Dylan closed the door behind them and leaned back on it, watching as Angelo turned a slow circle in the hallway, his gaze flicking around the mesh of urban and vintage décor.

“This place is nice.”

“This is the weirdest day ever,” Dylan countered, and it truly was. For years, he’d kept most facets of his life separate, but today they’d collided and his brain had caught fire.

“⁠. . . ⁠you did more for me a week ago when I railed you at Lovato’s.”

Was that true? Thinking back over their meeting that morning, it probably was. Brilliant. So you’re a better shag than you are a debt counsellor. Guess Angelo can use a fuck-hot blowjob to pay his overdraft then.

Dylan shook his head to clear it, struggling to match the Angelo, who’d apparently chucked him all over the basement room mattress, with the exhausted man he’d found in the interview room that morning. Both versions of Angelo Giordano were gorgeous, but what had happened in the eight hours since Angelo had dropped his bomb was all kinds of screwed up.

And now Angelo was in Dylan’s house. What the hell do I do now?

A hundred questions burned on Dylan’s tongue, but none seemed right. Water dripped from both of them onto the hardwood floor. Dylan watched the puddles grow until a violent shiver wracked Angelo’s slim frame and spurred him into action. “I’ll get some towels.”

He dashed to the airing cupboard and retrieved two towels, tossing one at Angelo when he returned to the hallway and pointing at the kitchen. “Come through.”

Angelo’s presence behind him was like a live hand grenade, and the silence that drowned them was too loud. Dylan flicked the switch on his wireless speaker as he passed. The Cooper Temple Clause drifted out, smooth and low, heady and deep, and did nothing to ease the scratchy friction in Dylan’s veins.

“The ‘Murder Song’? Are you sure it’s not you that’s the mad axe murderer?”

A dry chuckle caught in Dylan’s throat. He opened the fridge and found his last two bottles of Polish lager. “Here. It tastes like piss, but I make lousy coffee.”

“I’m sick of coffee. Been brewing it all day.”

Dylan had forgotten that. The deli that belonged to Angelo’s family made the best paninis in east London, but Dylan couldn’t picture him slaving over the press or wrestling with the ancient coffee machines it was famous for.

For better or worse, he could only feel Angelo’s hands all over him, gripping him, lifting him while his thick cock drove every last drop of⁠—

“How long have you lived here?”

Dylan blinked and handed Angelo a bottle. “Six months. I lived in Vauxhall for a few years before that.”

A small smile fleetingly warmed Angelo’s face. “So you weren’t around this way for a while then?”

“Um, not as often. Why?”

“Because that explains why we didn’t run into each other at the club. I worked there for a year a while back, before I moved to New York.”

“I thought you said you hadn’t been here since you were fifteen?”

“No, I said I hadn’t worked in the deli since I was fifteen. I danced with the English National Ballet for four years⁠—worked at the club for some of that. It kept me out of trouble, believe it or not.”

“Get in trouble a lot, do you?”

The ghost of a grin returned, laced with the kind of self-loathing Dylan had often seen in Sam when he talked about his childhood. “I’m not in trouble now,” Angelo said. “Or am I? You still look pretty pissed off.”

Dylan schooled his features. “I’m not pissed off. I’m fucking bemused. Aren’t you? What were you thinking when you recognised me this morning? Come to think of it, how did you recognise me this morning?”

Angelo licked his lips, his tongue moving slowly . . . sensually as it moistened the skin. Dylan was mesmerised and caught off guard when Angelo answered him.

“It was your voice.”

“But we didn’t speak at the club.”

“Yes, we did. I told you the safe word and you said you wouldn’t need it, and then, uh, later . . . you told me your name.”

Heat flooded Dylan’s veins. His memories of Angelo fucking him were vivid and raw, but he’d forgotten the brief words they’d shared, distracted by Angelo’s hands and the current they’d seemed to carry that night. “You don’t look anything like I thought you would.”

Angelo tilted his beer and took a long pull, his elegant neck working as he swallowed, his mouth glistening as he lowered the bottle. “I can’t decide if you think that’s a bad thing or not. You’re hard to read.”

That was rich coming from him, but Dylan let it slide, preoccupied by the idea that Angelo believed that revealing himself⁠—however bizarrely it had occurred⁠—was somehow a disappointment. Was he fucking serious? It was the fact that he was so goddamn hot that had freaked Dylan out in the first place. The bear of a man he’d imagined hadn’t materialised, but the moody, lithe dancer leaning against his kitchen counter was the stuff of wet dreams. “It’s not a bad thing. I’m just having trouble believing you’re real.”

Angelo chuckled. “Back at ya. I couldn’t believe my luck when I found you waiting for me in the bunker. It’s been a long time coming.”

“Yeah? Do you go downstairs a lot?” Dylan picked at the label on his beer bottle, hoping his question appeared innocuous.

Angelo eyed him, perhaps sensing that his bland tone hid the startling reality that whatever answer he gave would turn Dylan inside out all over again. “I hadn’t been to the club for more than a year before the other night. I can’t deny that the basement rooms are familiar⁠—I helped set them up⁠—but it’s been a while since I used them.”

“You set them up?”

Angelo shrugged. “Kind of. Tammy, the owner, did a secret ballot of the staff a few years back, asked us to describe our ultimate fantasy. Mine got picked out of the hat.”

It’s not just yours. Dylan rubbed his temples. There was so much he wanted to ask Angelo, but the abrupt collision of too many worlds was giving him a migraine. “Let me get this straight: You worked at the club when you were dancing in London, then you moved to New York and only came home when your father died?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“What happened to your money? You have massive loans, but they’re not student debts, so I don’t understand.”

“Why are you asking about that? You’re not my advisor anymore, remember? You sent me back to the shithole across the road.”

The air shifted, but Angelo’s obvious irritation did nothing to ease the building desire in Dylan’s gut. “I did that before I knew who you were, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

“I don’t want you to care.”

“No? So what do you want? Why are you in my house?”

Angelo put his beer bottle down and folded the towel Dylan had given him into a neat square, setting it carefully next to the empty bottle. “I’m in your house because you asked me to be. You never told me why.”

He had a point.

Judas Priest shattered the heavy air between them before Dylan could answer. He reached for his phone, and Sam’s scowling face flashed up on the screen. Dylan swallowed thickly. Until Angelo, only Sam had ever made him feel this way⁠—like his skin belonged to them and not him. Like he couldn’t breathe until he touched them again. Fuck this. He silenced the call and set his phone face down beside Angelo’s towel. “I don’t know what I want.”

“Well it ain’t to talk to whoever just called. Isn’t a debt collector is it? ’Cause they were calling me 24/7 before I binned my phone contract.”

“It’s a friend, actually, but I can’t talk to him for a while.”

“Because you love him?”

Dylan snapped his eyes up to find Angelo gazing at him, his molten eyes shrewd, like Dylan’s every thought made perfect sense to him. “He’s my best friend.”

“Is he straight?”

“Mostly.”

Angelo smirked. “That’s the worst. Queer enough to hook up, but too straight to give a shit afterwards?”

“It’s not like that.”

“No? So how is it?”

Dylan wouldn’t know where to start, which was just as well, as it seemed that Angelo’s question was rhetorical. He stepped into Dylan’s personal space. For a moment Dylan wondered if he would kiss him, but he didn’t. His fist touched Dylan’s shoulder, and then he was gone. The front door banged a few seconds later, leaving Dylan to contemplate how he’d feel if he never saw him again.

* * *

Helen brought a plastic cup of sludgy instant coffee to Dylan’s desk. “I can see you’re upset that your mug got broken.”

“Hmm?” Dylan glanced up from his pile of financial statements. “Oh, thanks, but I’m okay, really. It was just a mug.”

Helen raised an eyebrow. “So why the long face? You’ve been quiet all week.”

I’m pissed off because the best fuck I’ve ever had came into my life in the most fucked up way possible, and I can’t see a way of fixing that. And by the way, he’s a client. “I’m a bit tired. I went to The Pit at the weekend. Haven’t quite recovered yet.”

That got rid of Helen. She was the nicest woman in the world, but Dylan’s passion for grungy metal music baffled her.

He went back to his paperwork and was instantly lost in the reason he’d been scowling all morning: He’d fucked up. Angelo’s paperwork had come back from the Romford office with a glaring snag that threatened to derail the plan Dylan had worked out with his Romford counterpart. A year ago, Angelo had made a payment to the deli, prioritising the family business over creditors he’d owed thousands to for longer. It would seem a small point to a layman, but Dylan had seen DROs refused for less.

“Do you want to call him?” the Romford advisor had asked, eager to get out of giving a client bad news. But Dylan had shut her down. His connection to Angelo was screwed up enough, and the sooner they took Angelo’s financial dire straits out of it, the better. Right. Because you’ll be BFFs after. And removing himself from Angelo’s case didn’t stop him worrying. Angelo had said little in his interview with Dylan, but the notes from his telephone consultation painted a picture of a desperate man with nowhere left to turn. Without the DRO, his creditors would hound him into the ground, and then what would he do? It had been six years since Dylan had endured his first client suicide, but it haunted him, even now.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of client meetings and phone calls to ruthless creditors. Dylan had learned to handle himself over the years, but he was still pretty strung out by the time he left the office. The train home from Stratford was packed with fellow commuters glad to escape the rat race for the weekend. Dylan tried to hitch a ride on their muted enthusiasm, but it was a lost cause. Over the summer, he’d spent most weekends with Sam and Eddie, and with that option out, he didn’t feel like facing his dad.

That left locking himself away in the flat for two days straight, which sounded ideal after a long-arse week, but he knew he’d be climbing the walls by Saturday night. You could always go to the club⁠—

But he nuked the idea before it took hold. Playing at the club had been his happy place in recent years, but the shitstorm with Angelo had changed that. Part of Dylan wished they’d never fucked that first time⁠—that someone else had railed him and then disappeared out the door, never to be seen again. But it was a very small percentage of his brain. The rest of him, and definitely his dick, would give just about anything to confine what had happened between them to the four walls of the heady bunker room. That way, Dylan could’ve gone back and taken a chance on Angelo coming back for more.

Yeah, because when it came down to it, that was all this was. A fuckhot play session that had spilled out into real life, right?

On the cramped train, Dylan almost believed it, but then he found himself walking the long way home from the bus stop and slinking past Giordano’s Deli. On his first go around, Angelo was nowhere to be seen, but as Dylan crossed the street under the pretence of ducking into Waitrose, his creepy behaviour paid off. Angelo was at the serving counter, handing someone a wrapped package and a paper cup of the kind of coffee that Dylan dreamed of when he was stuck in the office.

He trailed to a stop, blocking the supermarket’s entrance. Angelo was dressed in skin-tight black jeans that clung to his slim hips and dancer’s calves. A plain white tee with rolled up sleeves sat perfectly on his leanly muscled torso, covered by a forest green apron that probably made his dark eyes gleam. Damn it. The week since their last chance encounter had done nothing to ease the burn in Dylan’s veins, the ache in his chest, and the heat in his blood. Angelo Giordano was so fucking beautiful it hurt, and only the muttered exclamation of someone behind him broke the spell.

Reluctantly, Dylan tore himself away and braved the Friday night crowds in Waitrose⁠—harried yuppie parents who’d forgotten to buy dinner on their lunch break and loved up couples planning a cosy night in. When he emerged a little while later, clutching a ready meal for one and a bottle of gin, the deli was closed and Angelo was gone.

* * *

Dylan made it to Saturday afternoon before he turned stalker again. A weekend with no plans meant running the bazillion errands he’d spent weeks avoiding, which gave him an excuse to wind up loitering outside Giordano’s. At least, that’s what he told himself when the irony didn’t choke him. And as luck would have it, or not, Angelo was there this time and looked up at just the right moment to catch Dylan staring at him from across the street. Brilliant. To walk away would have appeared more stalkerish than ever, so he swallowed his pride and crossed the road.

Angelo came outside to meet him. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

Angelo’s rare smile made a brief appearance. “No, mate. That’s me.”

“You don’t live at the deli.”

“No? Sure feels like it this week.”

“Business booming?”

“Something like that. My sister has gone back to uni, and having my mum here is more hassle than it’s worth.”

“You should sell it.”

Dylan instantly regretted his bluntness, but Angelo merely nodded. “Tell that to my entire family, I dare you. ’Cause I’ve been trying for years and all it’s got me is a seat at the kiddie table at Christmas.”

“Do they know how much debt it’s in?”

Angelo shrugged. “Probably not, because then my mum would have to admit that my father gambled our piss-poor profits down the swanny when he couldn’t keep up with the Starbucks down the road.”

Ah. So that was it. Dylan had been ruminating over what had happened to what little profit Giordano’s had turned in the last few years, because it hadn’t gone on staff salaries. Angelo took home next to nothing, and his father before him had paid himself even less. It was on the tip of Dylan’s tongue to ask if Angelo’s own missing money had gone to his father, but then he remembered that discussing Angelo’s debts outside of the office was a massive breach of confidence. Fuck’s sake. What was it about this bloke that obliterated Dylan’s common sense?

“Anyway . . .” Dylan started to turn away. “I’ll let you get on.”

“Okay.”

Angelo didn’t move, and the sensation of his eyes boring into the back of Dylan’s head made Dylan’s every step feel ridiculous, like he was walking away from a friend he hadn’t seen in years.

And he couldn’t do it. He was three feet away when he stopped and turned. “Um, are you going to the club tonight?” An infinitesimal twitch in Angelo’s eyebrow was his only reaction. Dylan shifted his weight from one foot to the other and fidgeted with his shopping bag. “I mean, because I might, and I’m not your advisor anymore, so⁠—⁠”

“So what? You want me to fuck you again?”

“Would that be bad?”

Angelo glanced over his shoulder. In the few minutes Dylan had been wasting his time, a queue had formed at the panini counter. He started to back up, and for a mortifying moment, Dylan feared he wouldn’t answer, but then he fixed Dylan with the arresting stare he’d imagined all along, way back before he’d known that the strong hands holding him down belonged to Angelo.

“I might be there,” Angelo said. “If I am, you’ll be waiting.”

He was gone before Dylan could deny it.

* * *

The club had never felt smaller. Dylan saw Angelo in every corner and crevice, even though he’d been inside for more than an hour, surreptitiously watching the door, and Angelo had yet to arrive.

If he was even coming.

Dylan took a deep swallow of his ill-advised Jägerbomb. The booze was having little effect on his nerves, and the Red Bull had made him jumpy enough that he didn’t notice the beast of a man dropping onto the bar stool beside him.

“Hey, man. You wanna play?”

Dylan cast a glance at the man. Big and brawny and covered in a fuzz of body hair, he couldn’t have been further from Dylan’s fantasies if he’d tried, but his smile was lovely, and Dylan knew just the man to send him to. “Not tonight. Have you met Ron over there, though? He was a little lonely a while ago.”

A small white lie. Ron was never lonely, but there was always room for one more in his all-man scrum. Dylan watched the man take his place in the fold and then turned away. Ron’s orgies were legendary, but Dylan was holding out for something far more intimate, and as the clock struck ten, he forced himself to take a chance.

Downstairs, Seamus greeted him with a knowing smile⁠—or at least as close to a smile as he ever got. “Back so soon?”

“It’s been two weeks.”

“Aye, funny that. Well, let’s see what the night brings you.” Seamus relinquished the blindfold and directed Dylan to the very first room in the corridor.

Dylan’s heart clenched. What if Angelo didn’t find him there? What if he requested bunker five on the assumption that Dylan would be there? What if he doesn’t come at all? If Angelo didn’t show, Dylan would take the cock of whoever walked through the door in his place⁠—a thought that made his entire body tingle⁠—but the muted thrill had nothing on the fire Angelo had left burning a fortnight ago.

He’ll come. He has to.

Dylan undressed and then let himself into the dark basement room. He tied the blindfold and positioned himself on the bare mattress, absorbing the brutal jolts of hope running through him. Come on, Angelo. I’m waiting for you.

And wait he did, for what seemed like hours. He counted his thumping pulse as his dick hardened and waned with each turn of his brain. Nerves rarely troubled him when it came to sex⁠—in the club or out in the real world⁠—but on his hands and knees, waiting for the fuck of a lifetime, he could barely breathe.

The door opened and the faintest hint of a cool breeze tickled Dylan. Goosebumps broke out on his heated skin, and anticipation zapped up his neck, buzzing through his scalp as his companion dropped their clothes on the floor.

What little breath Dylan had caught in his throat, and he shuddered, sure he felt a ghost-like hand brush his shoulders. Warmth bloomed in his chest and spread through every nerve. His gut told him that the light-footed man prowling around him was Angelo, but until they touched and the stars exploded, he couldn’t be sure.

Strong fingers threaded through Dylan’s hair, yanking his head back. “Safe word?”

He came.

Dylan gasped. “Fox.”

“Say it. I’ll hear you.”

Angelo’s voice was like a drug, and Dylan’s nerves faded away. He leaned into Angelo’s touch, and the charge where their skin touched sent pulses of desire hurtling through him. Fuck, yeah. He remembered this⁠—the crazy current that made him dizzy. Heady and addictive, he couldn’t get enough, and his cock throbbed in anticipation of what was to come. Would Angelo take him hard and fast like he had before, or were they in for an entirely different ride?

A million scenarios spun through Dylan’s mind, but his world narrowed when Angelo’s hands gripped his arse, his dick gliding along the seam like it was made for him, like it was dying to get inside. Angelo, apparently, wasn’t playing around.

Teeth scraped along Dylan’s spine as Angelo leaned over him, and the rustle of a condom wrapper pierced the air. Dylan braced himself for the blunt intrusion of Dylan’s cock, but it didn’t come. Instead, the strong hands he remembered lifted him clean off the mattress and tossed him onto his back.

Dylan groaned and spread his legs. Rough play had always got him hot, but knowing that it was Angelo chucking him around like a rag doll? Damn. His balls were already drawn up so tight he worried they’d never come down. His dick ached too, and his hands twitched, craving friction. But he didn’t move. Angelo hadn’t commanded him to stay still, but he didn’t have to. Dylan submitted because he wanted to. He splayed his arms wide and offered himself to Angelo. “Fuck me.”

“Quiet.”

Angelo’s palm connected with Dylan’s thigh. The slap was playful, but Dylan gasped all the same and arched his body, desperate for more. Angelo struck him again, harder this time, and Dylan moaned out, long, loud, and pleasured.

Yes. But he didn’t dare say it.

Hit me. Use me. I want it.

The spanking went on for a while, each strike soothed by Angelo’s warm palms. Dylan cried out each time. By BDSM standards, their play was light, but by the time his dick was welcomed into Angelo’s sinfully hot mouth, his senses were in overdrive. Shit. I’m gonna come! But before he could bust, Angelo eased off, edging out Dylan’s climax like a pro.

“Not yet,” he whispered in Dylan’s ear, his breath hot against Dylan’s cheek. “This is gonna last, baby.”

Baby. Dylan hated sappy terms of endearment, but hearing it drip from Angelo’s devilish tongue sent shivers down his spine. He tensed his stomach muscles and raised his hips off the bed, still stubbornly leaving his arms spread wide.

I want to kiss him.

The revelation caught him off guard, though it shouldn’t have. He’d wanted Angelo in every context where they’d encountered each other⁠—even the office, where Dylan had imagined Angelo fucking him over the battered MDF desk.

Angelo gripped Dylan’s thighs, and a groan tore out of Dylan. His body was crying out for Angelo to be inside him, but a renegade army was enjoying Angelo’s touch too much to give it up without a fight, and he trembled as the battle raged inside him.

Touch me. Fuck me.

And the longer Angelo kept him waiting, the less he cared about what came next.

Just give me something . . . please.

The aching void Angelo had left behind last time deepened. Dylan ripped his arms from the mattress and made a clumsy grab for Angelo’s hips, yanking him closer until Angelo’s cock nudged him, and cool lube trickled onto his tingling flesh.

Angelo’s low chuckle rumbled through Dylan. “So impatient,” he muttered. “I’m gonna have to be firm with you.”

“Do it,” Dylan gasped out, and the answering burn of Angelo’s cock pressing inside him blew his mind.

Angelo fucked him senseless. Nonsense fell from Dylan’s lips as he fell slack beneath the brutal assault of Angelo dicking him out. Over and over, Angelo drilled Dylan’s prostate, and Dylan could barely stand it. He went to pieces, thrashing his head from side to side, his cries loud and strained. Edging was apparently Angelo’s party trick, and Dylan was so crazed by the need to bust that he almost didn’t notice Angelo lifting him once again.

The cold metal wall against his spine came as more of a shock, and the rush of blood to the head had him lolling like a rag doll in Angelo’s unswerving grip. He wrapped his legs around Angelo’s waist and held on for dear life as Angelo speared him again, and the change in angle was enough to shatter what was left of his tenuous control. Four deep thrusts and he came undone, spilling between them in jets of wet heat. His climax was blinding, his moans delirious, and only Angelo’s ragged shout kept him in the present.

The warmth of Angelo filling the condom was nearly enough to send Dylan over the edge again. He convulsed in Angelo’s arms and squeezed his bound eyes shut as Angelo carried him back to the mattress. Angelo laid him down and briefly pressed their foreheads together, and the club faded away. For a long moment, they simply breathed together, and Dylan imagined that Angelo would stay with him, that he wouldn’t step away, retrieve his clothes from the floor, and leave Dylan alone with his laboured breaths and racing heart.

But Angelo left.