Angelo cast a critical eye over the makeshift picnic he’d cobbled together and regretted being so honest with the first woman he’d spoken to at Stratford Citizens Advice Bureau. If he hadn’t made that damn phone call, then Dylan wouldn’t know that he didn’t have a pot to piss in, and perhaps Angelo could’ve found a way to take him on a real date.

Date. Right. You think he’s gonna stick around when the best you can offer him is a fucking cheese sandwich?

A knock at the door interrupted whatever despairing cynicism was coming next. Angelo took a deep breath and untied his apron before approaching the locked deli doors like they were the only thing between him and an unexploded bomb. The prospect of seeing Dylan had kept him upright through a brutal Saturday lunchtime, but now he was here, Angelo’s efforts to make the walk across town worthwhile seemed pretty pathetic.

The temptation to hide in the freezer was strong, but his phone rang in his hand before he could duck away from the front door. Dylan. Angelo answered the call with a swipe of his thumb. “Hold up. I’m coming.”

“Come quicker.”

“Brat.”

“Only for you.”

Angelo ended the call and unlocked the door.

On the other side, Dylan was leaning against the wall, looking a lot more sober than he’d sounded the previous day, though his shadowed eyes told the tale of a late night. “All right, mate?”

“Am now.” Angelo found a smile from somewhere and plastered it on, and the longer he stared at Dylan, absorbing his silky soft hair and spirited gaze, the easier it was to hold on to. “Come in.”

Dylan slipped past him into the deli. “Oh wow. You made food?”

“It’s just some leftovers really. We can⁠—⁠”

“Fuck no. We’re staying in.” Dylan zeroed in on the antipasti Angelo had laid out and popped a green olive into his mouth. “I was going to suggest pizza, but this is so much better. I was drooling over these artichokes the other day.”

Dylan’s enthusiasm was so heartfelt that Angelo couldn’t contain his widening grin. Truth be told, he was sick to death of Italian food and everything it represented to him, but he’d eat a bazillion marinated tomatoes if it made Dylan smile like that. “There’s not much focaccia left, but we can make paninis if you like?”

“Prosciutto and mozzarella? With basil and anchovies?”

Angelo laughed. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

And like magic, any awkwardness that might’ve hung over them faded away. Dylan ate everything Angelo put in front of him and encouraged Angelo to eat far more than he would’ve if he’d been alone.

“You’re going to make me fat,” he muttered, patting his stomach.

Dylan’s gaze lingered on Angelo’s abdomen. “Doubt it, mate. Your body is awesome.”

The ever-present fatigue in Angelo’s muscles begged to differ, but he pushed the shadows away. “It’s all leftover from my dancing days. I don’t know how much longer it will stick around.”

“You don’t dance at all anymore?”

Angelo shook his head. “I don’t have time.”

It was mostly true. There were studios around Romford that he could’ve trained at, but arsing around in front of a mirror would never be the same as performing on stage, and he didn’t even want it to be. The days when he could barely move were easier to take when he wasn’t missing as much.

Dylan seemed to accept his half answer as he stole the last slice of salami and wrapped it around a caramelised pear. He studded it with Gorgonzola and popped it in his mouth and then speared Angelo with a curious gaze.

Angelo shifted in his seat. Dylan was the master of small talk, but he was sometimes at his loudest when he said nothing at all. “Fuck’s sake,” Angelo growled. “What?”

“Just wondering.”

“Wondering what?”

“What you look like when you’re dancing. I mean, you move like a lion, so I know you’re graceful as fuck, but I’m trying to picture you with your legs all pointing up in the air or something, and I can’t.”

Neither could Angelo anymore, but he understood Dylan’s curiosity. Previous lovers had always been intrigued by his profession and fascinated by the things his healthy body could do. “I’m pretty flexible, or at least I can be when I’m fit, and I’m strong too. Male dancers do a lot of lifting.”

Dylan nodded slowly, still chewing. “That makes sense. The way you threw me around in the club had me looking out for some giant, hairy bear.”

“Giant?” Angelo laughed and it chased away some of the tension in his shoulders. “You think only big men can be strong?”

“Not anymore.”

The sudden heat in Dylan’s eyes went straight to Angelo’s pulse, quickening it and warming his blood so fast that it roared in his ears. The urge to jump Dylan was overwhelming, but he swallowed it. Choked on it. And slid from his stool. Tight jeans were no good for stretching, but the pair he wore were so old that they had little resistance left. He braced himself and then cautiously lifted his foot from the floor. Extending his leg was easier than he expected, and lengthening it out felt good⁠—natural⁠—and the ease with which he stretched it up and behind his head surprised even him.

Dylan’s expression was a fucking cartoon. “Wow. That’s incredible.”

“Not really.” Angelo held the pose until his abandoned muscles protested and then slowly returned his leg to earth. “I’ve been doing that since I was nine.”

“Still wow. I can barely do the Macarena.”

“I did a show in Barcelona a few years ago that included those moves.”

Dylan laughed, then his expression turned curious again. “Did you travel a lot when you were dancing?”

“Yeah. Europe, mainly, until I got the gig in New York.” Angelo reclaimed his seat. “I didn’t appreciate it, though. You don’t when you think something is going to last forever.”

Dylan rested his elbows on the counter and cupped his chin in his hands. He’d grown a slight beard since Angelo had last seen him, and it suited him, setting off his grungy T-shirt and the skull pendant hanging around his neck. Dylan seemed to be more metal every time Angelo saw him, and today he looked like a rock star.

“What’s your deal with the club?” Dylan asked. “I know I’ve only, uh, seen you there twice, but you’re a different person there.”

The last part wasn’t a question, but Dylan was so on the money that Angelo nodded. “It’s a release for me . . . a healthy one. I’m a miserable git, in case you hadn’t noticed, but playing at the club gives me some control back.”

“Has it always been that way?”

“Nah. When I first went there, it was because I’m a bit of a perv.”

“Makes two of us.” Dylan licked his lips, and the air between them thickened again, heavy with the weight of what had brought them together three weeks ago in bunker five.

Angelo’s world narrowed to Dylan and the way he’d felt clamped around Angelo’s dick. He sucked in a breath as Dylan leaned forward but pulled away milliseconds before their lips touched. “I need a drink.”

He stood and went to the till and rummaged in the cabinet below. The grappa was exactly where his father had left it, the bulbous shot glasses stacked beside it. He retrieved the bottle and two glasses and slid them across the counter.

Dylan picked up the bottle and studied the label. “Grappa, eh? I haven’t drunk this stuff since a staff jolly to Athens a few years ago.”

“Citizens Advice has office parties in Greece?”

Dylan chuckled. “No, we barely have teabags. I worked in banking before I joined CA. Still in the debt sector, but it was less compassionate and pretty fucking oppressive. I ditched it a few years ago.”

“I’m glad.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. I want you to be happy.”

Dylan stared, and for a fleeting moment, Angelo wished the ground would swallow him whole, but then Dylan reached out and covered Angelo’s hand with his own. “I want you to be happy too.”

Why? But Angelo didn’t say it. Reeling from the sensation of Dylan’s palm on his knuckles, he used his free hand to thumb the cork out of the grappa bottle and pour two meaty measures.

He passed one to Dylan. “Bottoms up.”

Dylan smirked and brought the glass to his lips, and any hope that Angelo may have had of lowering the temperature in the room was dashed as Dylan’s throat worked to swallow the fiery liquor.

I want to fuck his mouth.

As if Angelo had spoken aloud, Dylan dropped his glass on the counter and tightened his fingers around Angelo’s. “So . . . are we gonna take this date to the club, or what?”

“You want to?”

Dylan shrugged. “I wasn’t sure when I thought about it earlier, but I think it would be good for us. There’s a lot going on. Let’s clear the air.”

That Dylan already understood how Angelo’s convoluted brain worked made Angelo’s soul sing. Could they play in the club and build on whatever was brewing between them in real life? With anyone else, Angelo would’ve called it a day weeks ago, but Dylan wasn’t like anyone else he’d ever hooked up with. The way their worlds had combined was bizarre but somehow felt right. “I really did just intend on feeding you dinner.”

“And you have,” Dylan said with an impish grin. “Now come up the road and feed me your cock.”

* * *

Dylan’s skin tingled as he dried himself off from the shower in Lovato’s opulent bathroom. He’d left Angelo at the bar already turning heads. And Dylan couldn’t blame the potential playmates who’d zeroed in on Angelo the moment they’d entered the club. Angelo was beautiful any day of the week, but something had shifted in him as they’d stepped over the threshold⁠—his shoulders had squared and his chin had risen, and there was a confidence in him that was lacking in the outside world. In the club, Angelo became Angel, and Dylan couldn’t wait to play with him.

If someone else hasn’t got there first . . .

But his fears proved groundless when he returned to the bar. Angelo was alone and nursing an amber shot of Jack Daniels.

Dylan swiped it and knocked it back, letting the burn seep into his bones, stoking a fire that was already well lit. He cast a glance around the club. It had filled up while he’d been in the shower, and it was pumping now. The music had been ramped up, and the moans of nearby playmates barely carried over the sultry dubstep beats. Dylan bought more drinks and slid one Angelo’s way.

Angelo stared at it. Dylan nudged him. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t buy you one back. I only had a tenner in my pocket.”

“But you paid for me to get in,” Dylan protested. “That’s worth a couple of bevvies.”

A ghost of a smirk threatened Angelo’s earnest expression. “I didn’t pay. Perks of being an ex-employee.”

Dylan cast his gaze around the club again, picturing Angelo weaving among the tangles of writhing bodies, delivering drinks, and clearing glasses. Clocking off early and joining the fray. He hadn’t been sure how he’d feel about watching Angelo play with someone else, but now that they were in the club, it was all he could think about. Getting fucked in the basement rooms had sated Dylan’s darkest fantasies, but there was more⁠—always, always more. He’d felt Angel rise in Angelo, but he hadn’t seen it. I need to see it.

At this time of night, the club’s dance floor was basically a blowjob pit. Cast in shadows from the colourful spotlights, Dylan couldn’t see much, but a hot bloke going to town on a fat dick caught his eye. The dude had skills, and Dylan wondered how he’d look with his lips wrapped around Angelo’s cock. How Angelo would look as he got deep throated.

The man finished up with his playmate a little while later. Dylan sidled closer to Angelo, who was playing his role of the quiet brooding top to perfection. “You wanna play?”

“With you?”

Dylan jerked his head at the man who was meandering vaguely in their direction. “And him. I wanna see him suck you.”

Angelo raised an eyebrow and necked his drink. “What are you going to do?”

“Watch. Touch. That okay with you?”

“Are you going to let me fuck you after?”

“I’d imagine so?”

“Then you’d better wave him over.”

The man seemed to be heading towards them now anyway. Dylan chanced brushing a kiss to Angelo’s neatly stubbled jaw and then turned his attention to the approaching man. He took a step away from Angelo and slipped seamlessly into the other dude’s personal space. “Hey. What’s your name?”

“Rhys,” the man replied without hesitation. “You?”

“Dylan. And this is my friend⁠—⁠” Dylan tugged Angelo forward⁠—“Angelo. Would you like to join us?”

The pleasantries didn’t last long. Rhys was clearly an experienced player, and he was on his knees within a few minutes.

Dylan plastered himself to Angelo’s side as Rhys swallowed Angelo’s cock. He pulled Angelo’s shirt over his head and then fused his lips to Angelo’s left nipple. The quickening thud of Angelo’s heart echoed in his ear, and as he bit down, Angelo’s answering groan sent him into overdrive. He stripped his own clothes and moved around Angelo. God, I want to fuck him. But he dampened the craving⁠—for now⁠—and dropped down beside Rhys. “Care to share?”

Rhys treated him to a wet grin. “Have at it.”

Dylan didn’t need telling twice. He claimed his place at Angelo’s feet, and Angelo tasted amazing. Dylan slid his mouth up and down, flicking his tongue like a precome-crazed lizard, and it was only the need for oxygen that forced him to pull back.

He drew his mouth from Angelo with a pop and gazed up at him. Angelo returned his stare, his eyes hooded as Rhys feverishly sucked his cock, his cheeks stained with a heady flush. He leaned back on the bar and raised an eyebrow, the challenge clear. What ya got next for me?

Dylan smirked. Wait and see.

He stood and relished the distant buzz that came with the sensation of dozens of eyes on him. The thrill of being watched wasn’t as sharp as it had been when he’d first come to the club a few years ago, but he made a show of retrieving a condom from his jeans anyway⁠—for Angelo, as much as their audience.

Angelo’s eyes widened, and Dylan winked, even as his pulse jumped in anticipation of what he’d had in mind since he’d spotted Rhys sucking cock on the other side of the room.

Dylan tugged Rhys to his feet and brought his lips to his ear. “Can I fuck you?”

Biting down on his slick bottom lip, Rhys nodded. “Condom?”

Dylan dangled the rubber between them. Rhys plucked it from his fingers and took Dylan’s hand, leading him to a nearby couch. The leather was cool against Dylan’s heated palms as he bent Rhys over the arm of the sofa. He closed his eyes and imagined that he was sliding his dick into Angelo. His balls jumped, and his soul cried out for the man he was fast becoming utterly infatuated with.

Like Dylan had called his name, Angelo was suddenly behind him, his chest to his back, urging Dylan on as he started to fuck Rhys with long, hard strokes, giving Rhys everything he craved from Angelo.

“Yeah,” Angelo murmured. “I’ve been dreaming of watching you fuck someone, and you’re even hotter than I thought you’d be.”

Consumed by Rhys clenching tight around his dick, Dylan didn’t have it in him to be so coherent. He pulled out of Rhys and tugged him over onto his back. He drove inside him again, and Rhys threw his head back. “Fuck!”

Angelo chuckled and smacked Dylan’s arse. “Damn, my dick’s so hard I’m gonna bust all up your back while you fuck him.”

Dylan imagined Angelo’s hot come splattering on his skin and a bolt of raw pleasure shot through him. He threw a hand out and clawed at Angelo’s muscular thigh. “Do your worst.”

Angelo made an appreciative noise in Dylan’s ear and then disappeared, taking his leg⁠—and all that was tying Dylan down to the world⁠—with him. Dylan clenched his teeth and fucked Rhys faster, bending over him so that their sweat-slicked chests slid together.

“Where did your friend go?”

“Dunno,” Dylan gritted out. “He⁠—⁠”

But Angelo returned before he could finish, pressed up against the backs of Dylan’s legs, his slicked, condom-covered cock probing Dylan’s hole. The intrusion was sudden, and it burned, and the pain was everything. A sharp cry escaped Dylan and he fell forward as Angelo chased him down and seized his hips, fucking into him and pushing him deeper into Rhys.

The sensation of Angelo taking control and fucking them both was mind-blowing. His rhythm started slow but built to a rough ride. Dylan matched his pace, and Rhys came quickly, shooting on his belly before rolling away.

Dylan was absently aware of his goodbye kiss, but with Angelo still nailing him, it didn’t resonate. He bent his legs to take Angelo deeper. Angelo hit his prostate and all bets were off. Dylan moaned and clutched uselessly at the leather sofa. “Harder.”

“What was that?”

“Harder.” Dylan grabbed Angelo’s leg again, pulling him impossibly closer. “Make me come.”

A gravelly groan escaped Angelo. “So fucking hot. I could bang you all night.”

I wouldn’t stop you. But speech was beyond Dylan. He let go of Angelo’s leg and threw his arms out in front of him, flattening his torso and raising his hips. Angelo’s response was instant, and the brutal dig of his cock was blinding. The club melted away. White noise filled Dylan’s ears and snow obscured his vision. His hole clenched, and the first strains of release rocketed up his spine.

“Jesus Christ!” Angelo steadied him, his voice cracking. “You gonna come?”

Dylan could only gasp and finally⁠—finally⁠—grip his own weeping dick and jerk it desperately in sync with Angelo’s spearing thrusts.

Heat sluiced through Dylan like a rampant wildfire. He shouted, arching his back, his nerves as tight as an archer’s bow, and come shot out of him, spurting all over the already slick couch. “Oh!”

The masochist in him cried out for more, and Angelo responded with a flurry of final strokes before he pulled out and ripped off the condom.

Red-hot splatters of come hit Dylan’s back. Angelo’s guttered exclamations were half drowned out by the carnival going on in Dylan’s senses, but Dylan absorbed every grunt and moan like they were his own and was pretty much catatonic by the time Angelo yanked him upright, wrapping his arms around Dylan’s trembling body so tightly that Dylan forgot how to breathe.

“Open your eyes,” Angelo whispered. Dylan obeyed, and Angelo’s strong hand gripped his chin, his fingers digging into Dylan’s jaw, nails scratching through the fine layer of fair stubble. “Look . . . everyone’s watching.”

Dylan stared at the dozens of eyes trained on him. Where their rapt attention had seemed distant before, now it seeped into him, throwing a last handful of kindling on the fading flames. He searched for Rhys but couldn’t find him in the dancing shadows of the club. Would he recognise him after tonight? Did it matter? As Angelo bit down on his earlobe, he lost the ability to decide.

The heat faded eventually. Angelo half carried Dylan to the showers and washed him like they’d been lovers for years while Dylan stared, mesmerised, and tracked a bead of water as it trickled down Angelo’s strong chest. There was so much he wanted to say, but he didn’t speak a word until they were dressed and outside. “Are you hungry? I could murder some dodgy chicken.”

Angelo shook his head. “I’m pretty much done for the night.”

“You sure?” Dylan tried to temper the flare of disappointment. “King Chook is on our way home?”

“On your way home, maybe.”

Angelo’s expression was hard to gauge, and he didn’t give Dylan much chance to try before he dropped his gaze to the floor. They started walking to the junction where they would go their separate ways if Dylan couldn’t persuade Angelo to come home with him. Dylan thought about taking Angelo’s hand, but it didn’t seem to fit. Their only physical contact had been in the club, and away from its safe embrace, Angelo seemed a different man. Angel melted away with every step, and Dylan didn’t know how to bridge the gap. “Are you sure you’re not hungry?”

Silence. Dylan slowed and realised Angelo was already trailing behind. “Angelo?”

“Hmm?” Angelo glanced up from his apparent preoccupation with his shoes. “Sorry, what?”

Dylan stopped walking entirely. “What’s the matter?”

“What?”

Dylan reclaimed his place in Angelo’s personal space. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m fine.”

“Really? ’Cause you look like you’re about to keel over.”

Angelo’s lovely face twisted into a scowl. “Piss off.”

It was nothing Dylan hadn’t endured from Sam, but Angelo’s sudden change in mood still stung. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” Angelo pushed past Dylan and stalked to the taxi rank that was just beyond the junction.

With better ideas in short supply, Dylan followed and joined him at the kerb. “Do you want to share a cab?”

“Nah. I’m going to walk.”

“Walk?”

“Yeah. I’m not going the same way as you, remember?”

“Um. Okay. I’ll call you soon?”

“Sure.”

It would’ve been easier if Angelo had slapped him. The night they’d shared had been fucking magical, and the cold sullenness marring Angelo’s features now made no sense. The date had been his idea, and he hadn’t protested when Dylan had suggested moving things to the club. They’d left in high spirits, and nothing had happened to explain Angelo’s sharp mood change.

A million questions danced on Dylan’s tongue, but the moment to ask them passed as Angelo flagged down a black cab and opened the door, jerking his head for Dylan to get in. Fuck no.

Dylan ripped the door from Angelo and slammed it shut. “Are you taking the piss? That’s all I get? A club blowout and taxi for one?”

Angelo shrugged, his once-expressive eyes dull and devoid of any emotion. “What do you want? We’re not married.”

Wanker. Embarrassment washed over Dylan. Had he completely misread this? Had Angelo’s only motive for asking him out been a third go-round at the club? Ten minutes ago, Dylan would’ve been sure that the answer was no, but as Angelo thrust his hands in his pockets, he wasn’t sure of anything except the need to get as far away from this bullshit as possible. “You know what, mate? Fuck you.”