CHAPTER NINE

VIC WOKE BEFORE HIS ALARM as always, deep in the hours of predawn, yet this time not for the usual reasons. Not because the ongoing to-do list in the back of his mind had ticked over another task item and just couldn’t wait for him to wake up to acknowledge it. Not because he’d woken from another formless nightmare involving something to do with that Board room and crumbling tiles slipping through his fingers. Not even because he’d never slept at all, spending a restless night reviewing revenue reports over coffee, as he frequently did when sleep eluded him.

No…he woke this morning because of the warm weight resting against him, unfamiliar and strange and so very wonderful that he couldn’t sleep another minute when he could be awake to experience this.

He’d thought Amani would be a restless sleeper—but instead he was still and quiet and peaceful, his features relaxed, that hint of wary aloofness gone to leave only calm and sweetly parted lips sighing on sleeping breaths. His hair tangled everywhere, still twined through with silver chains, making a river of night crossed by shooting stars, spreading and coiling across the sheets and pillows and Vic himself. He’d somehow managed to drape himself half on, half off of Vic, cheek pillowed on his chest and arms wrapped around him, hugging him like he was some kind of human teddy bear.

He was smaller, somehow, in his sleep—but it didn’t make him lesser. Not when he was still so beautiful, unearthly, as if any moment he’d be gone, wisping away back to whatever ethereal plane let him slip into the mortal world for a few whirlwind moments. How someone so tiny could be such a dervish was beyond Vic…but he’d left Vic tossed and torn, at once quiet inside with a newfound peace and chaotic all around the edges of the hole where his old self had been.

Or at least…his ideas of his old self, if he was honest. Everything he’d tried to make of himself was an idea, laid in a mask over who he really was so no one could see him and he didn’t have to see himself. He was the same person he’d always been, but…

Maybe, just maybe, he could see himself more clearly now.

And maybe, just maybe, if this warm feeling in his chest was any indication…

That wouldn’t be so bad.

He wasn’t quite sure how to process this, right now—not when everything felt changed, the world a photo frame that had been off-kilter for twenty-four years only to finally be set right. It would take time and exploration and experimentation to know what would change, moving forward. What he wanted with his life, if he was really going to keep putting on that mask every day and doing the same thing again and again and again. He didn’t know, yet. He just didn’t, and he needed time to try to think clearly once the euphoria wore off.

The only thing he did know for certain was that one day soon, Amani would declare an end to this, and in all likelihood there was nothing Vic could do to convince him to stay.

How strange, to feel so connected to a stranger. To feel as though that person had touched him in ways deeper than any other, and he’d reached back and found those same depths…and yet one day it would mean nothing, an invoice paid, the deal done. But if he asked Amani to stay…

What would he even be asking for?

What could even come from this sudden wild and utterly surreal storm of impulsiveness and reckless decisions?

His phone vibrated quietly on the nightstand, warning him it was time to get up. Because for today, his world still waited, his mask his shield.

Sighing, he leaned down and pressed his lips to Amani’s brow, lingering there, breathing him in, vanilla smoke and sweetness and everything Amani.

Then, his heart flirting between gravity and such soaring heights, he gently disentangled and left Amani to sleep, as he rose to start yet another day that was killing him one strained, struggling heartbeat at a time.

l

AMANI WOKE SORE, TIRED, AND very, very confused.

Mainly by the fact that there was an alarm ringing, and when he flailed one arm out sleepily to silence it he instead hit only bed. And more bed. And more and more bed, as if the thing was neverending with no edge in sight. He opened one eye groggily, peering across a tangle of rumpled, dark gray sheets toward a nightstand that was at least five feet away, a digital clock flashing four forty-five AM.

Not his bed.

Not his bed, not his house, and the reason his ass was currently sore and he hurt inside like he’d been impaled on a steel pylon was nowhere in sight.

He groaned, rolling over and over and over until he could smack at the alarm and shut it off, then sprawled out on his back and stared up at the colors of sunrise melting in panoramic view across the ceiling panes. The night before came rushing back in on him: Vic, trembling and willing and fighting with everything in him to be obedient, gasping in that hoarse, growling way, arching his body with such erotic abandon. And Amani, thrilling to every responsive moment, his entire body nearly singing with the pleasure of teasing Vic to the break point, drawing him in, coaxing him to open for Amani and give him every willing part of himself until they touched as naked in soul as in body.

He'd never thought it would be so intimate. So much. Too much. Nothing in his past experiences had prepared him for that.

Was it because it was a private arrangement, a mutual agreement between them instead of strangers flirting with a chance encounter…

Or was it something about Vic himself?

And speaking of which…where was he?

Amani pushed himself up, leaning on one arm and rubbing at his eyes sleepily. “Vic…?” he called, before a piece of paper on the nightstand caught his eye, folded to stand next to the alarm and his name scrawled on the outside in elegant script. He plucked it up and flipped it open, scanning the neat lines of rolling handwriting flowing across the heavy linen paper.

 

Had to go into the office, and didn’t want to wake you. Hope I set the alarm for you to get to work on time. Use the bath or shower if you need to. The apartment concierge can bring you breakfast if you’d like. Just call down. Menu’s in the kitchen drawer. Let them know if you need a ride. Call me if they give you any trouble.

-V

P.S. Check your PayPal.

 

“Really?” Amani whispered, then shook his head with a smile. “Really.”

He probably didn’t have time, when even if he managed to catch the right trains it would be an hour to work—but he couldn’t help but be curious anyway, and he rolled out of bed, fishing around a minute for his underwear and shimmying it back on underneath his caftan before padding across the cool black tiles to the kitchen. A few moments’ rummage later and he unearthed a laminated parchment menu, listing dishes he’d never even heard of and a few things he’d never touch in his lifetime. Propping his elbows on the marble kitchen counter, he turned it over, shaking his head with a laugh. His life was so different from Vic’s they practically lived on separate planets.

“Who lives in an apartment that treats you like a hotel guest?”

There was no one to answer but himself, his voice a quiet haunt. Setting the menu down, he tugged his phone from his inside pocket and swiped to the PayPal app—and promptly sucked in a breath, covering his mouth, his throat constricting.

Ten thousand dollars.

They’d agreed to it, he’d known it would happen, he had no reason to believe Vic would go back on his word or the contract…but it wasn’t quite real until it was right there and irrefutable and his.

He sank down the side of the kitchen cabinet to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest and clutching his phone, then letting out a gasping laugh. As much as he despised people who held money above all things, who hoarded it as if it was the only thing that mattered, while other people suffered without…he couldn’t help the flush of relief that went through him, strong enough to take his breath away, to leave his eyes stinging. What was probably nothing to Vic could change Amani’s life. Not just his tuition, but the safety of knowing neither he nor his mother would have to choose between paying the light bill or new winter clothing, eating healthy food or being able to afford the subway to work.

And speaking of work…

He fumbled through his contact list, then stabbed at his mother’s listing and waited for her to pick up. “Mama?” he asked breathlessly. “Can you take the day off?”

His mother paused, sounding confused. “I really shouldn’t, but…Yadira could probably cover the desk…”

“I’m coming to get you.”

“For what?”

And Amani couldn’t help grinning, before it burst into a bubbling laugh. “We’re going shopping.”

l

VIC LASTED THROUGH FIVE WHOLE agonizing hours and two separate meetings before he gave in and picked up the phone.

Maybe some part of him had hoped to find a text from Amani. Just something, anything that said he was as much on Amani’s mind as Amani was on his. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him all morning, when everything from the feeling of his coffee mug pressing against his kiss-tender lips to the lingering ache of soreness in his shoulders reminded him of that feeling when he’d somehow unlocked inside, all these things he’d had compacted into a tight little ball bursting free to riot everywhere.

And Amani’s touch had been the key.

He’d been struggling to force all those chaotic things back into their place today, stuff them down where they couldn’t be seen, but he’d been snappish and impatient and berating himself nonstop for not being able to keep a civil tongue in his head the longer the day went on. And the moment Mrs. Ackerbee checked out militantly at noon for her lunch break, Vic peered out the door, then slammed it shut and paced back to his desk, scrolling his empty notifications bar before tapping on Amani’s contact and hitting call.

He half expected Amani to ignore his call—but after a moment a breathless “Hello?” came over the line.

“Hey,” he said, and dropped down into his chair with a wince as his voice cracked. “I mean. Hey.”

“Vic?” Amani paused; over the line Vic caught faint sounds of human noise, a crowd somewhere, soft neutral music. “Give me a minute. I can’t talk to you in front of my mother.”

“Where are you?”

Amani laughed, as the noises around him faded; just the sound of that laughter eased the irritated tension that had been building behind Vic’s temples all day. “Currently hiding in a fitting room at Saks 5th Avenue,” he said, voice dropping to a hush. “My mother says thank you for her new bed, new refrigerator, and new wardrobe. Or she would if she knew they came from you.”

“She’s very welcome. Or she would be?”

“Dork.” Was Vic only imagining the affection in Amani’s voice because he wanted to hear it? “Why are you calling me?”

“I just wanted to make sure you didn’t have any problems this morning, and you made it to work all right.” Vic leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and letting himself just relax and listen. “Sorry I left without saying anything. Early mornings are the only time I can get anything done in peace around here, but I didn’t want to wake you.”

“It’s fine. The alarm woke me in time, although we’re playing hooky from work. By the way, your apartment concierge’s halal menu is pathetic.”

Vic chuckled. “I’ll have to talk to them about fixing that.”

“I don’t think I’ll be eating many meals there.”

“No? I can hope.”

Amani’s softly indrawn breath was audible over the line, before he asked, “…what’s the real reason you called me, Vic?”

“I just wanted to,” he admitted. “You’ve been on my mind all day.” Then, hastily, he hurried on, adding, “It’s for the sake of my employees, really. I’ve been a cranky shit all morning.”

“Ah. And talking to me calms you down, is it?”

“Music to soothe the savage beast. Your voice, I mean.”

“I got it.”

“I’m sticking my foot in my mouth again, aren’t I?”

Despite his cool tone, an edge of laughter softened Amani’s voice. “Some people have a kink for that.”

“I don’t know if that’s one of mine yet, but then you’d know.”

“I know you like being called my sweet boy.”

Two words. Two words, and his pulse skipped hot and wild, fire creeping down his neck, his suit suddenly feeling too tight and the breath knocked out of him in a quick gasp. Those soft silken syllables had practically licked against his cock, and he closed his eyes, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

“Jesus.”

“Mm…is that the real reason you called me? Because you wanted to hear that?”

“No. Yes, I…I don’t know.” He bit his tongue, bit his lips, ran his tongue over his aching and throbbing mouth. Fuck. “Say it again. Please.”

“Sweet,” Amani breathed, drawing each sound out, “boy.”

“Fuck. Fuck.” God, that felt so fucking good and so fucking awful all at once—his cock swelling hard as if it had been jerked on a string, trapped against his slacks and demanding in its throb. The response was practically Pavlovian, this trigger he didn’t know he’d had until Amani had pulled it and left him nearly writhing with the kind of need he felt like a secret under his skin, black and smoky sin. “Again.”

And that need whispered to him like a devil in his ear as Amani’s voice chilled, just a hint of delicious disapproval. “Are you giving me orders, now?”

“No, I…” Vic rubbed at his inner thigh as if that could ease some of the pressure that felt like it was choking his cock. “Please. You’ve fucked me up so bad, and I can’t…I can’t…”

“Are you touching yourself right now, sweet boy?”

He curled forward with a shuddering groan. Struck hot as a hammer to a sparking anvil. “No…”

“Do it,” Amani commanded, coaxed, enticed.

Vic’s throat dried, and he darted a glance toward the door. “I…I’m in the office.”

“Are you refusing me?”

“…no.” He wet his lips again, as if that thin cool sheen could soak into his body to extinguish the rising heat chasing all thought and reason from his mind. He was losing his mask, losing himself, all to that hungry, craving need to obey. “No, Master.”

“Lock the door,” Amani purred, “and touch yourself for me, Vic.”

Vic pulled himself out of the chair with a wince, then crossed the room and flicked the lock on the door before returning to his chair. If he closed his eyes, in this quiet shadowed room…he could almost pretend Amani was right there, standing over his shoulder, breathing against his ear, filling his senses with his scent, his warmth. Just the thought sent that throb deeper, and he tentatively curled his hand over his slacks, stroking over the hard rise against the fabric, only to catch a sound in the back of his throat and lift his hips in a tight little jerk as pleasure raked through him with spikes as sharp as nails.

“That was an interesting sound,” Amani lilted in his ear. “Are you doing as you’re told, sweet boy?”

Vic groaned raggedly, stroking his hand over himself again just to feel that flashfire burst wash over him. “I…outside my slacks…”

“No, Vic. I want you to touch yourself. Skin to skin.”

His stomach fluttered. His skin prickled. He darted another glance at the door, then hesitantly unbuckled his belt, unfastened his slacks, dropped his zipper. This felt…clandestine, forbidden, just a little perverted and depraved, sitting here in his office with his hand slipping inside his trousers and his hips lifting to let them slide down enough for him to free himself, hidden under the desk and yet doing something so untoward as touching himself at work with people on the other side of that door, oblivious. With a shaky breath, he wrapped a hand around his cock, only to startle himself with the deep, panting whine that rose as naked skin to naked skin brought back the feeling of tight flesh clutching around him, crushing him, milking him of every drop.

“Amani…”

“Tell me what you’re doing.”

“I…” He swallowed, thick and rough, and let his fingers trail along the underside of his cock in shivers, gathering the dripping beads of clear, sticky-slick precum that pooled at his tip and slid down in rivulets. Every touch made his cock jerk sharply, a hot pulse in his bloodstream, a beating drum in his flesh, pleasure a quiet scream of sensation. He closed his eyes, letting that slickness cover his palm, spreading it over his skin as he stroked in twisting, caressing circles, enveloping himself in a tight grip and thinking of slender thighs and knowing amber eyes and hands that controlled him with the lightest touch. “I’m…I’m stroking myself,” he panted against the phone. “I’m so fucking wet with wanting you, Amani…it’s dripping all over me.”

“So my sweet boy is a messy boy,” Amani taunted, and Vic jolted. “How does it taste?”

“Wh-what?”

“You said you’re dripping. Covered in your own pre. Tell me how it tastes.”

Vic stilled with a shuddering breath, hesitating—but that compulsion ran deeper than his hesitation, and he lifted his glistening fingers to his lips, licking them—then, with a moan, slipping them into his mouth, sucking them clean as his own musky, salt-bitter flavor rolled over his lips, delving his tongue between each finger and wrapping around it until fuck, fuck, he felt like he was sucking someone off and it felt dirty and wonderful and so, so hot.

“Tart,” he whispered into the phone. “Salty…warm. So warm.”

“I’ll have to taste for myself soon.” Sultry, rough at the edges, that accented lilt swirled around him with hypnotic eroticism. “I don’t have much time, sweet boy. And I want to hear you come. Come for me while you’re licking yourself off your fingers, Vic.”

“Yes.” Fuck, his voice was breaking, but he didn’t care. “Yes, Master.”

“Very good, sweet boy,” Amani said, and it was almost enough to tip him over the edge.

Yet even if time was short, he wanted to savor just a moment longer—savor as he ran his fingers over his dripping cock again, coating them in clear glistening liquid, even as he gripped the shaft hard with his other hand, squeezing until even more dripped out and he could catch those falling runnels in his palm. It hurt, it hurt like biting teeth and ripping loss, but the pain was luscious and perfect and driving him to a mindless and desperate edge, as he licked his palm and sucked his fingers and dragged his hand over the full length of his cock, making a tight sheath of his fingers. Every stroke, he lifted his hips up to slam his cock into that sheath, slickness and friction melting together to swallow him in heat, to rake him over with pleasure that seemed to have come alive, this savage and hungry thing ripping at him until he bled desire, bled hunger, bled every moan he couldn’t stop from slipping past his lips as he traced his lips over the full length of his fingers, licked them, imagined they were a flared head and a ridged shaft and a cock as strainingly hard as his own.

Amani was wordless on the other end of the line, but not silent—his breaths loud, uneven, harsh, now and then a soft, broken sound escaping, until it felt as though Amani was watching him, could somehow see him, drinking in this thing that Vic did for him and him alone. And when he stroked himself harder, as that hungry thing tore another piece out of him to leave him shredded inside, arching, spreading his thighs wide to roll his entire body into each begging, frantic thrust…

It was Amani’s whisper of “Come for me, sweet boy” that broke him entirely.

He couldn’t stop the cry that choked from his lips, ringing over the office, as he curled forward sharply, almost dropping the phone. His cock jerked and bucked in his hand as if fighting his grip, and the pulses that ripped through him felt as if they tore his desire out at its roots, ripping it away from him as come spilled from him to gush over his hand in a fountaining mess, emptying him of that tense, tormenting feeling to leave him spent and sagging and struggling for breath.

“Did you enjoy that, pet?”

Eyes fluttering half open, Vic slumped forward, resting his overheated cheek to the cool desk. “…a little too much,” he managed, voice hoarse. “I’m a damned mess.”

“I wish I could see it.”

“Yeah,” Vic whispered. “I wish you could too.”

Amani didn’t answer, but in that absence was a powerful ache, pulling at Vic—a siren song pulling him toward Amani, a near-obsessive desire to just…be with him.

“Amani?” he asked tentatively. “Can I ask you something about…this?”

“Always, Vic.”

“Is it normal?” he asked. “Is it normal for a submissive to not be able to think about anything but their Dom?”

“I don’t know,” Amani answered softly. “I’ve never…been in that situation with anyone before.”

“Can I see you again tonight? After your evening classes?”

“Vic…” Hesitation, but something else, too. Something that seemed as broken and lonely as this feeling inside Vic right now, that something was missing and he would lose himself completely if he didn’t find it.

“You can cuff me,” he offered. “Collar me.”

“I only collar what I intend to keep.”

“So…cuffs.” As if that reminder hadn’t struck him with a viper’s lash; that reminder that Amani had no intention of keeping him. He closed his eyes again, pressing his face harder into the desk. “Just for a little while, Amani. I’m still shaky, and I just…” His voice broke. “It helps to see you.”

“For a little while,” Amani conceded—then broke off with an almost panicked sound as a feminine voice drifted over the line. “Shit, my mother found me,” he gasped. “Gotta go!”

Then the line was dead, leaving Vic slouched over his desk with his trousers around his thighs and his hand covered in come and his cock ridiculously fucking sore.

He turned his face into the desk, pressed his nose into the wood, and just burst into helpless, tired laughter.

“God damn it,” he muttered. “Just…God damn it.”

l

AMANI WAS GLAD HE’D CHOSEN a fitting room to hide in—giving him a few more moments to compose himself, to try to calm the flush in his cheeks and at least arrange his loose caftan top to conceal his arousal in its sway and flow. Thank goodness he’d changed before going out shopping, putting on something a little more voluminous, with more folds for concealment: an open-front, belted floor-length caftan in soft blue gauze, almost translucent, strewn throughout with tiny motes of silver to make stars on night. He arranged the matching sash holding it closed, smoothed it over his chest, turned to make sure he wasn’t particularly obvious, then stepped outside to find his mother.

She was peering over the racks, calling his name, her arms laden with bags and a few things she’d chosen draped over her arm. “Amani?”

“Here,” he called, raising his hand and stepping forward with his best smile. Damn it, Vic. “Sorry, I’d just gone to the restroom.”

His mother broke into a bright smile, but then stopped, eyeing him with a discerning look. “You’re flushed. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. It’s just a little warm in here after being outside.” He glanced down at the stack in her arms, pretty flowing skirts and a few head shawls. “Is that everything you wanted?”

“I think so, but…are you sure it’s all right to spend this much? Where did you get this money?”

“I…” If anything, it was lying to his mother again that cooled the longing burning through him, even if it was only a partial untruth. “I’ve started giving cello lessons. It pays better than Dehbi.”

Her eyes lit up, almost transforming her face as a slow, broad smile spread on her lips. She clasped his hand in both of hers, almost dropping her bags. “You’re playing again?”

“Yes,” he whispered, and wondered how such a simple thing could make her so happy, even if he shouldn’t have to wonder at all.

The look on his mother’s face was the joy he felt when strings sang beneath his fingers, bright and sweet.

And he went to her willingly, as she pulled him into her arms. “Amani…oh, baby. Your father would be so happy.”

He closed his eyes against the pang of remembered grief, as sharp as the clutch of remembered joy. “I hope so, Mama. I hope so.”

They lingered for several moments longer, before he pulled back, gathering some of her bundles into his arms.

“I need to get your things home and go, Mama,” he said. “My client texted me and he’s helpless on his own, shopping for new strings. And then I need to go to class.”

“Oh!” She patted his arm, smiling broadly. “Let me just find a shawl to match this top, and we can go.” She paused, though, eyeing him. The thing with Nahla Idrissi was that she had such bright, warm ways about her that no one ever expected the sharply skewering looks she gave, but she leveled one on Amani now that made him feel like a little kid caught stealing ghriba. “You’re sure this is all right?”

Amani cringed, but managed a smile. “I promise.”

“Your client is very generous,” she said skeptically.

“He can be.”

Amani held his smile through another long, measuring look, then slumped in relief when she turned away and slipped off through the aisles, murmuring to herself in a pleasant hum the entire time.

If anyone could cow him into submission, it was his mother.

He let his gaze drift away, just listening for her while he waited, trying very hard not to think about the fact that he’d just talked Vic through getting off at the office while hiding in a public fitting room. Vic just…made him reckless, made him want things, and the entire time he’d almost been able to see that lost look on his pet’s face again, the way his features relaxed, that raptness bordering on wonder, the only thing missing from the picture…

A collar.

You can cuff me. Collar me.

Vic. In a collar. Vic in a collar Amani had placed on his throat with his own hands, caging strong tendons in a band of leather, caging Vic as his, heart and body.

He had known Vic for a total four or five meetings, one of them a negotiated sexual encounter for ridiculous amounts of money. He should not be thinking, wondering about this.

So why did Vic have to go and put the damned thought in his head?

He wouldn’t be collaring Vic. He told himself that very firmly. But if they were going to spend the night together again, if Vic was going to beg Amani so desperately, there were things they could do that didn’t need a collar to make Vic feel owned and bound. And once he finished with class, then…

Amani needed to do a little shopping of his own.