Grady paced down the mostly empty sidewalk, the chilly night air doing little to cool his heated skin. He crammed his hands deeper into his jean pockets and turned around to cover the same twenty feet of space he’d been walking over for the last ten minutes.
Go in or walk away? Be wild or be smart?
Take what was being offered or continue to deny what he wanted?
He stopped and stared at the bold black letters over the plain metal door. DANE’S. Located in Portland’s sprawling eccentric Eastside, it didn’t even warrant a second glance on the strange scale. A set of handcuffs mounted on the brick wall next to the door was the only indication of the type of club it was. Dane’s relied on word of mouth, and the Internet provided all the information anyone needed.
Grady had spent too much time over the last three days validating that fact. He could’ve asked any of the Kick partners about the club and received an earful on it—along with a barrage of questions he didn’t want to answer.
A couple walked by, lip rings and lobe gauges shining under the streetlight. They didn’t spare him a look. What am I waiting for?
He took a deep breath, checked for traffic, and crossed the street. The door opened easily and he stepped into the small lobby before he could second- or even third-guess himself.
There was nothing wrong with having sex with a willing partner. Then why had it taken him the entire weekend to show up?
Damn. He was acting like a skittish teenager entering a brothel. Where in the hell had his balls gone? He was older now. Knew who he was and what he wanted along with what he didn’t want.
He gave his name to the bouncer and was greeted with a sharp nod. The guy scanned a tablet, touched the screen, and motioned to the only other door in the room. A rush of relief mixed with nerves to knot in his stomach. He wasn’t stopping now though. He laughed at himself. Who was he kidding? He’d had no intention of stopping since Micah had laid down his parting shot. “All you have to do is show up.”
It’d just taken him a few days to get here.
He strode into the bar area, chin high, swagger in place. A quick check of the room verified he didn’t recognize anyone. Thank fuck. The chance of any Kick partners being here on a Sunday were low. But he was playing a game of Russian roulette every time he came to Dane’s.
His pulse jumped but he ignored it. He’d deal with that if it ever happened. It wasn’t like he was going to make a habit of coming here.
He shifted his focus to Micah, who was unabashedly watching him from behind the bar, possession stark in his gaze. Heat burst through him, desire licking at every repressed fantasy he refused to acknowledge.
It took more effort than it should’ve to cross the room without stumbling. He slid onto a barstool, grin in place, jitters controlled. Micah wasn’t going to see him flinch. Not now.
“Can I get a beer?” He returned Micah’s stare, poised under fire. Would he comment on his delayed appearance?
Micah gave a slow nod. “One.”
Grady’s brows flew up. “Oh, no.” He shook his head, arms crossing over his chest. “I don’t go for that shit. I’m nobody’s sub, and I don’t fucking need or want a Daddy telling me what I can drink and eat.” James hadn’t even gone that far. Maybe if he had, Grady would’ve found the balls to bolt sooner.
A grin spread across Micah’s face, erasing the sternness. “And thank fuck for that.” He chuckled and braced his palms on the edge of the bar. “Because I’m not the guy for you if you do.”
His defensive anger fled in a flood of relief. “So why the restriction? I haven’t had a single drink tonight.” Not that he hadn’t thought about it. Just a shot or two to smooth out his nerves. But he’d never used liquid courage before, and starting now was a slippery slope he wasn’t sure he’d escape.
Micah’s chest expanded with his deep inhale in an impressive show of strength. That quickly, his mind raced back to the memory of that power trapping him against the wall. Damn, the man was strong, and Grady wasn’t a wimp on anyone’s scale, not anymore. Guiding a raft through raging whitewater took muscle and skill.
“If fucking after talking is even a possibility, one’s your limit or I’m out.” The brisk delivery left no room to doubt Micah’s seriousness.
Grady studied the enigma of the man before him. “A bad experience?”
“One of my limits.”
Not an answer and apparently not open for debate. He respected limits though and hoped Micah did too.
“Give me a Coke then.” He didn’t need the beer and fucking had better be on the table. Or bench. Or against the wall…He smothered his groan around a cough and chased his errant thoughts with visions of slugs, leeches, and anything that’d get his dick under control.
Micah flashed a knowing grin and moved away to get Grady’s drink. He returned to set it on the bar before taking care of a few more customers.
Grady glanced around, but his attention returned almost immediately to Micah. There was something mesmerizing about the way his biceps flexed as he pulled on a tap and the bulge of his forearm when he gripped a glass. His T-shirt emphasized instead of hid the definition of his pecs, and his leather pants molded to his ass when he stretched to set a drink in front of a customer.
He tipped his head back and his chuckle beat out all other sounds. It seemed to pull Grady in, entice and tease before fading. It was soothing. Nice. And so much better than the misery that’d settled in his head. Somehow it didn’t feel right to laugh when Finn couldn’t.
The urge to bang his forehead on the bar until he couldn’t think anymore was thwarted by Micah’s return. He pasted on a smile that apparently didn’t fool him.
Micah cocked his head, brow raised. “Want to talk about it?”
His harsh laughter jerked from his lungs. So raw and choppy compared to Micah’s. “Isn’t that a standard bartender line?”
“Maybe.” Micah shrugged. “But it applies here. I said we’d talk, but we keep stumbling whenever we try.”
“Then maybe we should skip it altogether and get to what we did do well together—no words required.” Grady waggled his brows, hope dying at Micah’s scowl.
“Not gonna happen.”
“Of course not.” He heaved a dramatic sigh, but smiled. “I’ve already researched everything there is to find on comas.” And here came the army of Finn thoughts to weigh him down.
“Give me a moment.”
Micah went to the guy who was working the other end of the bar. It was busier tonight, but not overly so. They exchanged some words before Micah headed around the bar. Grady swiveled on the stool as he walked up, his legs automatically spreading to welcome Micah into the space—if he wanted in.
“Let’s sit over here.” Micah led the way to a booth, not looking to see if Grady agreed.
Part of him wanted to object on principle alone, but was it worth it? The table Micah picked would give them privacy, and wasn’t that better than executing this bizarre mating dance in front of the entire bar?
He grabbed his glass and strolled to where Micah was already sitting. He paused to let a gagged sub pass. At least he assumed the bare-chested, G-string-wearing man was a sub. He caught the glare of an overbearing man two tables over and cocked a smile. The glare hardened and Grady almost laughed. Taunting the Dom was more fun than it should be, but it was his one defense against a past he refused to repeat.
Sliding into the seat across from Micah, he searched for questions to ask, coming up with nothing about comas. Now Micah, he had a few dozen about him, all of which would only lead him further down a path he should be running from. Should be, but…
“All right.” Micah spread his hands wide. “Shoot.”
“Bang.” The childish retort was out before he thought about it. He chuckled at Micah’s lifted brow. Yup, he really could be that immature. Especially when he was this uncomfortable.
“Try again.”
He sat back, not quite relaxing but making a show of it. He took a drink of his now-watery Coke, both for extra time and to soothe his parched throat. “Why don’t you start?”
“I don’t know what you want to hear.”
Like he did? “How long were you in a coma?”
“Eighteen days.”
“And how long did it take you to recover?”
His lips thinned. “That depends on how you define recover.”
Grady conceded the point. “How long before you left the hospital?”
Micah rolled his shoulders, stretching his neck again. Grady was tempted to offer him a massage. Wouldn’t that be fun? And personal. Too personal. Shit, why’d he think about that?
“I came out of my coma slowly,” Micah started, voice lowered, gaze unwavering. “Like a lot of coma patients do. It was a week before I was fully able to respond to others. I could process what my family was saying to me, but it was like the receptors between my brain and the rest of my body were disconnected.”
An image of a quadriplegic came to mind, and that sounded like the worst kind of torture. He’d rather die than be trapped in a life where he couldn’t move. Exactly like Finn.
“That must’ve sucked. Did you fear it was permanent?”
“It did suck,” Micah agreed. “But it was a step above where I’d been the previous two weeks.”
The trapped-in-a-box scenario. That would’ve sucked too. Fuck, it all sucked.
“I could blink,” Micah went on. “Squeeze hands and eventually move my head. Speech came last and that started with grunts.”
He paused, gaze traveling to the bar before he focused on Grady again. His eyes were a lighter blue now, almost gray. Even in the dim lighting Grady could detect a darker ring around the edge of the irises, as if providing a hint to their color when he was aroused.
No eyes, Grady reprimanded himself. He didn’t notice eye color.
“I was in the rehabilitation center for three months,” Micah continued. “The one at Good Sam is the best in the state for head injuries, which is probably why Finn was moved there.”
“It is,” Grady confirmed. “I insisted on it.” His research had paid off on that. The doctors had wanted to keep him in the Southern Oregon hospital, but it’d been his job to advocate for the best possible care for Finn and he had.
Micah’s lips flexed in a quick smile. “He’s lucky to have you taking care of him.”
“Fuck.” The deprecating laugh ripped at his heart. “Right.” He squeezed his eyes closed, breathing deeply through his nose. Finn would’ve been better off if Grady had never joined the company. Never got in that raft. Never…His throat burned, eyes stinging, but he refused to cry. Shit. Not here. Not now.
He clenched his hands into fists and counted down from ten until the threat eased back. He swallowed a few times before he blinked his eyes open. The tabletop gleamed beneath the light and he was willing to inspect every inch of it if it meant he wouldn’t have to look at Micah.
“So,” he said, breezing over his almost-meltdown. “The longer someone is in a coma, the longer their recovery is.” That statistic was pretty solid.
“Usually.”
“So Finn is in for a hell of a long road after he wakes up.” He couldn’t say if. Wouldn’t even think it.
“Most likely.” Micah reached across the table, a single finger extending to lift Grady’s chin.
Again, he could’ve protested. Rebelled or resisted. But his head suddenly weighed a ton, exhaustion swamping him until he didn’t know if he could hold his chin up without Micah’s help. It was just a finger, yet the touch branded his skin and had him longing for more.
Micah’s eyes were dark now, his lips parted and wet. Desire spread in a leisurely flow that warmed Grady’s chest before descending downward. There was no rush, no mad dash to get off before someone noticed they were missing.
“What is it about you?” Grady mumbled, confusion loosening his tongue.
He wanted to savor Micah, lick every inch of his mouth before starting a slow path down his neck to tease his nipples. He usually didn’t want that. Rushed spontaneity didn’t allow for exploration. Like the other night when they hadn’t bothered to remove all of their clothes.
But this night was planned. They both knew what was coming—what they wanted.
“I wish I knew what it was about you,” Micah answered. He lowered his hand and Grady almost whimpered.
What the hell? That jerked him out of whatever haze he’d been in. He snapped back but controlled the urge to check if anyone was watching them. He cleared his throat, fingers drumming on his thigh beneath the table.
“We talked,” he bit out. “How about we go fuck now?”
Disappointment flashed over Micah’s face before acceptance fell into place. It was subtle, unspoken, and still it cut at Grady. He withheld his wince though. Stayed stoic like he was used to. It didn’t matter what Micah thought of him.
What anyone thought.
But it did.
He could lie to himself, but it didn’t change that he wanted Micah to like him. He also wanted the Kick partners to see him as an equal, and he had no idea if he could have both.
Micah crossed his arms on the table and leaned in, the implied intimacy ruined by his direct stare and hard tone. “I’m a top, unapologetically. You’re not getting in my ass, so don’t even think about it. I have to be in control and I need you to give it to me. No exceptions.”
Oh shit. His dick had sprung to attention at “I’m a top” and had only gotten harder with each word that rolled off Micah’s tongue. His no-nonsense voice and uncompromising demands were another layer of sexy-as-fuck that added to the hot need sparking in every one of Grady’s nerve endings.
Apparently all the saliva in his mouth had dried up with the heat because he couldn’t find any to get his voice to work. But Micah was waiting.
“I can work with that,” he finally said. Thank God his voice hadn’t cracked. Micah slowly smiled and Grady’s stomach flipped over the shot of desire before it dropped to his groin. So damn hot.
He’d agree to almost anything at this point. Shit. His arousal skidded to a halt, smoke swirling out of the brakes.
“I told you I don’t do kink.” He shot a quick look at two leather Daddies a few tables over. “No whips, spankings, gags, or anything dealing with me enduring pain for your pleasure.” James had gotten off on that, and while some pain mixed with pleasure could be incredible, enduring pain for anyone was a huge no-go for him. “Or humiliation.” A sour taste filled his mouth, the sick disgust flashing with his memories. “You call me ‘boy’ and I’ll most likely hit you.”
“Noted.” Micah gave a single nod. “I’m not a sadist and I have no desire to degrade you or to force you into anything. Like I said, I need you to give me control. I won’t take it.”
Why, damn it? It’d be easier if Micah forced him to comply or manipulated him until there was no choice to make. And that would leave him with an out. An excuse and probably resentment against Micah.
Giving was a conscious decision. An action he had to display, which was so much more exposing. Could he do it? He’d done so the other night, but it’d been in the heat of the moment, an unspoken subtle shift of power that’d just happened.
This was premeditated. This required him to admit something he wasn’t sure he could come back from.
A hunger reared up to gnaw at his doubts. An aching need to find the freedom Micah had given him the other night. To let go and fly in that space of complete abandon while being grounded.
Agreeing could give him all of that—or leave him shattered.