‘Cause I like you. Not the Sizzle version of you. You. The one who says Tehksis like he don’t owe nobody speed. The one who looked like he might turn around and leave on day one—but didn’t.”
DeVaughn swallowed.
Avery stepped closer. “And I know this city can be too much. But I wanted you to see… we more than the beach. More than the pool parties and the boat flex. We real. We raised in heat and hard times. But we still love.”
They stood there a moment too long, quiet between sirens and sunset.
DeVaughn reached for his hand.
Avery didn’t flinch.
And they just stood there—two brown boys in a neighborhood tourists were told to avoid—holding hands in the open like that wasn’t a dangerous thing. Like survival had made them brave enough to be soft.
Like this weekend wasn’t just about Sizzle.
It was about seeing.
And being seen.
The sand burned hot beneath DeVaughn’s feet, but he didn’t flinch.
He was used to heat by now.
Haulover was packed—a sea of sun-kissed skin, flexed torsos, shaded eyes, and towels spread in tight little circles of flirtation. Men lounged like gods across the beach—some in trunks, some in thongs, some boldly bare. Melanin glowed under the sun like it had something to prove. Laughter carried on the salt wind. Speakers bumped old Jeezy and Keyshia Cole. Coconut rum mixed with weed smoke in the air.
But despite the noise, the bodies, the sheer mass of it all—DeVaughn felt a stillness.
Avery lay beside him on their shared towel, one arm behind his head, the other lazily tracing shapes across DeVaughn’s bare stomach. They were close. Legs touching. Shoulders brushing. Not hidden, not loud. Just there.
DeVaughn watched a group of fine-ass dudes tossing a football near the shoreline, their bodies glistening, muscles cut and sharp like sculpture. “This feel real to you?” he asked, not looking away.
Avery reached over and rubbed his palm gently across the curve of DeVaughn’s back, dipping slightly lower as his hand settled on the top of his juicy ass. “It feel earned.”
They laid like that for a long while. Watching. Touching. Laughing softly. Sometimes not saying anything at all. Avery leaned in and kissed DeVaughn’s temple. Then his jaw. Then the edge of his mouth. Like he couldn’t help it.
It didn’t matter who saw.
“Tell the truth,” Avery murmured, brushing sand off DeVaughn’s thigh. “You didn’t expect to fall for somebody this weekend.”
DeVaughn smirked. “I didn’t even expect to fall out the airport.”
They both laughed. Then went quiet again.
After a while, DeVaughn turned onto his side, facing Avery fully. His fingertips traced the line of Avery’s chest, down his abs, lingering at his waistband. “It’s wild,” he said softly, “how fast this feel like… I don’t know. Home, almost.”
Avery didn’t say anything. He just pulled DeVaughn closer, pressed their foreheads together, and let their breath sync under the open sky.
For all the bodies around them, all the motion, all the noise—this felt private. Protected.
It wasn’t about the beach.
It was about them.
Later that night, after the sun dipped low and the last bodies cleared from the beach, they moved together in silence—shoulders brushing, fingers grazing—letting the night speak for them.
Downtown Miami shimmered around them, still buzzing with leftover noise: cars creeping by with bass lines leaking from open windows, laughter spilling out of bars, sirens wailing in the distance like echoes from another world. But none of it touched them.
Not really.
When Avery reached for DeVaughn’s hand and kissed it—slow, deliberate, like he was sealing something—neither of them said what came next.
They didn’t need to.
The elevator rose inside the Hyatt just like it had on their first night. But the feeling was different now. No nerves. No distance. Just heat.
DeVaughn stood closer.
Avery didn’t let go.
By the time the door to the suite shut behind them, the outside world had faded to a hum. The music, the crowds, the beach, the noise—it all became backdrop to something deeper. Something that pulsed between them in the quiet.
DeVaughn sat on the edge of the bed, his body still buzzing from sun and rum and whatever this feeling was that had settled heavy in his chest.
Avery stood before him, stepping between his knees with the same ease he’d moved through the city all weekend—confident, unbothered, sure of himself. But when he touched DeVaughn’s face, it wasn’t cocky.
It was tender.
He cupped his jaw with both hands, leaned down, and kissed him—not with hunger, not with heat, but with something ancient. Something sacred. A reverence that made DeVaughn close his eyes and melt forward, mouth parting, hands sliding up Avery’s sides to hold on.
This wasn’t just what came next.
This was the reason they came.
Clothes fell away like silence breaking.
The room still echoed with laughter and basslines from earlier, but now the only rhythm was their breath.
Their mouths found each other again—harder this time, hungrier. The kind of kiss that carried the weight of a whole weekend’s worth of teasing, glances, and almosts. Avery kissed like he was declaring something. Like he’d waited too long and now that it was his, he wasn’t rushing—but he wasn’t holding back, either.
DeVaughn responded with equal fire, fingers gripping Avery’s waist, nails raking lightly down his back. Their skin touched—warm, damp, trembling slightly from too much liquor and too much wanting.
Avery moved his mouth lower, dragging his tongue along the edge of DeVaughn’s jaw, then down to the soft place beneath his ear. He sucked there, slow and deep, and DeVaughn gasped—head tilting, knees softening.
“You good?” Avery murmured, lips brushing against his pulse.
DeVaughn nodded, voice a whisper. “Yeah… Don’t stop.”
Avery didn’t.
He let his mouth wander—down DeVaughn’s neck, along his collarbone, across his chest. He kissed like he was tracing scripture, his lips reverent, his breath warm against every new inch of skin. Every kiss was a declaration: I see you. I want you. I’m here.
Then his hands slid lower, cupping DeVaughn’s waist, then his hips—and paused.
Avery’s fingers gripped tighter, sliding down to really feel him, palms full of something soft, thick, and undeniable.
He pulled back just enough to murmur, breath hitching, “Damn… you thick is fuck.”
DeVaughn cracked a smile, flushed and breathless. “I tried to tell you… everything big in Texas.”
Avery laughed once, low and hungry, before leaning back in—kissing down the line of his abs, tongue dragging with intention now. That teasing moment lit something deeper, and the playfulness melted back into heat.
DeVaughn’s eyes fluttered shut. The world spun slightly—rum still swimming in his veins—but in this bed, in this light, in these arms, he felt centered. Seen. Not just desired. Desired with care.
Avery looked up from where he knelt—lips parted, eyes dark and soft at the same time.
“I been wantin’ you since you stepped in that elevator,” he said, voice thick, low, and full of restraint.
DeVaughn reached down, hand cradling Avery’s jaw, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “Then shit… take me then.”
Avery rose, body flush against his, and kissed him again—slow, deep, tongue sliding against tongue like the final key in a lock.
The intensity between them didn’t spike. It grew. Swelled like a tide. All the teasing, the dancing, the heat of the crowd, the sweat, the eye contact, the weight of being two Black men letting their guards down in a world that asked them not to feel—all of it—rose with them.
And when Avery whispered, “Lie back,” DeVaughn did.
Not because he had to.
Because he wanted to.
Because nothing had ever felt this right.
“You sure?” he asked.
DeVaughn nodded, voice barely there. “Yeah. I want this.”
Avery guided him to the bed, climbing behind him, pulling him back into his chest like an answer he’d been aching to hold.
When his hardened dick pressed forward, DeVaughn surrendered to him—warm, snug, already slick with need—welcoming him in like he belonged there. Avery sank in slow, breath hitching, every inch swallowed in velvet heat, the kind that gripped him tight and wouldn’t let go. It was more than sensation—it was surrender, wrapped in flesh.
He let out a low moan, forehead resting against DeVaughn’s shoulder, as if the moment had knocked the breath clean out of him.
DeVaughn gripped the sheets, eyes shut, breath shallow as Avery pressed into him.
At first, it was just pressure—thick, stretching, slow. But then came the slide—deep and deliberate—until he was full. Until he could feel every breath Avery took behind him, mirrored in the way his own body trembled to hold it all.
He gasped, back arching slightly, a sound caught between pleasure and disbelief.
It was snug, almost too much—but just right. Slippery heat slicked the ache, turned it molten, made him pulse around it. Like his body knew exactly who was inside him. Like it had been waiting for this—for him—all along.
His legs shook, not from weakness, but from surrender. From the overwhelm of being opened and kept. He could feel every inch—every stroke slow and intentional, like Avery was memorizing him from the inside out.
It wasn’t just physical.
It was something deeper.
Like being filled with truth.
Like finally knowing where he was supposed to be.
Their bodies moved in rhythm—Avery’s thick dick parting DeVaughn’s hole with care, then claim.
It wasn’t fast.
It wasn’t pornographic.
It was worship.
DeVaughn arched, gasping as Avery filled him—the stretch a slow burn, the pressure like truth. He clutched the sheets, let the moan escape, let his whole body say yes.
Avery kissed the back of his neck as he moved inside him—deep, slow strokes, each one syncing with the beat of their breath. Every thrust was a sentence. Every grip of the hips a punctuation. DeVaughn’s cozy walls clutched him tight, pulling him deeper, tighter.
“You feel me?” Avery whispered, voice husky.
“Hell yeah,” DeVaughn breathed. “All of you.”
Hands gripped thighs. Lips found mouths again. Their pace shifted—rougher now, sweat slick between them, DeVaughn’s breath catching each time Avery hit that place that made him tremble.
They locked eyes as Avery reached down, gripped his hearty meat, stroked him in time with his hips, coaxing him toward the edge. DeVaughn groaned, face buried into the pillow as heat surged.
When it hit—when DeVaughn cried out, arching into an intense orgasm, every muscle pulled tight—Avery followed with a low moan, his own nut surging deep into DeVaughn, breath ragged against his shoulder.
They collapsed together, tangled in sweat and breath, the room filled with nothing but their exhales and the distant hum of the city outside the glass.
Avery held him—an arm draped across his chest, a palm resting softly on his stomach like he was anchoring them both.
And DeVaughn let himself be held.
His legs were still twitching—subtle, involuntary shivers dancing through his thighs and calves, the aftershocks of everything Avery had just poured into him. His body didn’t know how to come down yet. It didn’t want to.
Later, in the hush that followed, DeVaughn turned to face him. Their legs remained tangled. Their fingers still locked—like neither of them was ready to let go of what they’d just made.
“That wasn’t just sex.”
Avery shook his head. “Nah. This a whole other vibe.”
Outside, the night stretched on.
But inside that room, they had arrived.
The light crept in soft and gold, slipping through the blinds like it didn’t want to wake them.
DeVaughn opened his eyes slowly, the weight of Avery’s arm still draped across his waist, their legs tangled beneath the sheets. The room smelled like skin and sweat and last night—faint cologne, salt, and the kind of closeness that couldn’t be washed out.
Outside, Miami moved on without them. Cars honked. Palm trees swayed. People packed bags and called Ubers. Memorial Day was ending, and so was whatever this was.
But inside this room?
There was still time.
DeVaughn didn’t move, not yet. Just lay there, staring at the sunlight as it stretched across the floor, warm and golden and indifferent. He could still feel Avery inside him—not just in his body, but in the way his chest softened, in the silence that didn’t feel heavy.
Avery stirred behind him, exhaling against the back of his neck.
“You awake?” he murmured.
“Yeah.”
They didn’t say more right away.
There was no rush. No panic. Just presence.
After a while, DeVaughn turned to face him. Avery’s hair was slightly messy, his eyes soft, still carrying sleep. He looked different in the morning—less curated. More real. Like this was the version most people never got to see.
“You always hold folks like this after?” DeVaughn asked, half a smile on his lips.
Avery blinked, then smirked. “Only the ones that stay the night.”
DeVaughn let out a low chuckle, then shook his head. “You stupid.”
But he didn’t let go.
He kept tracing circles on Avery’s back with his fingertips, memorizing the texture, the curve of him, the way his breath shifted when he smiled.
“I ain’t expect this,” DeVaughn said quietly.
Avery met his gaze. “What’d you expect?”
“Some heat. A few good nights. A memory.” He paused. “Not… this.”
“This?”
DeVaughn searched for the word. “This feelin’. Like I’m takin’ somethin’ back with me that I didn’t even know I needed.”
Avery didn’t smile this time. He just nodded once, slow. Then leaned in, pressing a kiss to DeVaughn’s chest. Not a goodbye. Just a mark.
Check-out came too fast.
They moved around the room like men trying not to disturb the moment. DeVaughn folded his clothes with care, brushed his teeth in the mirror while Avery watched from the bed. No one said anything about what would happen next. Maybe they didn’t have to.
Avery pulled on his tank and stood, hands on his hips, eyes steady.
“You gonna be good out there?” he asked.
DeVaughn nodded. “Yeah. I think I will now.”
Avery walked over, hooked a finger under his chin, and lifted his face until their eyes met.
“Don’t forget none of this.”
“How could I?”
They kissed again—slower this time. Lingering. No fire, just warmth. The kind that burned after.
Downstairs, the lobby was full of people leaving. Laughter echoed, bags rolled across tile, and hugs were thrown around like candy. Sizzle was ending, but you could still smell it in the air—joy, lust, release, connection.
DeVaughn paused by the front doors.
Avery stood behind him, one hand in his pocket, the other resting lightly at DeVaughn’s back.
“Don’t just remember the parties,” Avery said.
“I’ll remember your hands more than the music,” DeVaughn answered.
They didn’t hug. Didn’t promise to call.
They just exchanged a look—deep, quiet, electric—and then DeVaughn walked out into the Miami heat, his bag slung over his shoulder, his heart heavier and lighter all at once.
He wasn’t the same man who checked in Thursday night.
And that was the whole point.
Late-Night Cramming »
