Dylan tossed his phone on the bed that still smelled of Angelo, glad that it landed screen side down. It was Thursday⁠—three days since Angelo had kissed him outside the derelict garage he apparently slept in, and apart from a couple of vague WhatsApp messages, Dylan hadn’t heard from him. Though, what he’d been expecting, he wasn’t entirely sure. After all, Angelo hadn’t exactly professed his undying love.

Undying love? What are you? Fucking twelve?

Dylan kicked off his shoes and lay down on his bed. Despite knowing better, he reclaimed his phone and opened WhatsApp. Angelo hadn’t been online since the arse crack of dawn, and though Dylan knew he was likely still working, it was hard not to worry . . . at least when he wasn’t convincing himself that it wasn’t even his place to henpeck a dude he’d pretty much only just met.

But still. Dylan worried. How many times had he assumed that Sam had gone to bed early, only to find him half dead in the morning? Too many. Dylan shuddered, and his thumb hovered over the Call button, but his phone buzzed before he could press it, and he jumped a mile.

The phone flew out of his fingers and sailed over the side of the bed, landing on the hardwood floor with a sickening clatter. Dylan scrambled to reach it and toppled onto the floor, thwacking his knee on the radiator just in time for the call to ring out. He grabbed the phone and turned it over. Angelo. Dylan’s heart skipped a beat. He called straight back, but it went to voicemail without even ringing. He tried again and again, but the calls didn’t connect.

Restless, he hauled himself off the floor and went to the kitchen. His dad had brought over a pie from the butchers the day before, but he ignored it in favour of a big bottle of fruity cider⁠—the shit kind that tasted like Vimto. He has halfway deep in it and peeling tiny bits of the label from the bottle when his phone rang again.

He jumped on it like a starving man. “Angelo?”

“It’s me.”

Relief rushed out of Dylan in a whoosh of breath. “Sorry I missed your first call. I threw my phone by accident, then fell off the bed trying to catch it.”

“Erm . . . okay? Are you drunk?”

“Nope. Just a twat.”

“Fair enough.” Angelo didn’t sound convinced. “I’m sorry I haven’t called you sooner. I didn’t have any minutes left on my phone, and I keep crashing out as soon as I get home.”

“How are you doing with that? Do you feel better?”

“Actually, yes. I’ve been locking the door for an hour every morning to take a nap in the stock room, and I think it’s helping.”

Dylan pictured Angelo trying to get his head down amongst the vats of olive oil and giant jars of sundried tomatoes. This isn’t right. “What about your legs?”

“Well, I haven’t cut them off and hurled them under a bus yet, so I suppose they’re all right.”

“Gallows humour, eh?”

“Well, I am on Gallows Corner, babe.”

Babe. Jesus. This dude kills me. It had been a long time since a male lover⁠—if Angelo could even be defined as that⁠—had called Dylan babe. On the rare occasions his dirty nights in with Sam and Eddie had spilled out into a stolen kiss or touch from Sam, it had always been mate or brother, and the emptiness Dylan had felt then now made sense. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Accounts. I’m trying to get my mum to sit down with me, but she ain’t having none of it. Makes me want to start smoking again.”

“When did you quit?”

“Eight years ago,” Angelo said around an ironically timed cough.

“Wow.”

“I know. Not sure what that says about me or her.”

Dylan went to the fridge and opened it, staring blindly inside at the contents before he grabbed another cider. “Do you want to maybe meet up later? We could get a drink, or . . .”

“Or what?”

“I don’t know. Go to the Thursday night gangbang party at the club and have crazy-mad sex? What are we doing here?”

Angelo laughed, which made Dylan feel a little better about the determined bunny boiler who fell out of his mouth every time he spoke. “I have no idea what we’re doing. You told me to let things be, so that’s what I’m doing. I’m stuck with my mum tonight, but if you want to do something tomorrow⁠—drink council pop at the bus stop or sit on a park bench, ’cause that’s all I can afford right now⁠—I’m game for whatever.”

“So you’re not going to the club?”

“Are you? Because I’m pretty sure I’m game for that too.”

The romantic in Dylan wanted to ditch the club and take Angelo out for dinner. Get a bottle of wine and leer at each other over spicy food until they stumbled home to bed. But the realist in him knew that Angelo would never agree to a night out on Dylan’s wallet, and as much fun as the bus stop sounded, the club would do far more for Angelo’s fragile self-esteem.

Besides, going to the club wasn’t exactly a hardship. Fuck no. It was the best offer Dylan had heard since the last time, and they made loose plans to meet near Lovato’s the following night. And after they’d hung up, Dylan took a shower with a grin and boner he wouldn’t touch until he had his mouth around Angelo’s cock.

* * *

The change in Angelo was startling. Dylan watched him spring over a bench as he approached the club, and for the first time truly saw him as the incredible athlete he’d once been. He stepped out of the shadows and into Angelo’s path. Nerves shivered through him and he opened his arms, willing Angelo to step right into them.

Angelo did exactly that, and his embrace warmed Dylan’s bones. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” Dylan inhaled Angelo’s scent and brushed his lips along his darkly stubbled jaw. “You look good.”

“Says you.”

“What does that mean?”

Angelo stepped back and speared Dylan with a heated stare, running his gaze over Dylan’s skinny jeans and grungy vest combo. “I’m never sure which skin you’re gonna show up in.”

“Yeah, ’cause that clears it right up.” Dylan rolled his eyes. “And you’re one to talk about skins. Am I partying with Angel tonight or has Angelo come out to play?”

“You tell me. Angel ain’t something I’ve ever called myself, is it?”

He had a point, but as they made their way to the club, Dylan couldn’t help noting every inch of the mask as it descended over Angelo’s features. He knew that Angel would burn him alive when they played, but what did that mean if Angelo wasn’t there too? Did it even mean anything? At this point, Dylan had no fucking idea.

Inside the club, a man who knew Angel by name waved them past without taking the entrance fee, and though the club was as familiar to Dylan as his mother’s house, walking in with Angelo felt like the first time all over again⁠—the lights were lower, the bass line deeper, and the eyes that followed them to the bar pierced holes in his back.

Angelo bought drinks with a screwed up tenner, and Dylan swallowed the urge to push Angelo’s money aside and swipe his card over the contactless payment machine.

“Next round’s on me,” he said.

Angelo scowled. “Yeah, yeah.”

Perhaps they wouldn’t get that far. Dylan claimed his beer bottle and glanced around the club. It was early yet and some corners were quiet, but it didn’t take long to spot Rhys on his back with his legs in the air, getting pegged by a girl who reminded Dylan of Eddie. For a moment, he imagined that it was her and that she was thrusting her big black strap-on into Sam and that Sam was loving it, warming himself up to take Dylan’s cock. How different would their lives have been if Sam’s sexuality had been more flexible?

But even before the question had solidified in his mind, he knew the answer. Their lives would’ve rocked out exactly the same because Sam’s sexuality was irrelevant. Eddie was his soulmate and Dylan his friend, and no amount of dick could change that.

Angelo tapped Dylan’s temple with his own icy-cold beer bottle. “Who are you thinking about?”

“What makes you think I’ve got anyone else on my mind?”

“Because you’ve got that orgy-BFF scowl on your face.”

Dylan wondered when he’d become so transparent, or perhaps his mind was just open to Angelo. “Do you really want to talk about Sam again? It feels like all we ever do.”

“When we’re not discussing my shit show, you mean.”

“Don’t be like that.”

Angelo shrugged. “It’s true. You’ve seen all my dirty laundry and listened to my tales of woe, but I don’t know much about you apart from that you dress like a banker by day and a metalhead by night.”

“And that I used to have threesomes with my best mate and his missus.”

Angelo glowered and swigged his beer, his expression a world away from the last time Sam had invaded their conversation. “I can’t see you in a mosh pit. You’re too . . . I dunno. Nice?”

“I’m nasty enough to bend over in a fuck club,” Dylan retorted. “And I can’t see you pirouetting to Swan Lake either, but that’s my problem.”

He hadn’t meant to speak so harshly, but Angelo’s only reaction was a slight twitch in one eyebrow, and Dylan sighed. “The bad luck in your life doesn’t define you, Angelo.”

“No?”

“No. Nor does the fact that you can pretty much make me come just by looking at me, but I reckon there’s a lot more to both of us, eh?”

Angelo said nothing, and frustration rippled through Dylan. Complex individuals crossed his path all the time, but he’d never met anyone as hard to read as Angelo. They’d come to the club to play, but the air between them was heavy, weighed down by something that Dylan couldn’t quite decipher.

He necked his beer and reached for Angelo’s hand just as Rhys came up to them, his grin a mile wide. “Evening, gents.”

Angelo pulled his hand away milliseconds before Dylan managed to grasp it and stepped back to make room for Rhys. “All right, mate?”

His tone was flat, his face devoid of the smirk he’d greeted Rhys with the last time they’d met, but Rhys didn’t seem to notice. He barely glanced at Angelo, and his friendly gaze zeroed in on Dylan.

“I was hoping I’d run into you again.”

“Oh yeah?” Dylan regretted downing his beer and settled for picking at the label. “Why’s that?”

Rhys shrugged. “Why do you think? I haven’t been fucked that good in years.”

Angelo snorted and turned away, signalling to the barman for another drink. Dylan glared at his back. How could someone so beautiful be so damn maddening?

Rhys cleared his throat. “So, are you two up for some company tonight?”

Dylan shot Rhys a surprised glance. Despite the three-way fuck that had gone down the last time they’d met, when he looked at Rhys, all he could see was the concern in his face when he’d caught up with Dylan at the taxi rank. “It’s none of my business, mate, but your boyfriend doesn’t look well. You might want to head back and give him a hand.”

Dylan had dashed back to the club too fast to correct Rhys’s assumption.

“I’m going to take that as a no then,” Rhys said when Dylan failed to respond, and Angelo seemed intent on ignoring the both of them. “Have a good night, guys.”

He was gone before Dylan found his tongue, disappearing into the shadows of the club to find someone else to play with and leaving Dylan to contemplate Angelo’s back. He moved closer to the bar and nudged him in the ribs. “That was rude.”

Angelo flicked him a dry stare. “What was?”

“You didn’t have to blank him.”

“Who?”

“Rhys. The bloke who sucked your cock last week.” Dylan reached around Angelo and helped himself to one of the beers Angelo had bought. “He’s also the reason that I came back to the club to find you.”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

Dylan rolled his eyes. “Jesus. When did you flip your twat mode on?”

Angelo’s gaze darkened, but the twitch of his lips gave him away, and he let loose a rueful grin. “Sorry. I guess I’m used to playing the solitary Dom when I come here. I don’t do small talk.”

“Just fuck and run, eh?”

“Don’t knock it.”

“I’m not. But you didn’t have to ghost Rhys. He seems like a nice bloke.”

“You want to fuck him again?”

“I⁠—⁠”

Angelo cut Dylan off with a kiss that was nothing like the sweet-lipped make-out sessions they’d shared in the real world. Crazy-hot, biting, and demanding, it wiped Dylan’s mind clean of any coherent thought, turning his legs to jelly before Angelo broke away with a sinful smirk. “Because you can if you want . . . but I’d kind of counted on not sharing you tonight.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Angelo pulled Dylan close and wrapped his arms around his waist. His graceful body moved in time with the moody dubstep beats that had ramped up while they’d been at the bar. “I felt like shit that this was the only way I could take you out, but now that we’re here, I can’t help picturing all the ways I can make you come.”

Dylan shivered and leaned against Angelo, their lean ripples and curves moulding together like they were always meant to. Angelo was sex on legs at the best of times, but as he led Dylan in a slow dance that entwined their bodies until there wasn’t a scrap of air between them, Dylan was dizzy with want. His legs buckled, but Angelo kept him from dropping to his knees.

“Not here. Let’s go to the chambers.”

Another shudder passed through Dylan. The chambers were where the BDSM happened. Much of it was too heavy for Dylan’s taste, but he trusted Angelo and followed him across the club like a moth chasing a flame.

They ditched their clothes in a locker and then made their way to the chambers. The darkened dungeon-style rooms were busy, the air thick with ecstatic cries and the slap of leather on flesh. Dylan’s pulse quickened, and he dug his nails into Angelo’s palms.

Perhaps sensing his nerves, Angelo pulled Dylan in front of him and pointed to a vacant play bench. “Just you, me, and a rope. Whaddya say?”

Dylan stumbled slightly and licked his lips. His gaze fell on a length of silk that was draped over the black bench. “Can we use that?”

A heated sound rumbled through Angelo’s chest. “Fuck yeah.”

Dylan snagged the silk and then straddled the bench. The heady rush of anticipation left him giddy, and he raised his arms, submitting himself to Angelo and letting his mind fall into that magical place where his thoughts were blocked by pure sensation.

Angelo tied the silk around Dylan’s wrists like a fucking fisherman. In his delirium, Dylan imagined him on a boat, his beautiful face lashed by wind and rain, dressed in whatever fishermen wore. He laughed⁠—a choked-out sound that betrayed his hyped-up state of arousal, and Angelo’s answering frown was laced with humour too.

“Something funny, Dylan?”

Dylan shook his head as the silk bit into his flesh. “No . . . Angel.”

Angelo’s expression darkened. “Don’t call me that. I’ve told you it’s not me.”

It must have been at some point in Angelo’s life, but naked and bound and at his mercy, Dylan let it go. After all, they’d already both conceded that they came to the table with more than one skin.

He let Angelo flip him over and hitch his tied wrists to the convenient hook at the end of the bench, and braced himself for the breach of Angelo’s fat cock⁠—“Fuck!”

The gentle lapping at his hole caught him off guard. His entire body jerked, and the force of it nearly sent him toppling over the side of the bench. Angelo’s iron grip steadied him, but the tongue probing Dylan’s hole didn’t falter. Angelo teased him with tickling licks and driving thrusts until Dylan was sure that he’d come from that alone.

He gave himself up to a violent shudder and groaned, his voice cracking into a plaintive cry. Somewhere nearby, he heard a chuckle⁠—Rhys, perhaps⁠—but he didn’t care how desperate he appeared to anyone watching because he was desperate. Their relationship outside of the club was complex and undefined, but this? Yeah. This was goddamn primal, and Dylan had never doubted the fiery burn that kept him awake most nights.

Angelo pulled back and bit the fleshiest part of Dylan’s inner thigh. The sharp pain stopped Dylan’s fast-approaching orgasm in its tracks but did nothing to calm the storm in his veins. Angelo yanked Dylan’s hips higher and dragged his fingernails down Dylan’s spine. “What do you want, Dylan? Want me to eat you out or fuck you into oblivion?”

Anything. Everything. “Fuck me,” Dylan gritted out. “Please.”

Angelo groaned. “God, I love it when you beg. Makes me lose my head.”

“Please.”

Angelo’s hands left Dylan, and Dylan mourned the loss of his electric touch, but the void didn’t last long. Cool lube trickled over Dylan’s hole, and a condom wrapper fluttered to the floor. The blunt intrusion of Angelo’s cock finally came, and despite every nerve demanding it, the stinging stretch knocked Dylan off balance again.

“Easy.” Angelo’s voice was soft and devoid of the authority that chased away Dylan’s senses. “I’ve got you.”

Dylan gasped, his lungs burning, and more shudders racked him. Angelo started to pull out, and Dylan fumbled desperately for any part of him to cling on to. “Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

But Angelo withdrew, and the knot securing Dylan’s wrists fell away. Dylan resigned himself to face-planting the bench, but as his body collapsed, Angelo caught him and somehow cradled him in his lap.

“Easy,” Angelo said again.

And again, and again, until Dylan’s breath was no longer snared in his throat. He sagged against Angelo and stared up at him through blurry eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

Dylan didn’t have an answer. He shook his head, and Angelo caught his chin, forcing him to meet his gaze.

“I’m never going to force you, Dylan. You’re safe with me. You know that.”

Of course Dylan did, and he had no explanation for the bizarre panic that was still having a party in his gut. He took a shaky breath and closed his fingers around Angelo’s wrist. “I know I’m safe.”

“Then what is it?” Angelo hunched his shoulders, shielding Dylan from anyone who may have been watching the clusterfuck their playtime had turned into. “Was it the ties? I figured you were okay with shit like that.”

“I am,” Dylan said. “It wasn’t the fucking . . . I don’t know what it was. It’s never happened before.”

Angelo stared hard at Dylan, like his gaze could pierce Dylan’s soul and decipher the truth. “You don’t seem the panicking type.”

“I’m not.”

“Do you wanna get out of here?”

Dylan absorbed the sensation of Angelo’s arms caged around him, of his fingers stroking his face, and shook his head. “I want you. Please?”

For a long moment, he feared Angelo would refuse him, but then the worry clouding Angelo’s eyes faded, and he smiled. He released Dylan and moved like a stretching cat, lying back on the bench, his sheathed cock still rock hard as he folded his hands behind his head. “If you want me, Dylan. Take me.”

Well, okay then. Weird panic bullshit be fucking damned, Dylan was getting on that dick. And as he pushed Angelo’s chest and straddled his waist, the accompanying rush of power cleared his foggy brain. He still had no idea where he and Angelo were headed with this madness, but for now, he had the reins.

He eased himself down on Angelo’s cock, bracing himself on the bench frame, intending to take it slow, to string the ride out until neither of them could take it anymore, but his body had other ideas. Adrenaline took over as he ground down on Angelo, lapping up Angelo’s grunts and groans. He clenched around Angelo’s dick and rode him hard, his sweat dripping onto Angelo’s chest, the ache in his thighs building with every rush of pleasure.

Angelo arched his back and brought his hands to Dylan’s hips, deepening the angle. His moans grew louder and higher in pitch, and for the first time ever, Dylan had the upper hand.

He gripped Angelo’s throat, squeezing, gentle at first, but then rougher as Angelo’s dick pulsed inside him. “You like that? You gonna come with my hand on your throat and your dick buried in my arse?”

Angelo’s eyes rolled back, and Dylan’s brief control slipped. He slammed down on Angelo one more time, then came with a ragged cry, splattering Angelo’s ripped abdomen. “Fuck!”

“Oh God.” Angelo threw his head back, pressing his perfect neck into Dylan’s hand, and his release seemed to come in waves as Dylan squeezed his throat.

It felt like they were both coming forever, but eventually, Dylan collapsed on Angelo’s chest, smearing himself with come and sweat before he remembered that it was Angelo who’d had his air supply cut off.

“Fuck.” He sat up sharply. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

Still panting, Angelo shook his head and touched the reddening marks around his neck. “Nah, I like that shit when I’m with someone I trust.”

“You trust me?”

Angelo met Dylan’s gaze with a ferocious stare that seemed out of context with the mellow post-coital vibe descending on them. “Of course I do. You know who I am. Can’t think of anyone else who ever has.”

Dylan opened his mouth, but any answer he may have given was cut off by Angelo’s hand covering his lips.

Angelo shook his head. “Don’t. Just give me tonight. Please?”

As if Dylan could refuse Angelo anything when he looked at him the way he was now. In the blue lights of the club, Angelo’s eyes seemed almost black, and Dylan fell head first into their vortex. The night was closing in on them. All they had⁠—all they needed⁠—was each other, right?

* * *

It took Dylan approximately six seconds to persuade Angelo to get a cab home with him, but it felt like the longest six seconds of his life. And then the taxi ride passed in a blur of heated stares and aborted sentences. Dylan’s blood sizzled from their club encounter, but even that wasn’t enough to give him the balls to ask for another round.

Lucky for him, Angelo was way ahead of the game. He held Dylan back with one arm and paid the driver with the other and then yanked him out of the car. Cool air hit Dylan’s heated skin, and a residual shiver rattled through him. A heartbeat behind, Angelo wound his arms around Dylan’s waist and buried his face in Dylan’s neck.

Dylan leaned into him and waited for the shift in their dynamic⁠—for the inferno to fade and them to slip seamlessly back to the slow burn of friendship. Remembering what had happened the last time they’d left the club together, Dylan nuzzled Angelo’s cheek. “All right?”

In answer, Angelo swept him off his feet and spun him around, and Dylan would never stop being in awe of his strength. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

Dylan rolled his eyes. “I told you⁠—I’m fine. I didn’t have dinner before I came out. Maybe that fucked me up.”

Angelo didn’t look convinced, but Dylan wasn’t in the mood to persuade him. That would mean talking about whatever had upset his equilibrium in the club, and Dylan had a buzz that he intended to carry them all the way to bed. “Are you going to kip at mine?”

“You want me to?”

“Yes.”

Angelo shot Dylan a sideways glance. “Okay, but we need food and showers before we get all dirty again.”

Dylan’s heart skipped a beat. “You want to get dirty again?”

“Uh-huh.” Angelo’s expression was comically serious. “If I’m going to spend the night, I want to do more than sleep this time.”

Dylan wound his arms around Angelo’s neck as Angelo set him back on the ground, their lips still a hairbreadth away from the kiss he craved so badly. “You won’t get any arguments from me.”

“Good.”

The way Angelo’s voice wrapped around the single syllable had echoes of Angel, but Dylan pushed it away. It was Angelo who had lain back on that bench and given himself up to Dylan, and the slight snarl on his face now turned Dylan’s every thought to a liquefied mush. God, I want him. And the idea of Angelo fucking outside of the club⁠—in Dylan’s bed, on the couch . . . on the kitchen worktops⁠—was so beguiling that Dylan swayed on his feet.

For the umpteenth time that night, Angelo steadied him. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get inside.”

Dylan didn’t need telling twice. He grabbed Angelo’s hand and towed him to the front door. He fumbled with his key like he’d drunk ten pints, but eventually, he got it unlocked and led them to his flat.

Inside, the pressing need for a shower outweighed his desire to tumble Angelo straight into bed. He pressed two bottles of beer into Angelo’s hands and pushed him towards the bedroom. “Five minutes.”

“We need food,” Angelo said. “Or no fucking.”

It was clear that he meant it, so Dylan jerked his head to the kitchen. “Raid the fridge then. Just make sure you’re naked when I get back.”

He took the quickest shower known to man, but rinsing sweat and dried jizz took a few minutes. When he got out, the flat was quiet and still. He wrapped a towel around his waist and padded into the bedroom, nearly tripping over Angelo’s boots. On the bedside table was a plate of sandwiches that looked far more appetising than the contents of Dylan’s fridge deserved and a bottle of beer. Angelo had ditched his T-shirt and unbuttoned his jeans, the trail of dark fuzz on his belly disappearing invitingly beneath his underwear, and Dylan gazed at him, his cock springing to life again.

God, he’s gorgeous. It was a crying shame that Angelo was already fast asleep.