CHAPTER SIX

AMANI SHOULD HAVE WALKED AWAY the moment Victor Newcomb asked him to stay.

He had no desire to be a curiosity, a novelty, a plaything used to gratify a rich man’s whim until he grew bored with the newness of being queer and tossed Amani aside for the next thrill.

Yet when Vic had leaned over him, pale blue eyes alight with something more than just curiosity, almost begging him with something subtle and unspoken…

Something deep and powerful had roused inside Amani, as if some ancient summoning called in all its fire and strength and glory in response to the quiet spell of longing Victor Newcomb had cast.

Fuck. He was going to get himself wrapped up in some buried need to fix this man, and ruin himself in the process. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Men could only be fixed when they wanted to fix themselves. Amani wasn’t in the business of repairing broken things.

Yet it wasn’t only Vic who seemed soothed by this moment of quiet communion as they leaned into each other, Vic’s arms settled heavily around Amani’s hips and his brow resting to his stomach, breaths warming his skin through Amani’s caftan while Amani gently massaged the tension from Vic’s body with just his fingertips against the nape of his neck. Amani had never had anyone he could call his submissive before, someone who came to him and only him—and technically, this counted as after care for Vic’s first submissive experience, comforting him and letting him just be in this quiet stillness with someone to ground him while he reoriented the pieces of himself in this new configuration.

Amani just didn’t expect that he would find it comforting, as well.

He’d never had the opportunity to learn. Curious fumblings with boys his own age in high school didn’t really count, when neither of them knew what they were doing and Google could only do so much. He’d only been old enough to be allowed in NYC underground fetish clubs for the past two years, and he’d found it a disappointing experience. If it wasn’t overblown muscle Doms trying to make him “realize” he was truly a sub or people who didn’t understand that he couldn’t just shed the identity associated with his skin tone when he stepped into that world, it was only briefly satisfying negotiated sessions with strangers who just wanted someone pretty to tie them up or step on them or call them trash or just coax their surrender in whatever way got them off. Mutually fulfilling for the moment, mutually unfulfilling in the long term, when the kind of trust that truly made a relationship work between a Dominant and submissive…

That took time. Intimacy.

That was something he’d never had with anyone.

And he didn’t think starting with this ivory tower princeling was the best idea.

He curled his hands against Vic’s shoulders and eased back gently, until Vic got the hint and let his arms drop. For a moment Vic simply knelt there, looking up at him with that handsome face lost in naked supplication, question, as if asking Amani what he’d done wrong, for Amani to pull away. But Amani only shook his head, turning from Vic and smoothing his hand over his disarrayed caftan, taking several steadying breaths.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” he asked, moving back toward the sofa and the cello he hadn’t even touched for this entire session.

Rising in a smooth flexion of his body, Vic lingered by the windows, but Amani could feel those lost blue eyes tracking him, asking wordless things. “I’m confused in ways I’ve never been in my life, but…I don’t mind it. I just…” Vic looked down, idle hands occupying themselves straightening and smoothing his jeans in restless motions. “I don’t know what to do with it.” He broke into a quiet laugh. “I can’t exactly follow Ash’s footsteps and chase party boys until I figure this part of myself out. It’s not really my style.”

“You do seem as though you’d prefer to be a bit more discreet.”

“If you call randomly kissing my cello instructor ‘discreet.’”

Amani glanced up from checking the case—and sighed as he caught Vic still watching him, haunted, almost hungry. Amani never should have given in to that kiss; never should have indulged Vic in even the most idle flirtation, when it would just give him ideas.

“You aren’t very subtle, Vic,” he murmured regretfully.

“What am I being unsubtle about?”

“You want to see me again, and for more than just cello instruction,” Amani said. “You want to see me again…and you’re curious about what I do.” He lifted his chin. “What if I told you I’m not interested in dating?”

Vic’s brows lifted inquisitively. “I’d ask why not, but respect if you didn’t want to answer.”

“It’s too complicated, particularly with my tastes.” Amani almost didn’t want to say what came next—but he had to. He had to lay down that line before Victor started getting any ideas. Before Amani started getting any ideas, when Victor was beautiful standing there in the shadows of night, but he was so much more captivating on his knees. “And even if I were interested in dating…I wouldn’t date you.”

Vic flinched, ducking his head. “Ouch.”

“You have issues, Victor Newcomb.” Amani tried to be gentle but honest, even if he was beginning to feel cruel, driving the nail home. “Issues with control. They make you defensive. You may hide behind glib smiles and idle charm, but it’s simply so anyone and everyone can slide off your blandly pleasant façade without trying to engage too deeply.” He shook his head. “I need more from someone I date.”

He’d expected a laughing brush-off to save Victor’s ego. Or perhaps an attempt to persuade, to command, to wheedle and convince Amani that he just had to give Victor a chance to find out what a nice guy he really was. He’d expected a lot of things, but not the abrupt and blunt question of:

“What about from someone you fuck?”

His stomach did an ungainly and rather startled flop; he stared. “Are you propositioning me?”

“I don’t…” Groaning, eyes closing, Vic sagged. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“It sounds like you’re asking me to teach you,” Amani said carefully. “How to be with a man.”

Winter-blue eyes lingered on him. “Maybe more than that.”

“Are you that genuinely curious about my particular kinks?”

“I’m that genuinely curious about you,” Victor countered, so very fervent that Amani thought he might almost mean it. “And you did say it relaxes you.” A one-sided, almost sad smile punctuated his words. “I’m desperately in need of some relaxation.”

“When I offer relaxation as a service, it’s in the form of a massage and it’s paid by the hour.”

Vic’s eyes widened. “What are you suggesting?”

What? Oh. …oh. He hadn’t meant that to come out like—he—oh, damn it. “What are you suggesting?” he threw back.

“Nothing!” Victor’s ears were red, and his voice actually cracked, before he cleared his throat. “It just…sounded like you were saying I could pay you by the hour for…”

Amani would never be able to explain what reckless impulse made him bold, in this moment. Maybe it was some secret buried part of him, longing for something different—something new. Maybe it was some inner need to rebel. Or maybe it was just the way Victor seemed to pull on him, when he fell into that flustered shyness so at odds with the polished corporate image he projected, until Amani just wanted to make a lovely mess out of him and leave him spent and gasping and dazed.

But he almost didn’t recognize his own cool, aloofly amused voice as he said, “I suppose you could.” His heart pounded, leaped, rolled, slammed as he gave Vic a quiet once-over from head to powerful shoulders to long, strongly corded legs, yet he tried to give nothing away as he continued, “It’s nothing I’ve done before, but plenty of people in kink circles offer their services for a price.”

Vic made a strangled noise. “Isn’t that prostitution?”

“So what if it is?” Amani shrugged one shoulder. “It’s the oldest trade in the world. There’s no shame in it. And when you specialize in something particular people need, shouldn’t you be paid for your unique skills?”

“I don’t know!” Vic spluttered. “How can you be so calm about this?”

I’m really not.

“I simply am.” Amani smiled, folding his arms over his chest and tapping his fingertip against his lower lip, letting another look linger over Vic’s flushed face, his dilated eyes. “But you’re rather adorable when you’re not. What happened to your charm, Victor? No easy lines for me now?”

“Are you enjoying flustering me?”

“Yes.” Amani circled the couch, slipping closer to Vic one measured step at a time, just to watch how Victor fell still, transfixed; just to savor how Victor’s breaths turned shallow and rapid as Amani drew near. “You don’t seem to understand, Victor. I enjoy seeing my lovers—my pets—completely undone. That means unraveling everything you think you are, and finding who you hide underneath.” He swayed to a halt in front of Victor, looking up at him. Victor’s pulse was a fluttering throb of temptation and pale skin, and Amani laced his hands together behind his back to resist the urge to touch even as he leaned in closer to the stone-still, petrified man. “Sex is just a gateway to that. Are you sure you want to be so exposed to yourself…or to me?”

Vic looked down at him with those pale blue eyes so stark, as if he didn’t know if he was staring at his salvation or his damnation. “I don’t know,” he whispered shakily. “But I want to find out. What’s your price?”

“Ten thousand per night,” Amani said firmly.

Victor’s next breath choked. “That’s robbery.”

“It’s knowing my value.” With a small smile, Amani reached up to finger the point in the plunge of Vic’s V-neck, fingernail just barely slipping past the cloth to touch skin—but the way Vic shivered, the way he licked his lips, was more gratifying than anything Amani had felt in some time. “And you’re willing to pay it.”

As if Amani had pulled his leash, Vic drew in closer, a rough, throbbing edge of desire darkening his voice. “How do you know that?”

“I know.”

In the stillness between them was the flavor of that kiss, the promise that if Amani wound his fingers in Victor’s hair and exerted even the slightest pressure, the man would be a wreck at his feet in a matter of seconds. The part of Victor’s lips, the subtle waiting tension in his body, promised he would beg so beautifully, beautifully enough that just the thought made Amani’s toes curl and his gut hot and his cock a sensitive ache between his thighs…and if Amani asked, right now, when this felt so raw and strange and full of potential, he thought Victor would give him more than money. More than obedience. More than he’d ever found in nameless one-night encounters.

“If that’s what you want,” Victor whispered, “that’s what I’ll pay.”

Amani’s breaths stilled. Was…this really happening? Was Victor Newcomb really offering ten thousand dollars a night just for permission to touch him, know him, bend his knee to Amani’s will?

His head swam. He breathed in deep, easing the constriction in his chest, rushing oxygen back to his brain quickly enough that his vision blurred. He closed his eyes, turning away. Control. Control. If he prided himself on control, then he couldn’t lose it here, now, with this man looking at him like he wanted to be eaten whole and would beg for another bite.

“I’m going home,” he said coolly, gathering his hair back and twisting it up to pin it in place. “You are not to contact me until Wednesday.”

“What happens Wednesday?” Vic asked, voice husky at his back, promising.

“I’ll come at our appointed time.” Tying his hair off with one last twist, Amani leaned over the back of the couch to pick up his cello case and coat. He needed air. Air, and time to clear his head, because right now he was acting on heady intoxication and anticipation of something he shouldn’t want, and that wasn’t good. He glanced over his shoulder at Vic. “Whether we have a cello lesson or another kind of lesson is up to you.”

“Why wait?”

“Because I said so,” Amani replied firmly. “Because you need to learn patience.” Because you need to learn obedience, if this is what you really want. “And because I want to give you—and myself—time to think, and to decide if this is what we really want.”

Amani wasn’t expecting how quickly Vic moved—the space between them vanishing, one long, rough-knuckled hand curling to brush against his cheek, catching a stray hand of his hair and tucking it back behind his ear. Pale blue eyes looked down at him as if to see was to worship, a small smile playing about his lips.

“And if it is?”

“We’ll discuss a contract.” Amani pulled back, out of Vic’s reach, before he could allow more than the tiniest hint of breathless tremors from that wordlessly begging touch. “For one night only.”

“What if I want more?”

More? More with Vic. More of this strangeness, this feeling like Amani was tumbling and no matter how he tried to grasp on to something solid to pull himself back up, he only fell faster and faster toward an inevitable broken crash. He didn’t like feeling this way. Didn’t like feeling like someone else could command and compel his reactions with a single hot-eyed look, rather than the other way around—even if everything Vic seemed to command and compel from Amani would end with a collar around that pale throat and Vic straining and trembling with the denial of pleasure. Amani darted his tongue over his lips and took a few more steps back, then turned away and strode firmly for the elevator.

“That,” he said, as the elevator door opened, and escape spread before him, “is not something you get to decide alone.”

Vic said nothing to call him back. Nothing to stop him.

He only let Amani go, and Amani couldn’t breathe again until the doors closed and shut away the sight of those pleading lips, softly parted on unspoken words.

l

AMANI DIDN’T STOP MOVING UNTIL he’d let himself into their little Bedell Street brick cottage and shut the door behind him. Gasping to himself, throat raw from the frigid night air, he slumped against the door, then sank down it, staring blankly across the living room.

Oh…oh shit.

Had he really just agreed to sleep with Victor Newcomb, dominate him, teach him submission, let him explore both his own body and Amani’s…

For ten thousand dollars a session?

And Vic hadn’t even batted an eye. Was ten thousand dollars—multiple installments of ten thousand dollars—so little to him that it didn’t even make him blink? Was he that hung up on the idea of seeing Amani again?

Or was it just that Amani was convenient, already there, and—to Victor Newcomb—easily bought?

Amani didn’t even know how to feel. Flattered, that anyone thought an hour-long session with him was worth that much—or disgusted at the profligate wastefulness, offended that Vic was once again offering him charity in the most bizarre form, defiant when he had every right to use any means necessary to survive and he needed that money.

He buried his face in his hands, breathing through his fingers. Calm down. It was only sex. The most intimate, personal kind of sex, requiring mutual trust and vulnerability, but it was only sex and it wasn’t as though he hadn’t met more than one sex worker in underground clubs. They were generally highly respected when often they’d come to sell their skills by developing a unique talent that served specific needs, then recognizing the value in it when demand for their services grew. Many Doms and Dommes were almost revered as royalty, their entire lives paid by willing submissives who happily gave what was needed to experience the things that left them feeling whole and right in their skin.

Amani didn’t know if he could ever reach that level; he preferred to focus his attention on one partner rather than multiple encounters, another reason why he’d never quite fit into the fetish scene—monogamous practitioners often kept their business at home, or in smaller, more private circles. He was struck by an image of himself all in leather and stilettos, grinding his heel into the back of some nameless man while the man thrust wads of dollar bills at him and begged for more, ten more lined up and waiting for their turn.

A cracking, wheezing laugh escaped his lips, until he clamped it down.

Not his style.

Then again, neither was hyperventilating like this, just because one gorgeous asshole of a man was willing to go to these lengths to have him.

Some Dominant he was.

He didn’t even understand why he was so shaken. He’d likely even enjoy the session, and if he didn’t he had just as much right to stop it as Victor did. Victor was attractive, and there was an inherent submissiveness in him that Amani thought went deeper than either of them could see just yet. Making this transactional would help keep boundaries in place, rather than tempting Amani to yield to those searching, needy looks that tugged at something deep inside him. He wasn’t selling himself cheaply, and that kind of money…

He dragged his hands down his face, lifting his head to glance around the living room. It was cozy with clutter, poufs and layers upon layers of scattered rugs, furniture draped with patterned blankets, hanging lanterns, fringed wall hangings, the framed black and white photo of his father over the mantle, the little lamplit niche with his mother’s well-worn, well-loved, beautifully woven prayer rug facing east by northeast for Qibla. These were all the familiar trappings of his life, but they were only layered over the cracking walls, the flaking paint that the landlord would never address and never agree to let them paint over, floorboards so worn they’d turned gray where the grain had absorbed decades of trod-in dirt, crumbling sheetrock exposing tiny holes where the walls met the ceilings, missing bricks in the front steps. Even now he could hear the pipes groaning in the walls, threatening to spring one of their many annual leaks again, while the radiator ticked and moaned and struggled to heat even this tiny house.

So he’d sleep with Victor a few times. Pay his tuition in full up until graduation, and get his mother out of this drafty, run-down cottage. She’d be stubborn about it—he knew her too well to expect otherwise. She’d spent years making this her home, their home, but her flesh was beginning to cling to narrow bones and she couldn’t take the cold anymore; her hands shook at the smallest things, moving her from her old job as one of the Dehbi masseuses and to a position behind the reception desk.

He could work through his conflicted feelings over fucking a man like Vic Newcomb for money, if it meant taking care of her.

Flattening his hand against his chest, he rubbed at the ache there, until the feeling started to subside. And when his mother came down the stairs, a frown knitting between her eyes, he was able to smile when she said, “You’re home so late, habibi. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Mama,” he said, and pulled her into a tight hug, pressing his lips to her cheek. “Everything’s fine.”