Sawyer glanced over his shoulder and watched Asher stride down the hallway to his “appointment.” A curious part of him wanted to follow and…what? Intervene? Jump in?
See what the hell he was up to.
His pulse jumped a notch just thinking about the possibilities.
He didn’t get off on the Mr. Preppy superior shit Asher presented, but his strong, confident vibe pinged with his own. The undercurrent of intelligence was another plus.
“You need a refill, Sawyer?”
He turned back, shook his head at Micah’s question, and let his curiosity fade. “I’m good.” Any more caffeine and all chances of sleep would be gone. “Thanks.”
“What time are you guys heading out tomorrow morning?” Micah glanced between him and Grady.
“Early,” Grady said. “Around six.”
“Does that give us enough time?” Sawyer asked.
“Yeah. We’ll be going opposite of rush hour traffic, so it’s usually pretty smooth.”
“Cool.” He straightened, cracked his neck. “And thanks again for letting me crash at your place.” He nodded at Micah, who’d offered up his spare bedroom in the converted attic, which Sawyer had declined in favor of pitching his tent in Micah’s small backyard. “You’re positive your downstairs tenant won’t freak and call the cops?”
Micah’s laugh was deep and rolling. “I assured her you weren’t a vagrant or an axe murderer.”
“You never know…” He waggled his brows.
“So what’s your deal?” Grady asked, plowing into the conversation with no grace, frown lines wrinkling over his forehead.
“What do you mean?” He didn’t care for Grady’s tone or where the conversation was most likely heading, though he’d come here for this exact reason.
“What’s your kink?”
“Grady,” Micah reprimanded, scowling. “You’re being an ass. Again.”
“Shit.” Grady grimaced. “Sorry.” He sniffed and picked at the damp napkin under his glass. “I was just curious.” He shrugged. “You know how the rumors fly within the river community.” He raised his brows, waiting without exactly pushing.
“Rumors?” Sawyer’s stomach twisted, a familiar sick sensation building one slow tick at a time. “What kind of rumors?” His past was pretty buried, especially to anyone outside of his hometown of Moab. That didn’t stop the doubts from cramping into the space he refused to acknowledge, but he shut them down, a cold calm settling in to steady him.
Grady shrugged. “Nothing big. Just, you know.” He snuck a glance at Micah, whose scowl had deepened. “Shit. Never mind.”
“Oh, no.” He bit the words out past his tight throat. “Spill it. What are the rumors about me?”
“Look.” Grady shifted in his seat. He rubbed a hand over his nape, then straightened to nail him with a hard gaze. “You know I’m with Micah and we’re sitting in a gay BDSM club and that I’m not the dominant one when it comes to sex.” He shrugged, lip quirking. “And you made a point of mentioning the gay Dom aspect of Kick when we were in Utah, so what’s your deal?” He sucked in a breath. “Are you a Dom, sub, switch? Tell me to fuck off if it’s none of my business, but the rumor mill says you like it rough and sometimes have the marks to prove it.”
He liked it rough. He almost laughed out loud at that understatement. If “rough” was all he liked, he wouldn’t be here right now. He could get rough anywhere.
It was a fuck ton harder to get what he liked without a load of other shit coming with it. At least this was a rumor he could handle talking about.
He resisted the urge to wet his lips or to scratch the itch on his arm. He didn’t blink or look away either. No sign of guilt, shame, or weakness would be displayed. He didn’t have to explain himself or his needs. Hell, he rarely shared this side of himself with anyone, and especially not with a coworker. Boss even, now that Grady was a partner at Kick. But he had to open up some or go back to the online hunting that’d gotten him nowhere in the last year.
“I’m a bottom,” he stated, voice flat. “Some might call me a masochist, but I don’t link pain with sexual pleasure. A better term would be a ‘pain slut.’ ” He quirked his shoulder in a brief shrug. “I’m not a submissive, and I’ll rip the nuts off a guy before I’ll lick his boots.”
His words settled between them in a silence unbroken by the general din of the room. Grady’s expression gave away nothing. The steely calm Sawyer relied on held strong, though. In truth, there was very little Grady could say or do that would truly affect him. Worst-case scenario, he’d hit the road home tomorrow instead of heading out with Kick. Not a big deal to him at all.
“Bottom.” Grady gave a slow nod. “Okay. I like that term. It’s better than sub.”
“I’m not a sub.” Sawyer made sure to emphasize that point. There were too many who assumed a masochist or bottom was synonymous with submissive. “I’m not looking for a Dom, nor do I want to pretend I’m a sub simply to get a guy to do what I want. I’m also not a switch or a pushy sub or a brat or any of the other labels some want to slap on me. Except pain slut.” He jerked his chin up. “I’ll own that.”
Fuck. Nothing like opening up—some. Right.
“Hey.” Grady raised his hand, chuckling. “You don’t have to lecture me on labels. I agree completely.” He glanced at Micah. “I’m not judging. At all. And so you know, you’ll have no issue about any of this from Kick. As long as it doesn’t interfere with your job, the company doesn’t give a shit about your private life. Trust me on that.”
“As they shouldn’t,” Sawyer agreed. Although most employers still balked at anything dealing with the leather community. Shove the word “gay” in front of BDSM and way too many companies found a reason to let that person go.
But his motives for keeping his private life private had little to do with job security.
He forcibly relaxed his jaw and sat back. It was stupid to get so adamant about it, but he was sick of clarifying himself only to have it brushed off. Eleven years in the leather scene, and the understanding of it was worse now, since those damn books had made “BDSM” a household word.
“Are you looking for someone to play with?” Micah asked.
It was foreign talking so openly about this with people he knew outside of the leather scene. Even stranger was the thought of them seeing exactly what he needed.
His stomach clenched around the reality of how exposed he’d made himself. Pride had nothing to do with it, either. He could care less what they thought about him. Still, he didn’t relish the idea of putting so much of himself out there for his employer—or anyone he was going to see outside of the dungeon—to witness.
Private scenes were too dangerous for him, given how far into edge play he liked—needed—to go, but he could explore elsewhere. It was a big city with a relatively large kink network and other clubs.
A muscle twitched in his thigh, a phantom pain zinging to his groin in a teasing arc. His gaze wandered over his shoulder to the hallway so many guys had gone down—including Asher. Asher who had an appointment.
For what? With whom?
He closed his eyes, cutting off his thoughts. The probability of Asher being able to give him the level of pain he required was a long shot. It took a true, pure sadist to satisfy his ache, and finding the nonpsychotic ones had become too much like spinning a roulette wheel. He either landed on the posers or the ones who grew up torturing animals. And the second set were the only ones who’d go as far as Sawyer could—and then further.
Who’d keep going if there wasn’t a Dungeon Master around.
“Sawyer?”
He turned around, mentally scrambling to pick up the conversation. Grady’s partner exuded a casual strength that blended into the background in a nonthreatening way. He’d obviously witnessed much and could assimilate more, and he was putting together some conclusions regarding Sawyer that were most likely correct.
“Are the bathrooms down the hall?” he asked. He didn’t have to go, but it was an easy exit.
“Yes.” Micah answered, his smile friendly instead of knowing. “Look around if you want. The dungeon’s at the end. Private rooms line the hallway. There’s a locker room attached to the restroom as well.” He set a bar rag down and leaned in. “Most here are open to questions. We have a pretty tight crowd, but they’ll point you in a direction if you’re looking for something specific. The fact that you’re here means a member got you in.”
The bouncer had checked his name off on a list before he’d been allowed in the door. A system like that kept the curious out and made the clientele accountable for each other. In other words, fuck up and it reflects back on that member. In his case, Grady and Micah.
Sawyer slid from the stool, muscles tightening as his senses kicked in. He’d blocked them earlier, when his visit was nothing more than a social call with Grady. The sight of partially clothed subs bound and kneeling at their Dom’s feet did nothing for him. Neither did the deep, red blush covering the ass of one blissed-out sub who was bent over his Dom’s knees.
He’d graduated from impact play years ago. That was a simple warm-up for him.
The low chatter of the bar faded the farther he went down the hallway. A cry reached him first, followed by the thud of a paddle and the crack of a hand on skin. Each was distinctive and sparked visions of the activities taking place.
His blood warmed, anticipation sparking over his nerve endings. He inhaled, the dungeon scents flooding him. It didn’t matter where he went or how sanitary the dungeon was, they all carried the underpinnings of sweat, come, fear, and excitement. The blended aroma triggered a longing he’d given up trying to contain.
It was futile to even try anymore.
He bypassed the restroom, ignored the doors that lined the hall, focus narrowed on his intent. The hallway opened into exactly what he’d expected. The dungeon at Dane’s featured the standard equipment: a St. Andrews cross, benches, horses, chains, tables, chairs—everything a person could be strapped to and teased or tortured on. There were a few unique pieces, but nothing he hadn’t seen in some variation.
He glanced over them, noting and dismissing each one. It didn’t matter to him what he was tied to or how, a fact that often irritated a Dom. His lack of fear never equated to submission, and a good Dom figured that out quickly.
A leather-clad man gave him a nod as he entered the room, his armband distinguishing him as a Dungeon Master. The power came in his demeanor, not his muscle. Authority rolled off his straight spine and intent gaze. One that looked him over in a calculating sweep.
Sawyer turned away, searching for…
He swallowed, nostrils flaring on his inhale.
Asher leaned against the wall not far from where Sawyer stood. He was focused on a scene taking place on a medical table about ten feet in front of him. Head tilted, eyes narrowed behind the dark frames of his glasses. His arms were crossed, the portrait of a man in deep concentration.
So damn focused.
He skimmed his gaze down Asher, noting the lack of an obvious erection. Not unique, but telling.
Asher turned his head at that moment, gaze locking with his. The intensity rammed into him, the look dissecting him without a touch. The cuts sank beneath his skin to leave a festering want behind. Fuck.
Sawyer moved forward, each step a dangerous act that teased his need. The complete lack of dominance in Asher’s scrutiny lured him in better than any command. He stopped next to him, letting his eyes communicate for him. Curiosity. Interest. Possibilities.
Potentially damaging to him. Too alluring to back down.
The corner of Asher’s lips quirked up. A quick flash before he refocused on the scene before them.
Sawyer studied his profile a moment longer. There was nothing to indicate Asher was distracted even slightly from what he was studying. Focused intent. Firm concentration. Direct. His air of intelligence was enhanced by his preppy attire, the nerd-boy image only a few notches removed. But it was the constant calculation that seemed to whirl behind his eyes that kept Sawyer there.
He turned to watch the scene, keenly aware of the guy beside him. Of the dangers and the building anticipation. Of the dance with a partner he couldn’t let himself want, yet had traveled a thousand miles to meet.
Which only enticed him more.