The trumpet is mournful, the cymbals steady. Conversation billows around them in the hotel bar on a Friday night. Kurt's on his second cocktail, just enough that he's feeling a bit floaty amidst the rush of sound and people. Blaine's still on his first beer. Still a little breathless from dancing, sweat dots his hairline, tiny shining beads glinting in the revolving light from the dance floor.

"How about him?" Kurt asks around the cherry stem between his lips. He nods in the direction of the bar where a young man is leaning, apparently alone, scanning the crowd aimlessly. Pretty full lips, model cheekbones, sandy blond hair swept back from his forehead in careless waves, dark rimmed glasses, cricket sweater, jeans and polished loafers: preppy in an Ivy League fraternity kind of way. Fits both their types. Very hot. He could probably get anyone he wanted in the bar to take him home, but Kurt saw him looking at Blaine.

"Blond and well-dressed nursing the high ball?" Blaine asks. He's sitting close by Kurt's side in the leather booth near the gas fire. Their thighs are pressed together, and, beneath the table, Kurt's hand is high on Blaine's leg. He moves it higher, rubs a little encouragement with his thumb.

"Mmhm. He was watching you when we were dancing."

It's a popular hotel bar, so there are plenty of new faces and people on their own in addition to the regular crowd. They have a room upstairs. Kurt watches Blaine consider the guy.

"Was he?" Blaine asks. Kurt sees the interest flare in Blaine's gaze. "I didn't notice."

"You rarely do," Kurt says with a quirk of his lips. He plucks the cherry stem free of his mouth and leans closer to Blaine's ear, grazes the tip of his nose along the edge of it, and speaks loud enough to be heard clearly over the live jazz. "Think you could persuade him to come upstairs with us?"

"Hmm..." Blaine says. The guy glances over his shoulder at them, then. Almost as if he's felt the weight of Blaine's interest. Blaine keeps looking--easy, not challenging--successfully snares the glance, turns it into the guy looking right back.

"You want to try?" Kurt asks, withdrawing from Blaine's space.

Blaine smiles. Inviting. The guy flashes a self-conscious smile back before he quickly turns his attention back to his glass. Kurt moves his hand so Blaine can get up. "Yeah," Blaine says. "I do."

Kurt watches him go as he fishes another cherry from his cherry whiskey smash. The plastic-slick skin of the cherry rolls easily on his tongue. He bites down; it's bitter sharp with liquor, sweet with its own juice.

Most of the time all they do is look. Kurt finds some man he's sure will appeal to Blaine, and whispers into his ear, how easily Blaine could seduce him, how much the man will want him, all the things Blaine could do with the man while Kurt looks on. How hot the man will be for Blaine, how desperate he'll be, how much he'll want Blaine's mouth or cock or ass. How he'll use Blaine or let himself be used. How much he'll beg or how hard he'll come.

Once the verbal fantasy has played out, Kurt will take Blaine up to the room and give him everything he's aching for.

Sometimes, if they're lucky, the guy shows interest. In which case, they do this.

Blaine's a natural. Seduces people so easily--the consummate performer with a confidence to his charisma he's learned to wield well. So well, it can leave Kurt breathless. Like now. Kurt watches Blaine approach the guy, sees the supple sway in Blaine's spine as he moves, the way it reflects in the other man's smile as he looks up and realizes what's happening.

There will be some small talk before Blaine makes his proposition, before he sets out their rules. Kurt sees Blaine wave for the bartender's attention, and Kurt waits. His fingertips slip over the cool condensation on his glass, his teeth worry the cherry stem, and he feels his pulse sink hot and heavy to match the throb of the double bass on stage.

Eventually, the guy looks back toward Kurt, curious. Kurt drags the cherry stem from between his lips and smiles through the upwelling of sudden nerves. It always hits him like this: abrupt and a little giddy. The alcohol helps, though he's far from drunk. He receives a smile in return, a nod, and then the man's attention is back on Blaine, and Blaine's hand is on his upper arm, sliding up to his shoulder, and Kurt can see the flash of their grins catch in the blue-green light behind the bar.

Kurt stands as they approach, nimbly doing up the middle button of his blazer. Blaine's hand is still on the other man's shoulder, familiar and comfortable there. His gaze, when it finds Kurt's, is hot. "My husband, Kurt," Blaine says to the man, who takes Kurt's offered hand in a firm grip.

"Ben," the man says. Behind the shine of his lenses, his gaze is slightly less than steady; his cheeks are flushed.

"It's a pleasure," Kurt says.

"I hope so," says Ben, and he holds Kurt's hand a few beats longer than etiquette demands. "I've never done anything quite like this before." He's adorable, and Kurt is eager to see how this goes.

"Of course not," Kurt says. He could be biased, but, really, there's no one else quite like Blaine.

Kurt takes his drink with him as they head to the elevator.