CHAPTER SEVEN

SO.

Vic was really, honestly, and truly about to sign ten thousand dollars over for one night with a man he’d barely met, a man who kissed like a combustive chemical reaction, a man who could bring Vic to his knees with a single gentle hand and soft, coaxing lips.

Not a development he’d expected to crop up in his life any time soon.

Or at all.

At least, when life threw him curve balls, it kept things interesting.

Yet the past two days with no contact had been torture. He’d understood why Amani had insisted on it. On space, for the reality of this to sink in without the two of them pushing and pulling on each other in a way that might influence a decision. A one-night stand, even a one-night stand with a five-figure price tag and a rather hefty dose of kink, shouldn’t be something so very life-changing.

Yet the way Amani described it, the way he spoke of dominance and submission…

It sounded like the kind of thing that could transform how someone fit in their own skin. A revelation that might show him things about himself he wasn’t ready to see.

And he had to know if he was prepared for that.

Though it was hard to think right now, with a tension headache crawling up the back of his neck, cupping the back of his head in feelers of pain, creeping around in tendrils toward his temples and making them throb. It had been edging up on him since this morning, since he’d woken up at dawn and turned on the news to find the face of his Chief Marketing Officer, Mike Wotkiss, plastered on the news as the latest in the line of nationwide corporate figures accused of sexual harassment.

It probably wouldn’t even have made the news if not for the size of Newcomb Textiles—but news coverage or not, Wotkiss had been fired before Vic had even finished breakfast. He’d spent the rest of the morning in meetings with the top-level HR team, reviewing Wotkiss’s personnel file and existing company policies, discussing what they could do for the victim and if there might be more who hadn’t spoken up. He didn’t like that the harassment victim hadn’t felt safe coming forward until after she’d moved on to another job at another company. And he wasn’t happy that the damned people he’d hired to make sure this didn’t happen were falling so short that he had to step in to micromanage. To hell with whatever PR fallout this might have; he just wanted it fucking done right, and if people couldn’t—

“—comb. Mr. Newcomb?”

He jerked from his blank staring out of the executive conference room window, lifting his head from idle contemplation of the sun sinking behind the city skyline, melting colors like ink into water. The entire table full of geriatric stuffed suits, the Board of Directors and every member of the chief executive team save for Wotkiss’s conspicuously empty chair, was watching him with a sense of waiting expectancy and, in several cases, subtle disapproval, jowly mouths turned down and rheumy eyes skeptical. He glanced about the assembly, then landed on Geoffrey Schuyler, one of the senior members of the Board who’d been a part of the company since before Vic had taken over the reins. His hard gray eyes drilled into Vic, as if weighing him in comparison to his father.

Vic sighed, forcing his attention back on track. “Apologies. What was that?”

Someone at the table snorted, while Schuyler sniffed. “How kind of you to grace us with your presence.”

Vic narrowed his eyes. “Do you have something you want to say to me, Schuyler?”

The old man held his gaze for several moments—then cleared his throat, looking down at the bound report open on the glossy table in front of him, flipping back a few pages. “I’d asked if you had an idea of your timeline for signing off on the final greenfield strategy for the Italian factory expansion.”

“I’d thought that was tied up in legal for another few months. Negotiating with the locals over permits and zoning.”

“If you’d read the report,” Schuyler said in tones dripping with snotty condescension, “you’d know the foreign administrators we’ve been working with have communicated a willingness to expedite the process if we pay appropriate fees.”

Vic never took his gaze away from Schuyler. Never bothered looking down at the report open in front of him. He was not in the mood for these power plays from the old boys’ club whose only problem with him was that he was under sixty and not his father, and someone always had to get his dick in a knot over whatever ego posturing was going on today. He held his silence until Schuyler began to shift uncomfortably in his chair, gaze darting away behind his rimless glasses, then back to Vic, then away again, his scowl deepening with clear irritation but his tongue silent. Until he opened his mouth—then immediately snapped it closed hard enough for his dentures to clack when Vic lightly lifted a hand and smiled a smile that felt more like baring his teeth.

“You’re right,” he said calmly. “If I’d read the report I’d know you were proposing paying a bribe. Was this our esteemed business partners’ suggestion, or yours?”

No answer. Suddenly everyone had somewhere to look other than at him, little rustlings and shufflings like the whole room was a flock of birds poised on the verge of taking flight. He steepled his fingers, propping his elbows on the arms of his chair, looking at each one of them for measured seconds before returning to Schuyler.

“I’m waiting for an answer.”

Schuyler huffed and muttered weakly, “It’s not abnormal to lubricate the process a bit.”

“Pull the deal.”

While the rest of the table erupted into mutters and startled sounds, Schuyler blinked, his eyes bulging. “Excuse me?”

“Pull it,” he repeated firmly. “We’ll find another site. If we go through with the expansion at all.”

The CFO, Natalie Andrews, piped up in a strangled voice. “We’ve been working out the logistics and budget on this for a year—”

“And we’ll work on it for another year if we have to.” Vic pushed his chair back and stood. A pointed move, when it forced them all to look up at him, to remember that no matter what fucking games they wanted to pull, they still answered to him and they had no hope of voting him out if he kept catching them in these little stunts. He swept the table with a look, not bothering to hide his contempt. “Do better than wasting money on undue process, ladies and gentlemen. That’s not how we operate. What you would waste on a bribe could be put to better use.” He could almost hear Amani in his head when he said that, that husky-sweet voice mocking him and his wastefulness, his wealth, asking what it was all really for. And despite himself, he smiled, as he swept his suit coat up from the back of the chair and slipped his arms into it, shrugging it over his shoulders and already turning away. “Keep me updated. With full transparency.”

Schuyler’s voice called after him, indignant and spluttering. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“When babysitting becomes part of your job description, Mr. Schuyler,” Vic tossed over his shoulder, “I’ll let you know. Do enjoy the rest of your evening.”

l

HE MADE IT HOME IN record time, then just stood in the middle of the apartment, staring around at the vast plains of obsidian flooring and just…

Wondering what to do with himself, when he had no idea how to occupy idle time.

It was just before seven; Amani wouldn’t be here for another hour. If he even showed. He might have changed his mind. Backed out of this entire sordidly thrilling little arrangement, blocked Vic’s number, and moved on with his life.

No. He’d at least have texted Vic a No thank you, have a nice life before he did that.

Right?

Vic paced a couple of agitated steps, then strode toward the bed platform, ripping at his suit and throwing it over the bathroom screen. He changed into jeans and a comfortable older button-down, white and worn to aged softness, then sank down on the edge of the bed and stared at the hardcover novel sitting on the nightstand, reading glasses folded on top of it. Brian Jacques, Mossflower, the original library jacketing he’d loved as a child. If not for the twice-weekly unobtrusive presence of the housekeeper, both would probably be filmed in dust.

He glanced at the clock, then propped his back against the headboard, stretched out his legs, propped his reading glasses on his nose, and cracked the book open to page one.

Vic couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat still to just read a book. He was always looking at revenue reports or foreign economic analyses or five-year market projections—over dinner, while he brushed his teeth, as he fell asleep. He’d woken up with one arm draped across his laptop more than once, his neck stiff from passing out half-upright. But as he flicked through pages, sinking into the once-familiar adventures of Martin the Warrior, he realized he missed this. The little flights of fancy, slipping into fiction that didn’t care about profit margins or investor reports when there were ancient swords and tyrannical rulers, talking warrior badgers and hotroot soup.

He smiled to himself as he turned past one of the engraving-style illustrations in the book. When he’d been a little boy, he’d made swords out of old planks and charged all about the family grounds, shouting For Mossflowerrrrrr! He’d upset the kitchen staff stealing aluminum foil to make armor, and had tried to make pies out of ground-up acorns and mud.

But his smile faded, as he paused with his fingertips resting under one line. He remembered his brother, kicking the sword out of his hand, crumpling his armor into silver balls, grinding the acorn pies under his heel until they were just sad little mud splats, his sneering laugh and the way he ruffled Vic’s hair just a little too hard and growled I can’t believe you read that kind of stuff. I guess you like talking mice ‘cause you’re a little rat.

Fuck. Why was he thinking about this right now? He’d packaged all of that up and sealed it away. Old baggage. Nothing he needed to dwell on toni—

The intercom near the elevator buzzed. “Mr. Newcomb?” the front desk receptionist said pleasantly. “Mr. Idrissi is on his way up.”

Vic’s heartbeat rocketed forward, and he dropped the book on the nightstand, tossed his glasses after them, and rolled to his feet. “Thank you,” he called, hoping it would pick up before the receiver cut out, as he raked his fingers through his hair and straightened his shirt and watched the elevator numbers spin through. He still hadn’t really decided, had he? He’d been turning it over and turning it over, but now Amani was here and Vic might say yes or he might say no or Amani might have changed his mind entirely, but the doors were opening and—

The faint lamplight of the apartment fell over the shimmer of silver against dark skin, like stars against night. Amani stepped forward gracefully, his jacket folded over his arm, his body swathed in a loose caftan that had been belted at the waist to turn it into an above-the-knee dress, his slender, shapely, smooth legs bare beneath its hem, the slits up the side flashing an enticing glimpse of naked thigh, skin so lustrous it seemed to shimmer with its own light. Amani himself seemed to shimmer, from the tiny chains of silver woven into his half-coifed hair to the smoky silver shadow glossing his lids, the faint ghost of glitter along slender forearms emerging from the caftan’s draping three-quarter sleeves, silver bangles encircling fragile wrists. Even the caftan was made of a misty, dark, smoky gray fabric, one translucent layer over a darker, more solid one, both subtly glimmering with silver shimmer when they caught the light, the loose neck with its black-edged embroidery falling off one curving shoulder.

Amani regarded him coolly, arching a brow, as if he’d anticipated Vic’s reaction: standing stone-still, his mouth dry, his cock pulsing in anticipatory response, his fingers clenching with the urge to reach for Amani and frame slim hips in his hands and kiss the soft dark rose gleam of full lips. He’d never known attraction could feel like obsession, rather than what he was accustomed to: a vague diversion, a thing he bothered to pay attention to now and then, barely shifting half his focus to acknowledge it existed. This…this was something different. Something consuming—and it was almost unnerving, how deeply he responded to the coy, knowing amusement in those tawny eyes.

“Yes,” Vic breathed, without even thinking. He knew his answer, had known the moment Amani stepped off the elevator, beautiful and strange and confusing and… “Yes.”

Amani quirked that mocking brow and stepped closer—then past, brushing lightly around Vic, the flow of his hair washing against Vic’s arm. “Good evening to you too, Mr. Newcomb,” he lilted sardonically, as he lowered the cello case dangling from pewter-glossed fingertips and set it on the couch, laying his coat over it. “How are you?”

“Sorry.” Vic closed his eyes, raking both hands through his hair, and squared his shoulder. The fuck kind of prepubescent numpty was he? “Fuck. God damn it. Why am I like this?”

“I don’t have the psychiatric training to answer that.” Amani settled primly on the sofa, crossing his legs, one foot in its little strappy leather sandal pointed with the arched grace of a ballet dancer. He laced his fingers together over his knee, tilting his head at Vic. “I take it you’ve made up your mind.”

“I have. I want to…want to try this. With you,” Vic admitted roughly, and held his breath for the answer as he asked, “Do you?”

He could hear his own heart pounding, in the silence that answered. Just silence, and one of those measuring looks that seemed to know his every crime, his every kindness, his every flaw, his every strangeness—and it drove home just how much he wanted this when that silence left him wondering, needing, craving an answer from those subtly parted lips.

Until Amani looked away with a small, almost secretive smile. “I think we can come to an arrangement,” he said.

It took all of Vic’s willpower to keep from grinning like he’d lost the damned plot. “Okay,” he said carefully, clasping his hands together, then letting them drop as he stepped tentatively closer and sank down on the far end of the couch from Amani. “How do we do this, then?”

“We talk a little. Relax. You’re wound tighter than a spring. We don’t have to dive right into negotiations, or right into bed.”

“Right. Um. How was your day?”

That prompted a soft trill of laughter, almost delighted. “It was like every other day. I went to school. I worked. I did homework. You really are nervous, aren’t you?”

“A little.”

“That’s normal.” Amani shifted his gaze back to Vic, watching him curiously. “I saw your company on the news this morning.”

Fuck. That was one way to settle the butterflies in his stomach. Vic curled his upper lip, bowing forward to prop his elbows on his knees. “The harassment suit. Yeah.”

Discerning eyes flicked over him. “You seem rather upset.”

“Hn.” He laced his hands together, pressed his interlocked knuckles to his mouth. “It’s something I take seriously, and we fell short somewhere. I may have people who are supposed to handle that, but in the end overall responsibility falls on me.”

“…Vic.” Soft, sympathetic, and Amani let one slender hand fall to rest on the sofa between them. “If you don’t want to do this…”

“No.” He closed his eyes and breathed in deep, trying to reorient himself. “My head is pounding and I’m angry and tired and I just…” Vic opened his eyes, looking at the beautiful young man sitting on his sofa so calmly, as if he hadn’t somehow whipped into Vic’s life like a hurricane and crashed everything apart in a tempest. Tentatively, he reached into the space between them, and let his hand fall to rest atop those slim, warm fingers. “Distract me. Please.”

Another of those searching looks, and for a moment something vulnerable flickered in Amani’s eyes. Something that said for all his taunting poise and aloof enticement, he was just as nervous as Vic, and in its own way that was just as reassuring as the small smile and the brief, warm squeeze that Amani offered before pulling his fingers away and unlatching his cello case to lift the lid and retrieve a stapled sheaf of paper from the inside pocket, a pen clipped to the top.

“All right,” he said softly, tucking his hair behind his ear; silver teardrop earrings, just slender looping threads, glimmered against his jaw and throat. “I took the liberty of drawing this up. It’s probably a little overly detailed, but I’d rather cover everything. If you want to look through and make sure the terms are satisfactory…”

Vic smiled with a touch of tired cynicism as he took the offered pages. Even when he left work, work seemed to follow him one way or the other.

Contracts and terms, negotiations and agreements.

He sank back into the couch and flipped through the pages. It looked fairly straightforward for the most part—laying out in plain terms what they’d agreed to, the price, even the date, with suggested provisions for what might render the contract null and void. One night, one session, Amani named as the Dominant, Vic as the submissive, agreement to consenting sexual interplay and intercourse as mutually allowed by both parties, consent to possible bondage. He frowned, flicking to the next page.

“Are contracts really necessary?”

“I know,” Amani said dryly. “Not very arousing. Hardly a way to set the mood. But when money changes hands and dominance and submission can involve negotiating consent, not to mention scenarios that may cause injury?” When Vic’s eyes widened at scenarios that may cause injury, Amani chuckled. “See? The look on your face. That’s why contracts are necessary. It also guarantees your confidentiality. I’m sure you don’t want to be known as yet another rich man who hires expensive escorts.”

“It’s a way to make a living, isn’t it?” He flicked to the next page. “It get it now. It’s a CYA contract.”

“CYA?”

“Cover Your Arse. A waiver of liability. I sign a dozen of them a day for all kinds of things.” The next page, and he couldn’t help but smile. Amani had been so thorough, right down to defining terms in a glossary; he thought, underneath those mocking affectations, Amani was a very serious person who didn’t do anything by halves. “So this one’s just saying we’re both adults, we both agreed to this, and we accept any consequences of our decisions as long as we follow the rules laid out here?”

“Essentially.”

“How very Fifty Shades,” he murmured, earning him a completely disgusted look.

“Don’t do that.” Amani made an almost offended sound. “Contracts are standard for many kink scenarios, but you can’t bring one up without someone mentioning that book.”

Vic couldn’t help laughing, as he scanned down the next page. This might not be setting the most romantic mood…but just having Amani nearby was relaxing him, easing something painful inside him, taking his mind off the day, his job, the problems that would be waiting for him tomorrow morning and the morning after and the morning after. Right now the only thing he had to worry about was the young man at his side, and making sure he understood what he was getting into before he signed. Imprinting terms like Safe, Sane, and Consensual—SSC—and Risk-Aware Consenting King—RACK—on his brain when this was so completely outside his wheelhouse, and he hadn’t yet worked up the nerve to Google overly much. And he had to hesitate for a few moments, when the contract asked him if he wanted protection or no protection, if he had a clean bill of health.

No protection, he circled tentatively, and no known STDs, biting his lip at the thought of skin to skin, the risk he was taking…but to hell with it. Though he almost choked on a laugh as he reached a section with two checkboxes. Checkboxes, their names, and the almost ridiculously blunt question of:

 

If penetrative intercourse occurs, would you prefer to:

• Penetrate
• Be Penetrated

 

Amani had checked off Be Penetrated, and Vic couldn’t help glancing at him sidelong as he uncapped the pen and checked off Penetrate, letting his gaze trail over the lissome line of Amani’s body, wondering how it would feel to be inside him. Inside, heat and tightness all around him, and how would Amani look with his eyes glazed with passion and his back arched and every inch of naked, deep-burnished flesh bared to Vic’s touch, his gaze, his mouth? Heat washed over his face, prickled along his arms, pooled in his gut, and he caught his tongue between his teeth, making himself look back to the contract.

“You really didn’t leave a single stone unturned.” He skimmed the pen tip down to where a blank waited for him to write something in. “So this is interesting. I have to think of a safe word?”

“If you don’t,” Amani replied pointedly, “we aren’t doing anything.”

“And yours is…” He squinted at Amani’s handwriting on the line above. “Dolphin.”

“I was attacked by a bottlenose dolphin at SeaWorld when I was a child,” Amani said vehemently. “I hate those squeaky monsters. If you want to turn me off, that’s how.”

Vic laughed, then fell silent, mulling that over. A safe word. Something that would jerk them out of whatever scenario they were in to say this was real, this was now, and it was time to stop because something was wrong.

“Towel,” he said firmly, and scratched it into the blank.

Amani cocked his head with a birdlike little sound of curiosity. “Why towel?”

“Because it makes me remember lying on your table, freaking out with my cock tenting up a towel, and you trying not to laugh in my bloody face. That’s enough to break the mood.”

“I wasn’t trying not to laugh!” Yet Amani laughed now, soft and warm, eyes glittering as he delicately covered his mouth with his fingertips. “Not at your…ah…particular state, anyway.”

“What were you trying not to laugh at, then?”

“How flustered you were.” Amani regarded him over the curve of an insolently shrugging shoulder, the slipping caftan promising temptation when it bared part of his flat, smooth, lithely tapered chest. “Like you’d never had an erection in front of someone else in your life. It was cute, but I didn’t want to embarrass you more by laughing.”

Vic groaned, letting his head fall back against the couch. “…bloody hell.”

“What?”

He grit his teeth, then forced out, “Maybe I never have had an erection in front of anyone else.”

“Oh.” Amani’s softly indrawn breath was barely a whisper between them, but it fell as loud as a striking hammer. “Victor Newcomb…are you a virgin?”

“I told you I don’t really date,” he said stiffly. “It’s just never seemed important.”

“Don’t.” Once again that soft hand against his, covering his fingers against the page, warmth soaking into his skin. “Don’t get defensive. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s never something you have to do until you want to.”

Vic tried to focus on the feeling of that gentle touch, the assurance in Amani’s voice, rather than his own embarrassment. “To most men it’s some kind of rite of passage. A symbol of manhood.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not overly interested in symbols of manhood.”

Vic let his head fall to the side so he could take Amani in, drifting over him from head to toe—the juxtaposition of masculinity with femininity, hard angles and softness meeting in delicate balance, and couldn’t help smiling. “You wear defiance well.”

“I told you flattering me won’t get you a discount.” In the dark it was hard to tell…but was that a tinge of crimson against dusky cheeks? Amani briefly squeezed his hand, the pulled back with a teasing half-smile. “But it might make me think you’re more than some brute who only thinks with his cock.”

“Only recently,” Vic answered. “Maybe you don’t have me completely figured out.”

“I almost hope not.”

Amani’s gaze dropped to Vic’s mouth, lingering like a kiss. As if the air that dwelled between them was a silken ribbon teasing from Amani’s lips to Vic, connecting them with a touch transmitted across that distance to stroke and tease in caresses of breath, in sighs of contact. His heart jerked in a single arresting burst, then soothed into steady rhythm, seeming to count the seconds that passed, seconds that made that space between them warmer and warmer with anticipation.

Yet abruptly Amani looked away, drawing in an audible breath, and glanced down at the contract again. Right. Vic forced his focus back, skimming down the last page, then tapping the pen-point above the signature line, below where Amani’s tightly curling handwriting scribbled his name.

“There’s one clause I don’t see in here,” he said.

“And what’s that?”

“Exclusivity,” he said. “Think of it as a typical non-compete for freelancers.”

Amani arched a brow with a pointed look. “You don’t want me to sleep with anyone else?”

“Not as long as you’re with me.”

“You’re not allowed delusions of ownership.”

“Not ownership. If we’re going to treat this as a give and take, I need room to figure out how I feel about this without also maybe finding out I have unexpected feelings I don’t know how to handle about you sleeping with other men. It’s just temporary, until I’m used to this. And it’s a request for consideration, not a demand.” He flicked the pen between his fingers thoughtfully. “If thirty thousand a week in ten thousand intervals isn’t enough to ask for short-term exclusivity…”

“It is. Write it in.” Amani shook his head, lips quirking. “You really do negotiate like a CEO. Honestly, at three times a week you’re going to wear me out. I won’t have time for anyone else.”

“Is there anyone who’ll miss you?”

“No one whose name I remember.”

Vic slashed in two short sentences outlining the terms of exclusivity below the last clause, then dashed his signature and the date in the proper space and passed the contract back to Amani. “I hope you’ll never forget mine.”

Amani took the contract from his hand and flipped through it, pausing briefly on the page with protection/no protection, eyes widening subtly, and there was definitely a flush of darker red against his cheeks. “We’ll see,” he said a touch thickly, and turned to tuck the contract back into his cello case. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“I suppose as a submissive, I’m supposed to be humble.”

Then Vic stopped, his tongue thick, as he realized what he’d just said.

He’d just called himself a submissive.

Out loud.

His stomach quaked, and he scrubbed a hand over his face, breathing shakily. “Fuck. That was a lot.”

Gentle understanding laced Amani’s voice. “It can be, the first time you say it.”

“Even for you?”

Amani folded his hands in his lap, regarding Vic with patient humor. “I think you’ve been listening to the wrong stories. Doms are human, too. We question. We doubt. We fumble while we try to figure out who we are and what we desire. And we can end up just as shaky as anyone else, when we find these revelations about ourselves. Are you nervous, Vic?”

“Are you?”

“Why would I be?”

Vic dropped his gaze to that tinge of red in Amani’s cheeks. “You normally blush around men you’re about to grind beneath your heel?”

That burst of delighted laughter that came when Vic startled Amani rolled out like falling silver coins. “So dramatic. I’m not going to grind you beneath my heel…but I might walk on your ego a bit.” Amani rose, then, fluid as water, caftan skimming silkily against his thighs as he stepped closer to Vic—and offered his hands, both outstretched. “Come here. Come with me.”

Vic licked dry lips. Pulse and breath raced each other, as he reached for the inherent promise in those curled, beckoning fingers, slipped his hands into Amani’s, and let the pretty thing draw him to his feet.

One step at a time, amber cat-eyes holding him mesmerized, Amani drew him toward the bed dais, leading him into the quiet shadows surrounding the massive platform. So silent—so silent that he could hear his own pounding heartbeat far too loud, but more…he could hear Amani’s subtly rasping breaths, a wordless message that said he was just as nervous, that maybe, just maybe, he felt the same ache that rose higher and higher as they ascended the terraced steps.

As they halted at the edge of the bed, Amani released his hands and caught up the slender leather belt caging the caftan against his lissome body, pulling the buckle free and letting it fall. The loose folds of the caftan fell free, and left to their own devices they clung to Amani’s frame even more enticingly, outlining the silhouette of his shape in whispering promise. Amani let the belt fall to the floor, the tink of the buckle against the tile loud enough to stop the heart, and reached up to curl warm fingers against Vic’s throat, palm caging his pulse, fingers encircling to gently collar him, and he nearly moaned as that touch, that careful pressure, seared into his skin.

“Down,” Amani commanded softly.

It was as though the strength drained from Vic’s legs, leaving him completely weak and sinking down, breathing shallowly, until his knees struck the tile hard and he was looking up at Amani, amber eyes taking over his world and almost leaving him dizzy with longing. That hand didn’t even need to crush against his throat for him to struggle for every gasp, when his chest tightened and burned with the subtle implication of control in that light touch.

Amani smiled slowly, tracing his thumb down the line of Vic’s pulse, the edge of his nail trailing shivers along his skin. “Very good,” he murmured, bending toward Vic, bringing his plump, hot mouth close to his ear to purr, “sweet boy.”

Something about those words—precise, deliberate, spoken with soft emphasis, roused a hot tremor that started in Vic’s spread inner thighs and melted up toward his cock; he curled his hands against his knees, digging his fingers against his jeans to keep from reaching for Amani when…when…Amani hadn’t given him permission to touch, and that was how this worked, wasn’t it? But he still gave himself liberty to lean toward that sinful mouth, to let his cheek brush against the warm silk of Amani’s.

“I don’t think I’m very sweet.”

“You are when you kneel.” Amani’s mouth traced Vic’s earlobe, drawing it past such lushly yielding lips, a tease of heat, a wash of breath against the soft, vulnerable place behind his jaw, and Vic shuddered with a low moan in the back of his throat. “When you do well, you’ll be my sweet boy. When you don’t…”

Amani trailed off, leaving that silence while Vic’s mind spun as he struggled with the unspoken suggestion. Then…he…

Ah.

“O-oh,” he whispered, and,

“You understand, then?” Amani breathed.

Now—now it was sinking in. That if he did as he told, his reward would be Amani’s approval, those two words granting him grace. If…if this was what he truly wanted, what he needed…

Then those two words from the one he chose to submit to would be all that he needed, his entire reason to submit.

Uncertainty tickled at him, if only because he didn’t know if it could be that easy, that simple—didn’t know if that was who he was, but he was already shivering to Amani’s every whisper, and God, he was willing to find out.

And so he only nodded, and leaned slightly into the press of that hand encircling his throat.

Amani exhaled a warm, low sound of pleasure, silken and sensuous, and straightened with one last stroke of his fingertips down Vic’s throat. “Strip for me, then,” he said. “Let me see you.”

Vic leaned after that touch, holding on to it for as long as he could when it felt like the warmth of the sun on a cold night. But Amani was watching him, waiting…and Vic wanted to know how it would feel.

How it would feel to earn his approval, to earn that soft murmur of sweet boy.

He slipped the top button of his shirt, then the next and the next, drawing the fabric aside and then letting it fall down his arms before shrugging out of it to leave himself bare-chested. The faint chill of night seeping through the glass windowpanes kissed over his skin, but it wasn’t the cold that made him shiver, that made his nipples tighten and ache as if brushed by ghostly fingers, lips, tongues.

It was the way those amber eyes slid over him like molten oil, gliding across his body as if enveloping him in the slick caress of Amani’s gaze.

Amani sank down to sit on the edge of the bed, slipping his sandals off and crossing his legs; the slits in the side of his caftan parted to expose a gleaming length of thigh, temptation curving up toward his hip and promising a glimpse of the curves of his ass only for shimmer-grey linen to cruelly deny Vic. Leaning back lazily on one hand, Amani flicked his fingers lightly—without a word commanding Vic to continue. He was different right now, Vic realized; the things Amani had only hinted at when he’d looked through the cracks in defensive walls blooming to the fore now, this sensual and languid ease that exuded a certain quiet authority, a control that didn’t need force or fury to exercise his will.

All Amani had to do was want—and that magnetism of his caught anyone around him up in the force of his pull, and turned their will to his.

And Vic let himself be pulled into Amani’s will, quickly unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans, rising up on his knees to slide out of them and leave him in nothing but boxer-briefs. He hesitated for just a moment, a flutter just behind his ribs, his breaths hitching. He was already hard and getting harder, his cock twitching and jerking against his boxer-briefs, a damp spot dewing and soaking against the fabric as his cock-head rubbed against the almost painful texture of the seams. As he dragged the waistband down, baring himself fully, Amani’s gaze dropped down his body, marking a path over his stomach, slinking along his cock—and Vic caught a hiss behind his teeth as his cock ached and swelled, throbbing hard, straining in near-agonizing little twinges. Freezing, curling forward with a shudder, he sank his teeth hard into his lower lip until the pain pushed him to move again, collecting himself enough to twist out of the underwear and toss them aside. He felt so hot everywhere, his face burning, his skin tight, his cock surging—and Amani hadn’t even touched him yet.

All he’d had to do was look at him, command him to kneel before him and strip, and Vic was already a wreck.

And all he had to do was whisper “Good, sweet boy” for Vic to jerk with a stifled moan in the back of his throat, digging his nails against his thighs as his cock jolted with a sharp spurt of pre-cum, spilling from the tip and dripping toward the floor.

“So you like this already?” Amani purred. “You’re already so hard.”

“I…” Vic struggled for words. Struggled to define this hot, needy feeling inside him. “This…when you call me that…”

“Good.” Amani reached out and traced a single fingertip down his jaw, painting his skin with warmth. “That’s exactly how I want it.”

“I don’t understand.” Vic lifted his head, looking up at Amani. He felt naked in more than his skin, in this moment. “I don’t understand why I’m like this. Why this does this to me, and I’ve never known. You wrapped your hand around my throat, and I thought I’d come.”

“Some things don’t need a reason,” Amani replied gently. “They just are.”

“But…it’s just two words.”

“Small things can be very powerful in the right situation, or in the hands of the right person. Does it feel good?” When Vic nodded, Amani tapped a fingertip to his nose. “And do you want more?”

Vic parted his lips, hesitating, then exhaled in a rush, “Yes.”

“No.” Another tap, this time to his lips, warm fingertip tracing the outline of his mouth until his lips pulsed and opened of their own volition. “The correct response is ‘yes, Master.’”

A tingle like static ran over Vic’s entire body. He licked his lips, tongue darting against Amani’s fingertip, catching the delicate taste of his skin. “Yes, Master,” he repeated, then winced as his cock bucked up against his stomach, splattering warm wet beads of pre-cum to trickle against his skin, pulling at the base with that needful pleasure that edged on pain. The words shouldn’t taste so good, like he wanted to wrap his tongue around them and…and…

“There you are, pet. If you want more, that’s all that matters. There’s no need to be ashamed of enjoying it. Now…” Amani curled his fingers under Vic’s chin, tugging gently. “Up, sweet boy.”

Vic rose obediently, even if his thighs felt like liquid, his cock making it painful to move. Even standing, even looking down at Amani from almost a foot’s difference in height, there was no question of who was in control here—and Vic felt almost hypnotized as he let Amani draw him onto the bed, sinking down at his side close enough to feel the radiant warmth of his body heat.

“I want you to listen to me,” Amani said. “You are not to touch me. Only to listen. Do you understand?”

Vic nodded—but Amani only looked at him in expectant silence, until Vic swallowed, mouth dry, and said “…yes, Master.”

“Good.”

His reward was the softest brush of Amani’s lips, and when Amani leaned back Vic caught himself leaning after him, reaching for him, only to stop himself, curling his fists and pressing them hard against the duvet and rigidly holding his seat.

“The first thing I need from you,” Amani said, “is to let go of your arrogance. The masculine ego is the antithesis of true submission.”

Vic half-smiled. “So you want me humble and mewling and degraded?”

“No,” Amani replied, watching Vic intently. “I want you free of the notion that your masculine pride defines who you are. There is nothing degrading about willing submission. If anything, when you find that place inside yourself…” He shook his head, exhaling a rough breath. “If it’s right for you, it’s the most pure thing you can ever feel. But to find it, you must trust me enough to relinquish control. That trust is a gift, one you can revoke any time…but it requires abandoning every toxic, cruel, hateful idea that arrogance, pride, and control are what define you as a man.”

Vic didn’t answer at first, just…turning that over. He wasn’t sure what part of himself, suddenly, was real and what parts he’d adopted to fit the role he occupied, those cutting looks and the way he’d made the Board members shrink back and defer to him and the authority he projected based on…what?

Did he even know what power and control were, when for all that he’d built himself into this masculine ideal on the surface to be able to control his company…this femme, soft, beautiful thing with his gentle touches and coaxing words could bring Victor to heel with a single glance from under luxuriant lashes?

“I don’t know how to do that,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t know if I know what it means.”

“You’ll learn,” Amani promised softly, then slid to his feet, skin and linen hissing against the duvet in sibilant whispers. Splayed fingers pressed against Vic’s chest, pushing him back. “Lie back, sweet boy. Arms over your head, crossed at the wrists.”

Vic shifted back further onto the bed, letting that coaxing hand guide him as he stretched himself out. He felt like he was putting himself on display, sprawled out naked with his cock resting hard against his lower abdomen, his arms lifting over his head. He crossed one over the other at the wrists, curling his fingers against his palms.

“Like this?”

“Exactly like that.” And there was no missing the heat sparking in Amani’s eyes, something kindling and devouring in the way his gaze drifted over Vic’s body. “You really are beautiful like this.”

Vic smiled a bit shakily. “Is it normal to call men beautiful?”

“It should be. You can start to learn by letting go of the idea that it’s not.” Amani braced one knee to the bed between Vic’s legs, bending over him, hands falling to either side of his shoulders, that lustrous fall of dark hair tumbling down to trail over Vic’s chest and shoulders, cool enough to almost burn when his skin felt like fire. He hissed, arching, then made himself fall still as Amani caught his chin once more, gripping just a little harder this time, just hard enough to make Vic’s core draw up tight as that sultry voice washed over him, mesmerizing, commanding. “You’re going to stay like this, pet. No matter what I do to you, until I tell you you’re allowed to move, you’ll keep your arms over your head like this. You can only stop if you decide you want to end this.” A slow smile curved Amani’s lips as he traced a thumbnail along Vic’s lower lip. “And you won’t come until I tell you you can come.”

“You’re…not going to tie me up?”

“Not this time.” Amani’s eyes crinkled at the corners with his warm smile, and he reached up to brush Vic’s hair back from his brow, threading his fingers into it. “Not for your first time. You need to be able to end this without remembering a safe word, without any other conditions, if it feels wrong for you. When you feel safe enough, we’ll progress to cuffs or other forms of bondage. Besides…”

Amani sank down enough that his body almost touched Vic’s, the loose caftan falling down to tease and lick along his chest and stomach, feather against his cock in shuddering washes, the faint lamplight and starlight turning the fabric just translucent enough to offer a tempting glimpse between those slim, spread thighs. As close as he was…when Amani spoke again he shaped the words against Vic’s lips, pressing their meaning into his mouth in sweet-slick caresses.

“If you want to stay bound,” Amani whispered, “you’ll stay bound. That’s the test, pet. If you can be obedient enough to stay bound without being tied. If you want this enough for that.”

He sucked in a breath, his entire body tensing. He had to stay like this…only by his own willpower? He swallowed roughly, then deflected with a smirk. “You really think I’m that afraid of being cuffed?”

But Amani answered that smile with a lingering look, a fingertip pressed to his lips, as he drew back. “Stop. That wasn’t a challenge to your ego, so let your ego go. It’s not the cuffs.”

He sank back, thighs shifting to spread and brace his knees to the bed, straddling Vic’s waist; as Amani’s warmth settled against him, the heat of flesh through fabric and the naked skin of his inner thighs sleek against Vic’s sides, Vic bit down hard on his lower lip, struggling not to move, not to buck upward into that slight weight that wasn’t a fraction of enough to pin him down—and yet the weight of Amani’s expectations, his command, were enough to hold him in place more than anything, trembling and clenching his fists and pressing his wrists harder together.

“It’s that moment,” Amani said, “when you realize complete submission. It can be terrifying. For some, too terrifying.”

“I’m not afraid,” Vic whispered, but he was.

But that fear tasted delicious, a wild thing of liquid adrenaline and burning anticipation on the tip of his tongue, in the back of his throat, spreading through his entire body until he was flesh alight, ready to combust.

“Is that so?” Amani braced his hands against Victor’s stomach, arching over him. “Then may I touch you, Victor?”

“I thought I was supposed to be the one asking.”

“That’s not what submission is about.” Warm, knowing hands stroked up over his stomach, his ribs, with such assurance, as if marking his body with every touch, outlining the parts Amani would claim as his, melting the heat of Amani’s body into Victor’s skin until he shifted his hips restlessly and then tensed, trying to lock down, trying to be still. “It’s not about what I try to take. It’s about what you choose to give. So…” Those stroking hands stopped just at the base of Vic’s throat, lightly encircling, and yet capturing Vic with such powerful, subtly understated dominance that his breaths stilled in his chest. “How much are you willing to give?”

“Everything,” he rasped, looking raptly up at the delicate vision Amani made above him, evening light shining off the dark gloss of his hair to make a halo of soft shimmer, night casting his eyes in liquid amber. “As much as you want.”

That catlike, cunningly sweet smile played across Amani’s lips. “You’re not ready for that yet…but we’ll play a little.”

Vic didn’t understand play—until Amani’s slim fingers stroked along the underside of his cock, tracing from root to tip, while that other hand remained at his throat. Suddenly the lightest touch against his cock was an exercise of dominance, showing him his place, rendering him this subverted thing laid naked and exposed with no defenses, that hand on his throat a warning, a threat…a silken and seductive promise. All he had to do to end it was lower his arms. Push those slender hands away. Grasp that delicate body, and lift it away from him.

And he only closed his eyes, arching his neck to that touch to his throat, gripping at the bar of the headboard, lifting his hips into that touch—and then again, again, as Amani encircled him in warmth and stroked faster, faster, pressing down harder and harder on his throat until he was gasping, breath struggling, a touch of instinctive animal panic telling him to fight, to struggle, but every jolt of pleasure seared that way until the fear was just an aphrodisiac and his head was light, his body liquid, his hips writhing and bucking into the sheath of Amani’s palm.

Until that pressure on his throat eased, and he sucked in heaving breaths, opening his eyes dazedly—and clenching his teeth, as Amani’s grip on his cock tightened, grasping at that perfect point of too much to hurt in just the right way, something Vic could never stand to do to himself for too long even thought it felt so, so fucking good. But he had no control over Amani, and Amani held tight, held fast, circling his cock-head with the tip of his thumb, pushing him toward that point of too much, too much, lancing bolts of sensitivity tugging deep inside, and he keened in the back of his throat.

Stop—stop, it hurts—

He fought himself, fought the clenching of his fingers, the urge to push Amani’s hands away, his safe word on the tip of his tongue, he wanted it to stop but he didn’t, he needed it but he couldn’t stand it, he tossed his head back and jerked his shoulders and almost, almost—

His vision exploded white-hot against the backs of his eyelids as Amani added just that extra ounce of pressure to push the pain to searing, ripping levels.

And Vic nearly came, only the sheer shock of it holding him back.

That tormenting grip relaxed, easing that agony to leave his cock throbbing in pounding pulses; he sank against the bed, struggling for breath, opening his eyes to look up at Amani dazedly. “What was…wh-what was that?”

“Edging. A little pain play.” Amani caressed over his stomach, soothing and silky, flattening his palm over the contours of his abdomen. “Was it too much?”

“Yes. No. I…fuck. It hurt like hell, but fuck I couldn’t…I’d have stopped if I was doing it to myself, but I wanted you to keep…”

Amani’s eyes drifted, heavy-lidded, up to Vic’s clenched fists. “You could have stopped me.”

Vic swallowed. And he knew exactly what he was admitting when he said, “I know.”

“Well then.” Amani’s body arched into a supple, inviting curve as he peeled his caftan over his head, and threw it aside. His trousers followed, leaving only a pair of enticingly tight, low-slung bikini-cut briefs that clung to narrowly curving hips and a tight ass, before they flung aside to leave Amani naked, glorious, this thing of smooth dark silk wreathed only in his wild dark hair, slender grace and angular ridges. His nipples stood dark and peaked against his flat, smooth chest, and his cock rested hot against the concave slope of his belly, hard and dewed wet at the tip.

He ran his tongue over his lips, sinking down to straddle Vic’s waist, skin to skin and the suggestive spreading of thighs. “Do you want to touch me, Victor?”

Victor’s breaths dried in his throat, and he nodded. “Yes. Yes.”

“You can’t,” Amani said…and then used that body to drive Vic out of his senses.

He rose to his hands and knees over Vic, descending on him in a kiss that consumed him and left him dizzy with the feeling of being explored, invaded, as Amani toyed with his mouth with a lascivious sensuality until being kissed felt like being used and taken and fucked, and Vic curled his toes against the sheets, growling, struggling, his arms aching as he jerked against his own restraint, fighting not to just grasp on to this maddening vixen and tumble him down and take him. Especially when Amani sank down until their cocks dragged together, grinding and working against him until Amani’s erotic, breathy gasps were a part of every kiss, melting with Vic’s groans, leaving him dizzy, head swimming as his pulse pounded and everything sank away into nothing but the sensation of hot skin against him and the pressure of Amani’s weight.

And when Amani pulled back, a damp slick sound parting their lips with a last flick of tongue to tongue, leaving his mouth feeling hot and sore and bruised…Vic almost broke. Almost reached for him. He should be humiliated, like this—humiliated, emasculated, letting this slim little thing play him like this…and yet every time he fought his self-imposed bonds only to give in and stay, bound if only by his Master’s will, a deep flush of pleasure rolled through him, stoking hotter and hotter every time. And he held his tongue, struggled to rein himself in, watching dazedly as Amani sat back to straddle him and reached over for something in the folds of his discarded caftan.

What emerged was a clear slick bottle of lube—and it fell in suggestive, dripping runnels over Amani’s fingers as he tipped it over his hand, coating it thoroughly.

“Don’t take your eyes off me, pet,” he murmured…then slipped a hand behind himself, worked his fingers, and suddenly arched his back in a sharp snap, lifting up with a sensual, breathlessly wild little cry, and Vic realized he was fingering himself, watching transfixed as Amani thrust again and again, his body rocking hard, cock grinding and stroking in damp-slick velvety pressure against Vic’s, and he was dripping, spilling, so close to coming but he couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t Amani hadn’t said, he wasn’t allowed, wasn’t allowed…

His entire body hurt as he dug his feet against the bed and writhed beneath Amani, fighting himself as much as his self-imposed bonds, clenching his thighs and struggling to hold himself back when his cock was ready, so fucking ready, every twitch of blood pulsing through it seeming to rocket back through Vic’s every muscle and tighten in his balls as he wet his skin again and again with gleaming threads of pre-come.

“Amani,” he begged, keeping his eyes locked on that flowing, rocking body, those parted lips that let out such heady, smoky cries. “Please…please…”

“Nnh.” Breathless, Amani slowed his strokes, slipping his dripping fingers out from inside himself. “That’s another thin you’ll learn, pet. Asking gets you everywhere.”

Before Vic could ask what he meant, Amani braced his hands against Vic’s stomach, lifted himself up on tight, quivering thighs…and sank himself down on Vic’s cock, moving one slick inch at a time, squeezing him so tight he choked the breath from Vic as surely as if his hand had dug into his throat.

Vic thrashed, jerking hard at the headboard, groaning, his entire body going tense. He’d never felt anything like it—fire made flesh and sweeping over him, swallowing him, forcing him into confines too tight, too crushing, to fit and yet every rocking flux of contracting walls sucking him deeper into slicked and convulsing heat. He strained upward, wanting more—but Amani moved at his own pace, those skewering eyes locking on him and cutting deep as his Master took him one slow inch at a time, each tiny rocking thrust raising a hitching gasp in Amani’s throat and a tortured snarl in Vic’s. God, he wanted to come, he wanted to come so fucking bad he was ready to sob with it, but Amani was so tight he couldn’t, locked in and caught in this deep and yet perfect, wonderful suffering.

And the entire time those parted lips seemed to laugh with mockingly sweet warmth, tongue-tip caught between Amani’s teeth, saying without words.

You could stop me…but you won’t.

And when Amani began to move…Vic understood what it meant to let go.

Without one collar, one cuff, one whip, one chain, this tiny sylph brought him to heel as slickness molded and licked and rolled over him, caressing and squeezing his full length and arousing a riot inside him as every nerve ending fired at once, as combustion chain reactions rolled through him and left him weak. He couldn’t move, He couldn’t fight. He couldn’t struggle. He didn’t want to, as pleasure overwhelmed him in debilitating rushes that stripped him of all but the ability to feel.

So close—so close, and Amani moved faster, arching over him with little hungry panting sounds, dark hair falling over him in slithering skeins that lashed ice against his too-hot skin, and his fingers itched to grip up handfuls of that hair but he resisted, he resisted, caught and enslaved by the sight of Amani pleasuring himself with such unrestrained sensuality on Vic’s unresisting form. Vic caught his breath as he felt it building, felt it rising, he was going to break—

Until Amani stopped, inner walls clenching and locking down on him in rigid walls of muscle, strangling him off again and dragging a frustrated, agonized cry from his throat.

Breathing shallowly, flushed and disheveled and so utterly wanton, Amani held him like that, kept him poised, utterly trapped. A sly little smile danced across his Master’s lips. Pretty fingers wrapped against his throat, marking him, owning him, as Amani leaned down to kiss him in an obscene, delicious parody of fucking, tongue thrusting and licking and violating Vic’s mouth.

“You can come now, sweet boy,” Amani sighed against his lips, and squeezed that crushing palm against Vic’s throat, body tightening one last time.

Vic’s eyes rolled back. His entire body pulsed in a single convulsive throb.

And he broke inside, broke as if he’d been struck, broke as if he’d been snapped apart by delicate hands. Coming was pain, coming was a rending and tearing of the self, and he fell into it completely and wholeheartedly, emptying his body in shuddering, jerking bursts, spilling himself inside that tight and milking body. He had no control over it, couldn’t stop it, couldn’t slow the flood.

Not until his entire self was drained, his will weak…and his mind clear of all but the feeling of being possessed.