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Mayor Mellow doesn’t look at Barney; he is too busy staring at the golden bubbles dancing in the flute of champagne. He is a small man, diminished by a suit three sizes too large and a jagged, metallic protrusion sticking out of his temple—a bottlecap, wedged deep into the soft tissue of his cranial cavity. It is a grotesque accessory that pulses with his heartbeat, a constant, throbbing reminder of the accident that turned the town’s bubble-loving population into outcasts.
Barney stands across from him, looking like a fever dream of old money and new frontiers. He is a billionaire who dresses as if he owns the horizon, sporting a wide-brimmed Stetson that casts a shadow over his predatory, amused eyes. He smells of expensive saddle leather and a cologne that costs more than Mellow’s office furniture.
"Now, Mellow," Barney draws out the name, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates in Mellow's chest. "The ban is bad for business. My imports are rotting on the docks. Just pop the cap and let the bubbles back in."
Mellow finally looks up. His eyes are glazed, pupils dilated from the champagne. He speaks in a rhythmic, sing-song cadence, the words tripping off his tongue like a nursery rhyme. "The cap stays in, the law stays tight, unless you make it feel just right."
Barney freezes, the smirk on his face sharpening. He steps forward, the heels of his boots clicking hard against the polished floor. He enters Mellow’s personal space, the heat radiating off his large frame like a furnace. He reaches out, not to the bottlecap, but to the collar of Mellow’s oversized shirt, tugging him forward until their breaths mingle—scented with champagne and desperation.
"Is that a proposition, little bird?" Barney murmurs.
Mellow’s breath hitches. He can feel the raw pull of gravity shifting toward the larger man. He leans in, his voice a wet whisper. "One night of heat, a bed for two; I'll lift the ban, if I get you."
The tension in the room snaps. Barney doesn't waste time with pleasantries. He grabs Mellow by the waist, lifting him effortlessly and slamming him back against the mahogany desk. The impact sends the champagne flutes clattering, the liquid spilling across the wood in shimmering streaks. Barney’s hand slides under the fabric of Mellow’s trousers, the friction of calloused skin against thigh creating a searing heat. Mellow gasps, his back arching, the bottlecap in his head throbbing in sync with the sudden, violent rush of blood to his groin.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Mellow," Barney growls, his lips grazing Mellow's jawline.
"Danger is sweet, the prize is a win; now take me home, and let the night begin."