If The Seas Catch Fire

This erotic story excerpt by L.A. Witt from If The Seas Catch Fire was originally self-published and is a finalist in the Good Sex Awards Best LGBTQI Category. Show it some love and vote for this story in the Readers' Choice awards by 20 June.

If The Seas Catch Fire

“You got the cash?”

Domenico held up the wad of hundreds.

Sergei forced himself not to scowl as he plucked the money from the man’s hand. “Looks like you’re the lucky winner.”

Domenico shivered. That was odd—the Mafiosos were strictly business when they came in here. They’d pay a fortune for a dance that wasn’t really a dance, and if anything, curled their lips at the strippers and clientele.

And suddenly Sergei was fighting a grin instead of a scowl. Maybe he’d been right about Domenico after all. Those little glances. The nerves.

He led Domenico to one of the private booths in the back. Roy the bouncer met his eyes, and Sergei gave him a nod. Code for “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.” He’d stay close enough to intervene if shit went down, but otherwise he’d keep his back turned and watch the other guys giving their dances. Then he’d get a cut of whatever Sergei made from the against-club-policy activities he’d turned a blind eye to. He got fifty bucks for ignoring a blowjob that never happened, and Sergei got a shitload more than that for taking whatever contract was offered to him in hushed tones behind a curtain.

Sergei pulled the curtain across, and he didn’t quite know why his heart was beating so fast as he turned to face Domenico.

The Italian unbuttoned his jacket and lowered himself into the crimson armchair. Most guys flopped down on the cushion and waited like a drooling dog for the show to get started. Not this guy. Arrogant Mafioso, royalty in name only, he sat like an overlord taking his throne instead of a sleazy asshole panting for dick in a chair where a thousand men before him had blown their loads.

The music came on.

Sergei assumed his usual provocative stance, standing close enough to fuck with his mind and pulse while he ran his hands up and down his own sides. Here’s the goods. You like what you see?

“So.” Sergei gazed down at him. “You want more information, I assume.”

“Not this time.” Domenico met his eyes, and he grinned, knowingly and dangerously. “This time I want a dance.”

That was… unexpected. This was the moment when his contacts usually started speaking in code, and “a dance” wasn’t part of that code.

Sergei ran the tip of his tongue across his lip. “Just a dance?”

“Yes.” The long, lingering down-up Domenico gave him, his breath hitching here and there, raised goose bumps on Sergei’s mostly exposed flesh. When their eyes met again, Domenico spoke just loud enough for Sergei to hear him over the music, “I suspect with you involved, there’s no such thing as just a dance.”

Apparently he wasn’t here in any official capacity. And maybe he’d given up on his pursuit of more details about the night they’d met. Sergei would certainly keep his guard up, but if Domenico wanted a dance…

Sergei stripped down to his G-string, watching Domenico’s eyes widen. He swore he could feel the man’s pulse rising, especially when Sergei stepped closer and slid a knee between his thighs. Domenico parted them farther, and his fingers curled over the edges of the armrests. Maybe the arrogant overlord…wasn’t. Eyes wide and spine stiff, knuckles turning white, he suddenly seemed in over his head.

“You ever had a dance like this?”

He gulped, and a flicker of something—nerves?—broke the rest of the calm and cool façade. Slowly, he shook his head.

“Rules are simple.” Sergei climbed onto his lap, sliding his hands over broad shoulders. “I dance. You don’t move. Don’t touch me. Got it?”

His eyes were fixed on Sergei’s abs, and as he nodded, he whispered, “Yeah.” He looked Sergei up and down. “My God…”

“Why did you come back?”

“I had to.” Domenico’s voice was just loud enough to be heard. “I can’t…” His gaze drifted up and down Sergei’s torso. “Can’t stop thinking about you.”

Sergei swallowed. Gay wise guys weren’t unheard of, but they didn’t last long.

“What’s your name?” Domenico asked again.

Sergei shook his head. “It’s not important.”

“Isn’t it?”


“Do I ever get to know what it is?”

“Why do you need to know my name?” Sergei turned around and leaned back against him, pressing his ass against an incredibly hard cock and his shoulders against Domenico’s broad chest. “My name isn’t relevant. You don’t know what it is, but I’m still turning you on, aren’t I?”

“Yes. Yes, you are.” The man’s breath tickled the side of Sergei’s neck.

Sergei lifted himself up and faced Domenico again, settling onto his lap as he added, “That’s all you need to know, isn’t it?”

“I don’t need to know anything. I want to know.” He slowly ran his tongue across his lips. “Just like I want to know what it feels like to…” He trailed off, gazing drifting over Sergei’s body, and if Sergei had been able to breathe—what the fuck is going on?—he’d have asked him to finish his sentence.

Dance. You’re here to dance.

Sergei ground against him, and the firm ridge of Domenico’s cock beneath his balls made his pulse soar. And not only that, it made him hard. Sergei often got into it when he was dancing, and sometimes if a guy was particularly hot, he even got a little turned on.

But not like this.

Domenico’s eyes flicked downward, and he gulped. “That… that G-string isn’t quite big enough for you.”

Sergei glanced down. “Isn’t when I’m like this.” And he was rarely like this when he danced. Fuck.

“Maybe you should take it off.”

“Can’t take everything off,” he murmured. “The… the law.”

Domenico’s eyes flicked up and met his, burning with lust. “You think I’m gonna report you?”

Sergei glanced back at the curtain. Then he stood and shimmied out of the G-string.

There was something deliciously dangerous and irresistibly sexy about this. Though a G-string hardly counted as clothing, losing it left him feeling like he’d just thrown off ten protective layers. Like he’d gone from fully-dressed to naked in just a few beats, and now he was against Domenico, cock and balls rubbing against the soft silk of his shirt and tie.

“You’re breaking the rules,” Domenico breathed, and Sergei swore he could hear his heartbeat in his voice. “Does that mean I can too?”

For five thousand dollars and that look in your eye? You can do any damned thing you want.

“I don’t think you want to break the rules.” He wrapped his arms around Domenico’s neck, pressing his dick against the man’s chest and bringing his abs close enough to Domenico’s face to feel his breath. “You like looking without touching.” He slowly fucked against him, his own head spinning as the smooth silk turned his nerve endings to pure electricity. “Don’t you?”

Domenico exhaled hard, the warm air whispering across Sergei’s abs and making him gasp. “I want… I want to touch you.”

“I know you do.” Sergei leaned forward enough to murmur in his ear, “But this turns you on. Doesn’t it?”

Domenico shivered beneath him. “Everything about you turns me on.”

Likewise. It shouldn’t, but… shit.

Sergei leaned down to let his lips almost touch Domenico’s neck, teasing him with their proximity, and as goose bumps sprang up on the Italian’s skin, they sprang up on his too. He was too turned on to think. More turned on than he should’ve been. And he didn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop.

Dizzy and breathless, he let his lips graze Domenico’s neck, and he was rewarded with a helpless moan that made his whole body tingle.

And before he could think twice, he whispered, “My name—” He shivered hard, thrusting against him like he was thrusting inside him. “Sergei.” His pulse sped up—none of his contacts had his real name, but Domenico did. Why? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. He just needed… this time… “My name is Sergei.”

“Sergei,” Domenico breathed, as if it was the sexiest thing he’d ever heard. “Are you close?” He looked up at Sergei, eyes wide and watering. “Please tell me you’re close.”

“I…” Oh God, he was. Sergei had never gotten off in one of these rooms, never come during a lap dance, but he was right there on the edge, on the brink of blowing his load all over this Italian’s expensive shirt, and he should’ve backed off, but he wasn’t interested in coming to his senses. He wanted nothing else in that moment, nothing more in the whole fucking world, than to come.

Sergei sat up, holding onto Domenico’s shoulders, and thrust against him, and Domenico groaned and whispered, “Ooh, yeah…”

“Gonna…” Sergei gripped his shoulders tighter. “Oh shit…” His eyes rolled back, his balls tightened, and even over the deafening music, he heard himself whimper.

“God, yeah,” Domenico groaned. “That’s… shit, that’s hot. Come, Sergei.”

Everything went white. Sergei arched against him, thrusting against wet silk until a shudder almost knocked his arms out from under him. He slumped over Domenico, trembling from head to toe. This was the first time ever—since he’d discovered he could make a fortune by grinding against a man in a dark back room—that he’d come during a lap dance. That he’d even come inside this godforsaken building.

And he’d come all over Domenico’s shirt and tie. For a split second, he thought Domenico would get upset, but then the breathless Italian whispered, “That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

“G-good.” Sergei licked his lips as he struggled to hold himself up on shaking arms.

“Can I touch you?”

Sergei swallowed. It was strictly against club policy, but so was coming on a guy’s shirt during an illegally naked lap dance. Nothing about Domenico pegged his danger radar now—chances were, he had no idea who Sergei really was, and at least the men near the top in his world were usually civilized when it came to those not involved in the Mob.

“Yeah,” Sergei panted. “You can—”

Domenico cupped Sergei’s face and kissed him.

Every instinct Sergei had honed as both a killer and a stripper screamed at him to shove the man back and get the fuck out of there, but…


Domenico’s fingers twitched against the sides of Sergei’s face. His lips were softer and gentler than he’d thought they could be. If not for the coarse stubble abrading his chin, Sergei might’ve forgotten this uncertain tough guy was a Sicilian wise guy. That he was Domenico Maisano, for God’s sake.

He couldn’t help it—his curiosity got the best of him. He opened to Domenico’s kiss, and let himself be pulled in closer as Domenico gently explored his mouth. Against his better judgement, he slid a hand into Domenico’s hair, cradling the back of his head as lips and tongues sent Sergei’s pulse into overdrive. Domenico was tentative, and yet bold at the same time, his hands light on Sergei’s skin even as his mouth demanded more.

Eventually, Sergei lifted his head. Domenico stared up at him, and goddamn, he looked as surprised as Sergei felt. They were both out of breath, Sergei’s hips pressed against Domenico’s rock-hard dick, and even though Sergei had already come, that look in Domenico’s eyes sent his heart rate surging upward.

The bass in the lounge thumped against Sergei’s nerve endings, reminding him where he was, why he was here, what the laws and common sense said he could and couldn’t do.

Knees shaking, Sergei got to his feet, thankful for the muscle memory that kept the motion graceful and deliberate when he felt this clumsy.

As Sergei pulled on his G-string, Domenico rose. He didn’t say a word, and they both cleaned off and straightened their clothes, Domenico tugging at his tie and his sleeves while Sergei shimmied into the barely-there leather shorts.

Then they faced each other, and before Sergei could make heads or tails of any goddamned thing, Domenico held up a card between two fingers. “I want to see you again.”


If you loved this story, vote for it in the Readers’ Choice awards by 20 June or buy the book.

L.A. Witt and her husband have been exiled from Spain and sent to live in Maine because rhymes are fun. She now divides her time between writing, assuring people she is aware that Maine is cold, wondering where to put her next tattoo, and trying to reason with a surly Maine coon.
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