Chapter 15: The Date (Romantic)
The dorm room air still smelled faintly of sex and stale pizza when Manny threw open Ahmed’s closet door the next evening. "Nope. Nuh-uh. Not those," he declared, tossing Ahmed’s favorite worn UCLA hoodie onto the rumpled bed. Ahmed blinked, nursing a lukewarm energy drink, still feeling the pleasant, deep ache Manny’s attentions had left behind. He’d been contemplating sweatpants and a nap. "We're going out."
"Out?" Ahmed echoed, skeptical. "Like… Panda Express out?" Their usual.
Manny grinned, pulling out a surprisingly crisp black button-down Ahmed forgot he owned. "Like rooftop bar out. Reservations. City views. The whole pretentious shebang." He tossed the shirt at Ahmed, who fumbled it. "Surprise. Now move your princely ass, habibi. We leave in twenty."
An hour later, the elevator doors slid open, depositing them into a different world. The rooftop bar hummed with a low, sophisticated energy, a stark contrast to their chaotic dorm. Strings of warm Edison bulbs crisscrossed above, casting pools of golden light on sleek, low tables. Beyond the glass railing, Los Angeles sprawled like a glittering circuit board, smudged by the low-hanging marine layer. The air was cool, thick with the scent of expensive perfume, spilled cocktails, and the persistent, sweet-skunk undertone of legal weed drifting from discreet corners. Bass thrummed through the floor, a steady, insistent pulse.
"Told you," Manny murmured, his hand finding the small of Ahmed’s back, guiding him through the dimly lit crowd. The touch, possessive yet casual, sent a familiar jolt through Ahmed, amplified by the unexpected setting. He felt out of place in his stiff shirt, hyper-aware of the lingering soreness inside him, a secret reminder of their intimacy amidst the chic anonymity.
Their table was tucked near the edge, offering a breathtaking panorama. Ahmed sank into the plush chair, knees bumping Manny’s under the small table. He picked up the heavy, leather-bound menu, the descriptions of artisanal mezcals and barrel-aged whiskey blurring before his eyes. His pulse hadn't slowed since stepping out of the elevator. He felt exposed, not by the view, but by the sheer normality of it all. Dinner. With Manny. After… everything.
A sleekly dressed server materialized. "Gentlemen. Welcome. Can I start you with cocktails?"
Manny didn't hesitate. "I'll have the Oaxacan Old Fashioned." He glanced at Ahmed, a playful challenge in his dark eyes. "And for my… friend." The slight pause was deliberate, a familiar spark. "The 'Sandstorm'. Sounds fitting, no?"
Ahmed’s cheeks warmed. The name felt loaded. He managed a tight nod. The server glided away. Silence stretched, filled by the city’s hum and the murmur of nearby conversations. Ahmed traced the condensation forming on his water glass. Manny leaned back, surveying the skyline, looking effortlessly at home. The confident ease grated against Ahmed’s nerves.
"Relax, habibi," Manny said softly, his voice cutting through Ahmed’s spiraling thoughts. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, closing the space between them. His knee pressed more firmly against Ahmed’s under the linen cloth. The contact was electric. "Breathe. It's just a drink. Just a view." His gaze held Ahmed’s, steady. "Tonight, I take care of you. Like a prince, not a whore." The last word was barely a whisper, a secret passed over the tablecloth, a stark counterpoint to the elegant surroundings. It shouldn’t have settled him, that old, degrading term. But it did. It was a known quantity in this sea of unfamiliarity. A promise, in its own twisted way.
Ahmed took a shaky breath, the tightness in his chest loosening slightly. He managed a weak smile. "Prince, huh? Does that mean you're paying for this overpriced sandstorm?"
Manny chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Obviously. Royal treasury’s flush after that crypto bet last week." He nudged Ahmed’s foot under the table. "Just enjoy it. Look at the stupidly expensive view. Pretend we're adults with actual lives."
The cocktails arrived. Ahmed’s ‘Sandstorm’ was a complex layering of amber whiskey, saffron-infused honey, and a dusting of something dark and smoky across the foam. It looked dangerous. He took a cautious sip. Fire and spice exploded on his tongue, followed by deep, smoky sweetness. It was intense. Overwhelming. Like Manny. He coughed slightly.
"Too much?" Manny asked, sipping his own drink with apparent satisfaction.
"No," Ahmed rasped, taking another, bolder sip. The heat spread through him, mingling with the low thrum of arousal Manny’s proximity and whispered words always sparked. "It's… powerful." He looked out at the city, the endless lights, trying to anchor himself. The sharp memory of Manny’s fingers inside him on the couch flashed, unbidden – the stretch, the control, the helpless groan he’d choked back. He shifted in his seat, the plush fabric suddenly abrasive against the lingering sensitivity. "This place is… different."
"Good different?" Manny probed, watching him intently over the rim of his glass. His eyes seemed to catch every flicker of expression on Ahmed’s face.
"Yeah," Ahmed admitted, meeting his gaze. The whiskey burned down his throat, lending him a fragile courage. "Weirdly fancy. But…" He paused, searching for the right words, the city lights reflecting in his dark eyes. "It feels… intentional. Like you planned this." He gestured vaguely at the view, the drinks, them. "Why?"
Manny didn’t look away. He set his glass down carefully. The playful edge softened, replaced by something more serious, almost hesitant. "Because after…" He paused, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features, quickly masked. "After the couch. After the… game. After you…" He cleared his throat, his gaze dropping momentarily to Ahmed’s lips, remembering the feel of them around him. "It wasn't just about the… roughness. Or the names." He met Ahmed’s eyes again, his voice dropping lower, intimate despite the surrounding buzz. "I wanted you to know that. That it’s… more. That I see you. All of you." He reached across the small table. His fingers brushed the back of Ahmed’s hand where it rested beside his glass. The touch was light, questioning. "Is that okay?"
Ahmed looked down at Manny’s brown fingers against his skin. He remembered those same fingers stretching him open, tangled in his hair, wiping his mouth. Possessive. Tender. Brutal. Gentle. The contrast was dizzying, as potent as the smoky whiskey. He felt the phantom ache throb in response to the memory and the current, tentative touch. He didn’t pull away. He turned his hand slightly, letting his fingers slide against Manny’s.
"Yeah, kuya," he breathed, the endearment slipping out as naturally as it had on the couch. He looked up, meeting Manny’s intense gaze. The city sprawled beneath them, indifferent. The bar hummed. But in that moment, the only thing that mattered was the warmth of Manny’s hand, the unspoken promise in his eyes, and the complex, terrifyingly real connection arcing between them across the small, candlelit table. The ‘Sandstorm’ sat half-finished, its fiery promise mirroring the heat slowly building again in Ahmed’s core. He hadn't moved his hand. Neither had Manny. The question hung, thick and unspoken, in the neon-drenched air: What happens now?
The city lights blurred slightly as Ahmed held Manny’s gaze, the warmth of their touching hands a counterpoint to the cool night air. That simple contact, after the couch, after the service on his knees, felt more intimate than any command. He swallowed, the smoky burn of the Sandstorm still coating his throat. "So," he started, voice rough, forcing a shaky grin to break the intensity. "This whole thing… fancy drinks, the view… kinda feels like a date, man." He squeezed Manny’s fingers lightly, a nervous flutter behind the tease. "Which is, like, so fucking gay."
Manny’s laugh burst out, sharp and genuine, cutting through the low hum of the bar. Heads turned briefly at the sound. He leaned across the small table, the candle flame dancing in his dark eyes, his smile wide and dangerous. His free hand came up, fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from Ahmed’s forehead, the touch lingering. "Habibi," he murmured, his voice dropping to that low, velvet register that always made Ahmed’s stomach flip. The scent of his expensive cocktail mixed with his own clean sweat. "Shut the fuck up." He leaned even closer, his breath warm against Ahmed’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the breeze. "All the fucking we did?" The pause was deliberate, heavy. "That wasn't?"
Ahmed froze. The casual brutality of the statement, whispered in this elegant space, slammed into him. Memories flooded back: the thump of his knees hitting the rug, the stretch of his jaw, the taste, the helpless swallowing, the possessive grip in his hair. Heat exploded across his face and neck, radiating down his chest. The ache between his legs, just a dull background throb moments before, surged with startling clarity. He couldn’t breathe.
He stared at Manny, whose expression held that familiar blend of challenge and lurking affection. The city’s glow reflected off his cheekbones. Ahmed’s hand remained locked with Manny’s on the table, the only anchor. He felt exposed under the Edison bulbs, the sophisticated chatter around them suddenly grating. The complicated knot of shame, arousal, and the terrifying pull towards the man opposite him tightened in his gut. His cock twitched traitorously against the confines of his dress pants.
Manny didn’t look away. He traced a slow circle on the back of Ahmed’s hand with his thumb. The casual intimacy of the gesture warred violently with the filthy truth hanging in the air. "Finish your drink, prince," Manny said softly, his eyes dark pools reflecting candlelight and something unreadable. He lifted his own glass, taking a deliberate sip, his gaze never leaving Ahmed’s flushed face. The challenge was implicit, layered over the tenderness. "Unless you’d rather head back to our messy palace?"
Ahmed’s fingers tightened convulsively around Manny’s. The Sandstorm’s fire seemed to ignite his blood. He looked at the half-finished complex cocktail, then back at Manny’s expectant, knowing eyes. The quiet hum of the rooftop bar faded into a distant buzz. There was only the pressure of Manny’s thumb, the phantom taste of him, the vivid memory of submission, and the unspoken question vibrating between them, louder than the city below. He reached for his glass.
Ahmed’s fingers closed around the chilled glass. The smoky whiskey burned a path down his throat, a familiar echo of the heat pooling low in his belly. He met Manny’s unwavering gaze over the rim, the city lights reflecting fractured gold in his roommate’s dark eyes.
"That’s different," Ahmed countered, his voice raspier than intended. He set the glass down too hard, the sharp clink drawing a glance from the next table. He lowered his voice. "That was… private. Messy. This?" He gestured vaguely, encompassing the sleek bar, the distant hum of curated bass. "This feels like you’re trying to be… normal."
Manny’s thumb resumed its slow circle on Ahmed’s knuckles. "Maybe I am," he said, his tone deceptively light. "Maybe I want to take my best friend out. Show him LA can be more than frozen burritos and code sprints." He leaned infinitesimally closer, the candlelight catching the edge of his smirk. "Maybe I like seeing you squirm in nice clothes. Remembering what’s underneath."
A fresh wave of warmth flooded Ahmed’s face, clashing with the cocktail’s internal fire. He remembered Manny’s fingers inside him just yesterday, hidden under a blanket. The contrast was dizzying. "Fuck you," he mumbled, lacking conviction, his knee pressing harder against Manny’s under the table.
Manny chuckled, low and rich. "Later. Maybe." He took another sip of his own drink, his gaze sweeping Ahmed’s face, tracing the flush on his neck. "You know what’s funny? You blush like that every time. Even when I called you…" He paused, letting the old slur hang unspoken between them, heavy as the weed scent drifting past. "You get all flustered. And kinda… hard." His eyes flicked pointedly downward for a fraction of a second.
Ahmed instinctively shifted, the fabric of his dress pants suddenly abrasive. Panic warred with a terrifying thrill. Manny saw everything. "Shut up, Manny," he hissed, glancing around. "Someone could hear."
"Who cares?" Manny shrugged, an easy motion that belied the intensity in his eyes. "They see two guys having drinks. They don’t see…" He lowered his voice even further, a conspiratorial whisper that sent shivers down Ahmed’s spine despite the warmth. "They don’t see how much my little sand whore loves it when I remind him what he is."
The words slammed into Ahmed, brutal and electrifying. The ache between his legs pulsed fiercely, a traitorous response he couldn’t control. He stared at Manny, breath catching, the sophisticated bar tilting slightly. He felt pinned, exposed under the string lights, the carefully constructed ‘prince’ facade cracking.
Manny watched him, studying the play of shock, shame, and undeniable arousal on Ahmed’s face. His expression softened, just a fraction. "Truth hurts, habibi?" he murmured, his thumb stilling on Ahmed’s hand. "Or does it feel… good? To be seen?"
Ahmed couldn’t speak. His heart hammered against his ribs. He felt the phantom stretch again, the memory of submission colliding violently with Manny’s piercing gaze in this public space. He was hard now, unmistakably so, trapped by the tablecloth and Manny’s knowing eyes. He wanted to flee. He wanted Manny to say it again.
"Yeah," he finally breathed, the word barely audible, raw and scraped out. He looked down at their joined hands, his knuckles white. "It… does. Only when you say it." The admission felt like tearing something open. He risked a glance up.
Manny’s smirk deepened into something warmer, satisfied. Triumphant. He squeezed Ahmed’s hand once, firmly. "Good." He signaled the server with his free hand, his voice returning to its normal, easy cadence. "Check, please?" He turned back to Ahmed, his dark eyes holding a promise that was anything but light. "Ready to get out of this grown-up cage, prince? Or do you need another Sandstorm to fortify you for the ride home?" He leaned forward again, his voice dropping back to that intimate rumble. "The Uber’s gonna feel very… close."
Ahmed swallowed hard, the image flashing instantly: the dark backseat, Manny’s hand on his thigh, the city lights streaking past. The ache intensified. He nodded mutely, pulling his hand back to grip his glass again, needing the anchor. He drained the last fiery sip. "Just get the bill, you menace." His voice trembled only slightly. He didn't move his knee away from Manny's. The anticipation, sharp and dangerous, was already coiling tight in his gut. Whatever Manny had planned for the ride, for after, Ahmed knew he craved it, prince or whore. The game wasn't over. It was shifting ground, pulling him deeper.
Manny watched Ahmed drain the fiery dregs of the Sandstorm, the pulse visible at the base of his throat. Good. He slid a sleek black card onto the check presenter without glancing at the total. The server vanished silently. The hum of the bar seemed to recede, leaving just the two of them and the charged space between their too-close chairs.
"Come on," Manny said, his voice low but firm. He stood, pushing his chair back. Ahmed scrambled to follow, his movements slightly uncoordinated, the whiskey buzzing in his veins mixing with the insistent thrum of need. Manny’s hand landed possessively on the small of Ahmed’s back again, guiding him through the clusters of laughing people towards the elevator bank. The touch burned through the thin fabric of Ahmed’s shirt.
The elevator was empty except for them. Mirrored walls reflected their images: Ahmed flushed, eyes wide and dark, Manny calm beside him, a faint, knowing curve to his lips. The doors slid shut with a soft hiss. Silence. Enclosed space. Ahmed stared straight ahead at his own reflection, hyper-aware of Manny’s proximity, the heat radiating from him, the scent of expensive tequila and clean male skin. He felt exposed all over again, the rooftop conversation echoing in the small space.
"You okay?" Manny asked, his voice quiet, almost gentle. He didn’t look at Ahmed, keeping his gaze fixed forward, but his hand remained firmly planted on Ahmed’s back.
"Yeah," Ahmed managed, the word tight. He shifted his weight, the ache deep inside him flaring in the stillness. "Just… buzzed. That Sandstorm packs a punch." It was a flimsy excuse. They both knew it.
Manny hummed, a non-committal sound. The elevator began its smooth descent. "Good buzz?" His thumb moved in a small, deliberate circle against Ahmed’s spine. "Or the other kind?"
Ahmed’s breath hitched. He closed his eyes for a second, leaning infinitesimally back into the pressure of Manny’s hand. "Both," he whispered, the admission torn out of him by the confined intimacy. "Mostly the other kind."
The elevator pinged, doors opening onto the hotel lobby. Cooler air rushed in, smelling of polished marble and distant perfume. Manny’s hand slid down, fingers briefly grazing the curve of Ahmed’s ass before falling away as they stepped out. "Uber’s two minutes," he announced, checking his phone, his voice back to casual. "Out front."
They walked through the opulent lobby, Ahmed feeling disjointed, caught between worlds. Plush carpets, chandeliers, the lingering ghost of Manny’s touch on his lower back, the phantom taste of salt on his tongue. Outside, the city night air was cooler, thick with exhaust and distant sirens. Manny leaned against a concrete pillar, scrolling on his phone, the blue light illuminating his face.
Ahmed stood beside him, shifting his weight, the fabric of his dress pants suddenly unbearably tight. He crossed his arms, trying to hide his lingering erection, acutely aware of every passing pedestrian. The tension hummed, silent and thick. He needed to break it. "So," he started, aiming for nonchalance, failing miserably. "This ‘taking care of me like a prince’ thing… does it include getting me high later?"
Manny looked up from his phone, a slow grin spreading. He pocketed the device and turned fully to Ahmed. Before Ahmed could react, Manny’s hand shot out, fingers closing firmly around Ahmed’s wrist. Not painful, but unyielding. Possessive. He tugged Ahmed closer, pulling him partly behind the pillar, shielding them from the main flow of foot traffic. The move was swift, decisive.
"Habibi," Manny murmured, his voice a low vibration against the city noise. His free hand came up, not to Ahmed’s face, but to the collar of his shirt. His fingers brushed the sensitive skin just above the button, his knuckles grazing Ahmed’s throat. Ahmed froze, pulse hammering wildly where Manny held his wrist. "The prince treatment?" Manny’s breath was warm against Ahmed’s ear. "That was dinner." His thumb pressed lightly against Ahmed’s frantic pulse point. His other hand slid down, fingertips tracing the outline of Ahmed’s trapped hard-on through the dress pants with deliberate, shocking pressure. Ahmed gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound. "This," Manny whispered, his lips almost touching Ahmed’s earlobe, "is the whore treatment. And our ride’s here." He released Ahmed’s wrist and stepped back just as a black SUV pulled smoothly to the curb, its hazard lights blinking. He opened the rear door, his eyes locked on Ahmed’s stunned face, dark with promise. "Get in."