Rob nodded. He’d thought Michael’s job was something like along those lines. “Well, that fits in perfectly with my invitation. I’m an unattached Dom, and I’d love to share a drink with you, and to discuss maybe sharing more.”
Michael’s eyes widened for just a moment, then the smaller man blinked hard and shook his head. “I appreciate the offer,” he said, sounding just a little wigged out. “But this is my job, and I don’t think it’s a good idea to bring old baggage to work.”
With that, Michael walked away from him. Again. And again turning his back in a show of equality that rubbed every Dominant instinct Rob had in the wrong way. Rob watched him go with narrowed eyes. Plan A, approaching him openly, hadn’t worked. Time for a Plan B.
*
Michael leaned against the wall and watched the couples and trios on the dance floor. Lady Gaga pounded over the speakers, demanding a ride on his disco stick, and he found himself swaying just a little bit to the music. He let the music move him, smiling for what felt like the first time in weeks.
Rob had been fucking stalking him. It wasn’t bad enough that those dark green eyes chased him through dreams, which left him sticky and panting. No, now the man himself seemed to have practically moved in to the club.
And, while the undeniably sexy Dom could have had his choice of male or female submissives, both club subs and club members, he’d stuck to the lightest of play, sharing an occasional drink and an even more occasional dance. And all the time his eyes followed Michael, who couldn’t settle down into a scene when he felt that gaze like a physical touch.
Tonight, though, there was no sign of Rob, and Michael was hoping to find someone who would top the shit out of him so he could let go of some of the tension knotting his shoulders and get his head level again.
Lady Gaga gave way to Goldfrapp, who wanted to ride on a white horse, and Michael threaded his way onto the dance floor. He didn’t mind dancing alone; in fact, he almost preferred it. Short of a good scene, nothing let him blow off steam like dancing. Besides, he doubted he’d be alone for long; the club was full of men and women, Dom and sub alike, who’d be happy to rub up against him and lose themselves in the music.
Goldfrapp, Ke$ha, even Cyndi fucking Lauper. DJ Wicked was on a tear tonight, and Michael wondered who’d pissed the normally Zen rope master off. Then he let it go and went back to dancing, feeling better than he had since Rob walked into the wax play workshop.
Just about the time Madonna made her inevitable appearance, ticking the minutes away with Justin Timberlake, Michael felt a wave of heat along his bare back. It could be anyone, absolutely anyone who wanted to dance, but Michael knew without looking it was Rob. Something about the quality of the heat warned him even before one large, well-manicured hand slid around his hip to splay across his groin, bracketing his cock, which had taken an immediate notice of the attention.
He kept his back to the man, as if that would make the impact of his touch any less. If anything, it amped it up. He closed his eyes and let his other senses go, drinking in the smooth press of Rob’s chest against his back, the slide of crisp, starched cotton and the tiny bite of buttons against his bare, damp skin. He could fucking smell the man, a hint of sandalwood and citrus he’d recognize anywhere as Rob’s cologne, and a taste of spice underneath he suspected was just the scent of Rob’s skin.
The music kept going and so did Michael, letting Rob pull him back, grinding into the iron-hard cock pressed up against his ass like it had been designed to fit there. By the time Rob’s hand landed on Michael’s dick, Michael was more than halfway gone, erection pressing obscenely against the lace-up front of his black vinyl pants.
He didn’t resist when Rob guided his hands up and back, squeezing firmly to indicate they should stay locked behind the Dom’s neck. Then Rob started to play, sliding one hand over Michael’s chest, counting the ridges of his ribs, tracing the muscles of his abs, tweaking his nipples and tugging at the barbells piercing them while the other hand jerked roughly at his cock, playing with the cord holding his fly closed, teasing between the laces.
Fuck. Fuck . Rob was behind him, in front of him, filling his fucking head with static and his balls with fire.
They were against the wall now, out of the light and a little removed from the crowd. And it was the third floor, so no one was going to notice or care if Rob was unlacing his pants, delving in to fist his cock, bare skin scalding, while Michael hung helplessly against him, arms raised, hands clenched behind his Dom’s head, just letting Rob have him.
Rob was more than ready to take anything Michael was giving up, too. Rhianna was wailing, I like it when you tell me move it there , and Rob was spinning Michael around, pressing his chest against the wall. It was cool and slick against his bare skin, a stunning contrast to the heat of Rob’s hand on his dick.
The Dom slid down, mouth open on Michael’s back, teeth scraping the sensitive dip at the base of his spine, hand working Michael’s cock relentlessly. Michael didn’t even pretend to resist, just let his hips punch forward, drive his aching cock through Rob’s grasp.
Sharp teeth closed over his ass-cheek, the sensation bright even through his pants, and he groaned and dragged his chest against the wall, rasping his nipples against the flat surface. He was close, so fucking close. Rhianna was crying, take it, take it, baby, baby , and Michael needed; needed Rob to take him, to get him off, something, anything .
Almost as if he could read Michael’s mind, Rob stood, slid up the length of Michael’s body, his crisp cotton shirt soft and damp from the heat of their bodies. His mouth opened over Michael’s shoulder, teeth digging in just enough to feel before hot lips ran the length of his neck to fasten on the tender skin behind Michael’s ear.
“What do you need, Mikey?” Oh, God. He needed this. Rob’s touch. Rob’s mouth. Rob’s fucking voice in his ear chanting, “Give it up to me. Let me feel it. Let me fucking taste it, Michael.” And then he was doing it, was giving it up, shooting heat and anger and desperation all over Rob’s hand, on his own stomach, the wall. God, it was like a fucking flood, ten years of want exploding out of him in one bone-melting, brain-bending orgasm that left him stupid and shaky.
Hard hands turned him, sticky-slick fingers closing on his chin as eyes dyed black by the psychedelic lighting seared through his soul. Rob lowered his head and Michael pulled back, knocking his head against the wall, some semi-conscious instinct warning him what they’d done was bad enough, if he let Rob kiss him, he’d truly be lost. But Rob wasn’t angling for a kiss. Instead the Dom dipped his head to lick the cum off Michael’s jaw, then pulled back and licked the spunk off his own hand. Michael fought hard to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head. So. Fucking. Hot.
Then those hard hands were on his shoulders, pressing hard, and it was as natural as breathing for Michael to go to his knees. Rob didn’t speak, just guided Michael’s hands behind his own neck, then unfastened his belt and the fly of his fine wool pants. Michael leaned back, bracing his shoulders on the wall and looked up the length of Rob’s body.
That fine, fat cock was free now, and Michael’s mouth was watering for it. He wanted to reach out and take, but his Mas … Rob had placed his hands behind his neck, and he couldn’t break the command. Instead he just leaned in when Rob rubbed the damp tip of his cock along Michael’s lips. He chased the salt-sweet silk and steel with his tongue until Rob tangled one hand in his hair and held his head still.
At that irresistible grip, the painful tug on his hair, something in Michael just let go. Nothing had changed. This was still Rob, still the first boy he’d loved, the first one to break his heart. But this was also a Dom, a Dom strong enough to give him what he needed.
Right now, what he needed was that cock.
Rob smacked it against his cheek, tapped his chin, then fed the heavy shaft right between Michael’s lips.
*
He could taste Michael in his mouth; feel the imprint of that long, hard body against his own. Now Mich
ael was taking his cock, eyes half-closed and dazed with his own orgasm. Rob almost couldn’t decide what was better, the way the nimble tongue danced along his shaft, or the way Michael looked: lips swollen and red and wrapped the fuck around Rob’s dick.
Plan B, the sneak attack, was turning out to be a success, thank God. Rob’d had a shitty day; a client had committed suicide and he’d spent the afternoon with the stunned widow. By the time he’d left the office, he hadn’t even bothered to stop home and change. He’d needed Velvet Ice. He’d wanted Michael.
Michael was melting under his touch. The harder he gripped the silky dark hair, the harder Michael sucked. Rob tried to keep it slow, it all felt so fucking good he didn’t want it to end too soon, but Michael was sucking him deep, head bobbing fast, swallowing around the tip on the down stroke, tongue doing some brain-frying twisty thing on the knot of nerves just beneath the head. Before he meant to, Rob was holding Michael still, just fucking that perfect mouth, awash in heat and sensation.
Each stroke went a little deeper. Each thrust a little harder. And Michael took every inch, swallowed hard, and blew Rob’s fucking mind.
Rob came hard, and Michael took every drop, working his cock with lips and tongue, surprising a final spurt of cream before pulling back to lick him clean. He gentled his hands in Michael’s hair, stroking now instead of gripping, and watched Michael start to come back from the place subs go when the moment and the Master are just right.
After a moment he guided the smaller man to his feet, and leaned in, wanting to taste himself on Michael’s mouth. Michael pulled back again, though, and frowned.
“I don’t kiss,” he said, and Rob knew the slight roughness in his voice was from taking his cock, and it made him want to start all over again. Then what Michael was saying filtered into his pleasure-drugged brain. “This is work, not romance. I don’t kiss here.”
Michael was wriggling his way out from between Rob and the wall, hands fumbling to lace his pants back up. Rob wondered what the fuck had just happened.
“Then come somewhere else with me,” he tried. “Someplace that isn’t work.” Michael was finished with his fly, was shoving his hair back and capturing it in a band he’d had around his wrist.
“Rob, I forgave you.” It was impossible to tell what color his eyes were in the bar lighting; they looked as colorless as ice. “Hell, I forgave you a long time ago. But forgiving you doesn’t mean I want to have a relationship with you.”
Rob clenched his fists, resisting the need to grab Michael and make him stop, make him listen and make him give over everything he had, everything he was, to Rob.
“And I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to do scenes together, either.” Pants done, hair pulled back, Michael looked completely cool and unaffected. The only sign of the melting submissive of five minutes ago was the red, swollen mouth. The mouth Michael wouldn’t let him kiss.
Michael was walking away, turning his back on Rob and vanishing into the crowd on the dance floor. Rob stood, feeling stupid and slow, for a long time. So, he needed a Plan C. Because Rob would be damned if Michael was going to turn his back on him again without some serious consequences.
Chapter Five
Michael stood in the small dressing area set aside for club employees and dragged his hands through his hair. Maybe if he pulled hard enough, he’d shake loose some common sense.
A week had passed. Seven days. And he could still taste Rob. Could still feel the heat of the Dom along his spine. It didn’t help that the man was still practically living at the club. It seemed every time Michael turned around, Rob was there tempting, taunting.
He didn’t know how many more times he could say no to the man, not when he wanted to say yes so fucking badly.
Rob was out there now, in his customary position, leaning back against the bar, nursing a glass of mineral water and lime. Michael had managed to avoid him so far tonight, but he knew it was just a matter of time before that dark green gaze locked on him like a heat-seeking missile, and he’d be in the line of fire once again.
He needed a plan; a fail-safe way to keep his distance.
“You are well?” The deep voice startled Michael out of his obsessing, and he turned to face Gregori, Velvet Ice’s head of security and submissive to the lovely Mistress Megan.
“I’m fine. Just thinking too hard.” He managed what he hoped was a genuine smile, and tugged his hair back in its customary club at the back of his neck.
“The new Dom,” Gregori rumbled thoughtfully. “He’s bothering you. Should I intercede?”
That would be wonderful. Awful. Fuck. “No, man. Rob and I have some history, and it wasn’t all pretty, but there’s nothing you need to step in on.” His smile was a little more authentic this time. “Thanks, though. It’s good to know someone has my back.”
Gregori smiled back and cuffed him on the back of the head. “Well, my Mistress is fond of you, and I do not have so many friends that I would allow one of them to be harassed.”
“I’m fond of your Mistress, as well.” Michael gave Gregori a playful shove, which didn’t even make the man sway. The big Russian was built like a brick wall, and was about as solid as one. “And I’m proud to be your friend, you big brute.”
So, he was feeling a bit better when he left the changing area and slinked out onto the dance floor. Better enough that he barely flinched when he found himself dancing face-to-face with Rob.
This time, Rob’s eyes were narrowed, and there was something … stern in the man’s face that made Michael’s knees weak and his cock hard. Maybe that was why, when Rob took him by the arm and pulled him off the dance floor, he didn’t resist.
Rob waited until they were in a relatively quiet corner of the room before speaking. “I accept it when you say you don’t want to share a scene, or anything else, with me.” Okay, there was something wrong about that statement, but Michael could smell Rob, clean sweat and citrusy cologne, and it was messing with his mind. “I will not accept your continued disrespect, though.”
Wait. What?
“I am a Dom. I’ve been granted membership to Velvet Ice as a Dom. You are a submissive, employed by this club.”
“Now, hold up,” Michael began. “I’m not a prostitute. Just because I’m a sub and you’re a Dom doesn’t mean … ” Rob cut him off with a derisive snort.
“I’m not saying you have to have sex with me, Michael. What I’m saying is, it is unacceptable for you to turn your back on me. It is unacceptable the way you insist on meeting my eyes. You are disrespectful, and consistently fail to fulfill your role at Velvet Ice, which is to be deferential to the Doms here, whether you are sharing a scene with them or not.”
Michael dragged in a breath. Rob had a point. But Michael’d be damned if he could bring himself to play the sub to Rob’s Dom. Because for him it wasn’t playing. Michael needed the discipline, needed to be pushed and even controlled in order to keep his head clear. Submission, to Michael, was as necessary as breath, and he knew willfully submitting to Rob was an invitation to the sort of pain he wasn’t looking for.
“We have too much history, Rob,” he finally said. “You could have your choice of almost any submissive here, male or female.” He flicked a look at Rob’s face, then forced his gaze obediently to the floor. “Pick someone you don’t have any baggage with. That’ll make life easier for both of us.”
*
Pick someone he didn’t have baggage with? Rob watched Michael walk away — again! — with a sort of disbelieving anger. He just wasn’t sure where to direct the anger: at Michael, or at himself.
One thing he’d give the maddening submissive, though, was the fact he could have most any unattached sub here. Maybe it was time he took advantage of that fact.
It had been weeks since he’d melted Michael into a pool of molten need at the wax play workshop, and longer still since he’d truly invested in a scene with someone. He’d been making do with quick, shallow encounters while work took up the majority of
his focus; then, after seeing Michael again, well, shallow lost its appeal.
Maybe that was his problem. Maybe he needed a good, deep, intense scene with a willing submissive to put him back in the proper headspace for a Dom. Hell, to put him back in the proper headspace for a man.
It didn’t take much, was really just a matter of a quick email to Master Sin, and Rob had what he wanted. Wednesday night was a performance night at Velvet Ice and Rob, with a little help from Master Sin and a lovely golden-skinned submissive named Trey, was going to provide the entertainment.
*
Michael watched in something like horror as Rob set up his scene on the big stage. The Dom wore only a pair of snug, black vinyl pants and a silver-studded black harness, which left his chest bare. Michael knew the vinyl was for practical purposes — the wax would come off more easily than denim or leather — but the way the get up showcased Rob’s body made it hard for Michael to breathe. The dark green vinyl drape over the performance table made Trey’s tanned skin glow like gold, and the soft scent of baby oil settled over the room like a warm mist.
Rob was sticking with pouring and sculpting wax tonight, using a medium-sized crock-pot and a variety of ladles, spoons, spreaders and carving tools. He’d also placed a bowl of ice water and a large syringe-type instrument on the table.
Trey already looked blissed out, and the scene hadn’t even started. Michael held back his sneer, but it was hard. Trey was a nice enough guy, but he was a total pain-slut, and as a submissive he tended to cave like wet tissue when things got intense.
Okay, maybe that wasn’t entirely fair. But Trey was about to do a scene with Rob, and for all his big words about how he wanted Rob to find someone else to stalk, now that it was happening there was a big part of Michael that wanted to shove Trey off the stage and spread himself out in his place like some pagan offering.