CHAPTER TWELVE

ONE HUNDRED AND TEN THOUSAND dollars.

Amani slumped back in his seat in the lecture hall for his Film Studies class and stared at the Chase Bank app on his phone. He’d just been transferring funds from PayPal routinely and trying not to think too hard about it or he’d start spinning, but his mother had texted him asking if they had enough to sneak repairs in on the house the landlord kept ignoring and he’d defiantly thought she should have her own house.

And so he’d made himself look, made himself take in the entirety of that number that had accumulated over the past few weeks of Vic on his knees, Vic falling asleep with his head pillowed on Amani’s stomach, Vic begging for a half-second of release from torturous pleasure with his hands cuffed behind his back, unable to touch and desperate to be touched. As long as Amani didn’t think about the money, it was easy to sink into the pleasure of finding new ways to make Vic beg, to show Vic new things he could enjoy about submission, about relinquishing control.

But now that number was staring him in the face, and he was about to hyperventilate in the middle of class.

What was he supposed to do with all of that? His tuition was covered. Hell, he could probably even afford to go to grad school, but it felt…selfish. Selfish to suddenly have this much and hoard it for himself and only think about his own needs, his mother’s, when it had come to him so easily. It didn’t sit right with him, and he was pondering sending it all back to Vic and breaking it off when his phone vibrated in his hand, letting out a piercing trill, and Obnoxious Prick flashed up on the screen.

Damn it. He’d forgotten to put himself on DND, and the entire class turned to stare at him, and even as he muted the ringtone the professor trailed off, giving him a rather dirty look.

“Is something more important than my lecture, Mr. Idrissi?” he bit off in freezing tones.

Amani flushed, sinking down in his chair—and then just squirming out of it and standing, grabbing his bag and throwing it over his shoulder. “Sorry,” he said, already heading for the door. “I have to take this.”

What am I doing?

He didn’t know. He didn’t know why his heart was leaping, either, as he ducked out into the corridor outside the lecture hall and caught the call on the last silenced vibration.

“Why are you calling me while I’m in class?” he hissed.

“Because you never told me what your exact class schedule was,” Vic answered smoothly. “Sorry, did I get you in trouble?”

“Yes. Only a little, but yes.” Amani pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. I forgot I didn’t—I—why are you calling me?”

“You always ask me that. Can’t I call you just to talk to you?”

“Vic. Why.”

That earned a burst of rumbling laughter, and despite himself Amani caught himself smiling as he leaned against the wall next to the lecture hall’s double doors, glancing toward windows lit up in midmorning light, milky pale and promising winter soon.

“All right,” Vic said. “You caught me. I have an ulterior motive. I might be changing our plans for tonight, but that depends on you.”

Amani raised a brow. “What’s on your mind?”

“So…I know I said I wouldn’t Richard Gere this thing, but I have a charity function this weekend and could really use someone on my arm.”

With an amused snort, Amani teased, “To ward off the social climbers?”

“To ward off the social climbers.” The smile in Vic’s voice was palpable. “And I wouldn’t mind having a little company who doesn’t expect me to be Mr. Newcomb.” He dropped his voice to an exaggerated stage whisper. “These charity galas are boring, and people always whisper about me.”

“And you don’t think they’ll whisper when you show up with a man on your arm?”

“It’s the twenty-first century. If that trips them up, they’re the problem.”

“Mm.” Amani drummed his fingertips against his thigh. Was he really considering this? “If you’re going to Richard Gere this thing, you have to buy me a dress.”

“You’re going…to wear a dress?” Vic asked faintly.

“Is that a problem?”

A long pause…and when Vic spoke again, his voice rumbled rough with heat, anticipation. “Not at all.”

Amani smiled to himself. Sometimes, his pet was so easy. “Do you have any ideas where I can get an appropriately formal caftan gown, or a takchita?”

“Not in the slightest, but…” Vic mused thoughtfully. “What if, rather than going shopping, we bring the shopping to you?”

“What are you planning?”

“A private tailor who can make anything you’d like on fairly short notice. It’s Friday now. Show her an idea of what you want, and she can have something custom fit for you by the gala Sunday evening.”

“Vic,” Amani chided. “That’s too much.”

“It’s making sure I don’t take you somewhere completely unsuitable, because I don’t even know what a takchita is.”

“Hopeless.” Amani thudded his head back against the wall with an amused sigh. “You’re just trying to spoil me so I’ll stop judging you so much.”

“Maybe a little.” Vic chuckled. “So how much is your time worth to be my date?”

Glancing back into the lecture hall, Amani pushed away from the wall, and shrugged his coat on as he stepped out of the corridor through the double doors and into the briskly chilly morning. If he was going to skip, might as well enjoy the day.

Wasn’t he the degenerate.

He thought back to that amount in his bank account, though, and shook his head. “We’ll call this one a favor. Free of charge.”

“My Master is generous.”

“Your Master is curious.” He rattled lightly down the steps and set off across campus. “I’d like to see you in your natural environment.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“If you say so.” Over the line, Amani caught the sound of keys rattling, then a shuffle of paper. “So should I call the tailor in for our session tonight?”

“That works. But I hope you know if anyone’s poking me with needles, you’re not getting sex tonight.” The only answer was silence, and Amani laughed. “I can hear you pouting, pet.”

“I’ll be good,” Vic mumbled sullenly.

“That’s my sweet boy.”

A rough breath rattled over the line. “Fuck, don’t do that to me when I’m around people. My secretary’s in here.”

“And you had this conversation in front of her?”

“She’s discreet, but…”

“…she doesn’t need to see you like that, hm?” Amani shouldn’t enjoy this feeling so much, tugging his toy mouse’s tail, but he couldn’t seem to stop smiling, either. “Tonight, Vic.”

“Tonight,” Vic promised. “Later.”

l

AMANI SPENT THE DAY AT a sidewalk café, working on his midterm paper. He should feel more guilty about skipping class, but he had a perfect average and missing the lecture wouldn’t count against him as long as he turned his work in and passed his exams. Everything was work for him, he thought…and in so many ways, that made him no different from Vic.

Maybe that was why he felt this sense of understanding around Vic, when despite the very different trappings of their lives they weren’t so different at all.

He lingered over that, drifting between thoughts of Vic and pondering the last few lines of his term paper, before setting his mug of tea down and rattling across the keyboard.

What matters, in the end, he wrote, isn’t how these music forms are different.

It’s how they’re the same, and how each carries our need to express ourselves in symphonic form when no one instrument can capture the full complexity of human emotion.

He eyed it. It was…florid. Poetic. Less about musical structures and more about emotion. More the type of thing Vic would say, than a straight A student looking for technical perfection.

Technical perfection might get good grades…but it didn’t have heart.

He hit Save, closed his laptop, and stood, gathering his things to catch the train to SoHo.

When he walked into Vic’s apartment, though, he just…stopped.

And stared.

At a room practically the size of a formal ballroom, and filled with massive display bolts of at least fifty different kinds of shimmering, fine-spun fabric in silvers and golds and glistening blacks, night sky blues and midnights and ivory hues. It spilled over furniture, propped against the marble columns, strewed across the couch, while Vic stood in the middle of it all, tapping his chin as he reached out to finger a skein of pale green organza with repeated embroidery patterns of fleur-de-lis.

Amani’s breaths strangled. “What…is all this?”

Vic looked up, then smiled warmly, crossing the room toward him. “Did you forget I own a textile company?” He swept an arm out. “Selections from our premium stock.” He paused, fingering the edge of a bolt of shining platinum-pale chiffon. “Silver,” he said softly.

Turning slowly, Amani just took it all in, then cast Vic a wide-eyed glance. “You picked these out yourself?”

“Most of them, with some helpful suggestions,” Vic said casually, but his smile was anything but casual—that shy thing that came out when he wanted to please his Master, boyish and warm and such a contrast to the three-piece suit he still wore. “I…was hoping to give you a range to choose from that might suit your tastes.”

Amani couldn’t stop an incredulous laugh. Too much. Vic was always just…too much. “Has anyone ever told you that you are completely extra?”

“I’ve heard something like that a few times,” Vic said, then leaned back, peering around the bolts, raising his voice to call, “Penny?”

“Right here!” chirped at Amani’s back, and he whirled with a gasp.

A pert, curving little woman with a graying bob of perky black hair looked up at Amani with a warm smile. She offered her hand, black eyes laughing warmly.

“Hi. Sorry to startle you.” When Amani took her hand, she shook it firmly, her hands gentle and kind. “Penny Chatsworth, designer.”

“You work for Vic?” Amani caught himself, then corrected, “Er. Mr. Newcomb.”

Penny flapped her hand with a chuckle. “It’s all right. Call him whatever you’d like. He’s only Mr. Newcomb to me. Sometimes.”

Vic stared at her flatly. “I hire the most insolent people.”

Penny only smiled merrily, leaning in to mock-whisper to Amani behind her hand. “I’m completely unimpressed by him, and I get away with it because I’m too talented for him to fire me.” She bounced back, her smile brightening. “I normally work as a liaison with apparel companies to come up with unique branded designs using our textiles, but I’ve been itching to create something couture.”

“O-oh.” Amani laughed shakily, looking over the looping bolts of fabric again. “This is a little surreal. You’re actually going to make me a dress by this weekend?”

“This is why he pays me and puts up with me.” Penny curled her hand gently against his arm, ushering him playfully forward. “Come on, darling. Let’s take your measurements and start on some sketches.”

But as they drew closer to Vic, Amani lightly eased free, letting Penny move on ahead as he leaned in close to murmur, “You know this is such a waste of money, don’t you?”

With that wickedly charming smile, Vic bent low to Amani’s ear. “Enjoy it just this once,” he coaxed. “Everyone should get to be just a little wasteful and have fun once in their lives.” Then he straightened, smirking. “You can go back to judging me for being a rich, useless piece of baggage the morning after.”

Amani eyed him, then turned and trailed after Penny, to where she’d set up a little worktable in an artificial room created by several standing racks. “Just remember what I said,” he tossed back, only to be rewarded by a choked, groaning sound.

“Mrs. Chatsworth?” Vic called.

“Yes?”

“Please be careful with those pins.”

Penny glanced at Amani, then called back mildly, “I only poke you on purpose, dear.”

“…excuse me?”

Penny only laughed behind her hand, eyes glittering as she winked at Amani. “He’s so fun to rile up, isn’t he?”

“Trust me,” Amani said, unable to help his own smile, “you have no idea.”

l

AMANI HAD TO BE DREAMING.

That was the only explanation for why he was sitting in front of the bedroom vanity mirror, wrapped up in a loose robe with his new dress hanging in a garment bag from the closet door, his heart light and his head whirling and his entire body tingling with prickles of anticipation and nervousness and confusion.

He finished carefully streaking on a smoky dark pewter liner barely edged in subtle creases of red, and used a blender to purposefully smudge his eyeliner so it melted seamlessly into the shadow to form a sultry-dark ring around his eyes, before dusting his cheeks with pearl shimmer highlight and barely touching his lips with a shimmer gloss meant more to bring out the natural deep pink of his lips than add any color.

He was just trying to look nice for a formal event, but…

Every time he touched his lips with the liquid liner, he felt Vic’s mouth going hot and soft against his, yielding in complete surrender.

He had a problem. He had a problem, and he couldn’t let this breathless building feeling that seemed to live inside him lately get any stronger…

But tonight?

Tonight, when he wanted to feel beautiful…

He’d enjoy it for just a little bit longer.

In the mirror reflection, he caught his mother drifting into the room, leaning her arm in the doorway and watching him with a sort of sweetly sad fondness.

He smiled at her reflection, as he lifted his arms to start threading tiny, near-invisible chains of miniscule seed pearls into his hair, each no larger than a grain of sand, but interspersed at intervals with slightly larger ones. He used them to bind his hair half-up in a fountain of tumbling waves, a delicate net holding the glossed locks in place so they fell just right to frame his throat. As he slipped a few pins in to help hold it, his mother slipped closer, gently nudging his hands away and taking over, setting the pins just right.

“When did you grow up?” she asked with a sigh.

“I’m not sure.” He reached back to squeeze her hand. “I’m going out tonight. I don’t want you to worry if I don’t come home, all right?”

“You’ve been staying out more and more nights. Amani, is something wrong?”

“I’m fine. I promise you I’m fine. I’m more than fine.” He smiled, leaning back into her, then stood, turning to lift the garment bag down from the closet door and unzip it across his bed. “Could you help me with this dress?”

With his mother’s help, he slipped into the delicate confection of sheer ivory and silver organza laid out inside the bag—a takchita Penny had designed just for him, the under-layer of the tahtiya a thing of sleeveless mist, a translucent and clinging slip that trailed to the floor and clung to his body with his every movement, only to be caged by the heavier fouqia overlayer: the same translucent ivory, an open-front dress with its edges and hems crusted in patterned metallic silver embroidery speckled with tiny seed pearls, high-waisted and clasped at the front with worked silver closures. Alone, each layer would have been indecent, but together they blended and flowed to drape around him until the darkness of his skin was a shadow of suggestion underneath, while the dress trailed behind him like a royal train, the overlong embroidered sleeves falling to mingle with the skirt and slit from shoulder to wrist to leave his arms mostly bare and draped in ribbons.

He felt like he wore the moon, in this dress.

Like he wore the moon, and tread on paths of stars.

“Amani,” his mother said as they stood before the mirror, her voice choked with emotion, and he gripped her hand tight.

“Mama.” He looked up, though, as he caught the sound of a car pulling up outside the house. He still wasn’t sure about letting Vic pick him up, but it was easier than taking the subway in this dress, and if he’d tried to dress at Vic’s apartment they’d have ended up naked and skipping the gala. He took a shaky breath, smoothing his hands over the front of his gown, then racing to catch up the strappy silver heels Penny had found him to match, nearly tripping over his train as he bent to tug them on. “He’s here.”

His mother folded her arms over her chest pointedly. “Who is ‘he’?”

“My client. It’s a business function.”

“You wear things like this for business?” She moved to the window and flicked the curtains aside, peering out. “Isn’t that the handsome man from Dehbi? The one you told to leave?”

Amani winced and tried an innocent smile. “…maybe…”

“So he’s not married, then.”

“Mama!” Laughing, he tugged her close and kissed her cheek, then wiped away the trace of shimmer gloss left behind with his thumb. “I have to go. Love you.”

She patted his cheek, then gave him a gentle shove. “Enjoy yourself, love. You deserve it.”

Feeling light as though he drifted on petals, Amani caught up the long, satiny white cloak Penny had stitched for him against the winter night, is inner lining felted and warm and heavy, wrapping around him to protect both him and the dress. Gathering up his train past its folds, he slipped out to the front door and stepped out onto the porch—only to go still as he saw Vic standing there, trim-cut and devilishly handsome in a perfectly fitted tuxedo that had been made to love his debonair, beautifully crafted lines, trapping a thing of power inside the skin of a thing of grace.

And he was leaning against a gleaming black stretch limousine, rakishly slouched, hips canted forward, legs crossed at the ankles, looking far too pleased with himself for his own good.

“A limo?” Amani laughed breathlessly as he strode down the steps and the walk, bringing him closer and closer to Vic. “You had to show up in this neighborhood in a limo? Extra.”

“Always.” Vic looked down at him with eyes that seemed to see only him, warm with desire, lighting up the night inside Amani with brilliance—before they crinkled at the corners with amusement as Vic glanced past him. “Is that your mum?”

Amani looked over his shoulder. His mother was peering out through the window again, and he sighed—only to splutter as Vic lifted his hand in a wave. “Yes. Don’t wave to her?”

“Why not?”

“You are just too much.”

Utterly unrepentant, Vic bowed, sweeping the door open with an inviting gesture. “I guess I’m a little too disobedient sometimes.”

Amani ducked into the limo, carefully gathering the voluminous layers of fabric around him and piling them in with him, before shifting over to make room for Vic. “Sometimes?”

Vic slipped in and closed the door, then signaled to the driver; the limo pulled out from the curb, while Vic turned those winter-blue eyes back on Amani. His gaze drifted over him as if wondering what secrets he hid underneath his cloak, before rising to capture Amani with his gaze as he offered a slow, inviting smile.

“Gives you a reason to punish me.”

“I didn’t know I needed a reason.”

Vic swayed toward him, stretching an arm along the back of the seat, bringing that tempting mouth so close, almost daring Amani to tease that arrogant smirk away from his lips and remind him of every way Amani could coax him to melt. “Saves me a little work, then.”

Temptation pulled strong; everything felt too intense tonight, too much, striking him with such force, and he almost gave in, almost claimed that insolent and wicked mouth and tasted Vic’s every depth…but he reined himself in, pressing his fingertip to Vic’s lips and gently pushing him back.

“I am not kissing you in front of the driver.”

“Privacy window.”

“No.” Amani let his finger slip down, hooking in the little black bowless band fitted to the throat of Vic’s shirt, so much like a collar that it ignited something deep and possessive and wanting in Amani. “You can wait.”

For a moment Vic looked as though he might protest, before he smiled, bowing his head obediently. “As my Master commands,” he murmured, before leaning back to reach into the little area behind the seat back, plucking something out.

A flower. A white vanilla orchid flower, its petals dewed damp—and cool, kissing Amani’s temple as with a gentle touch, Vic tucked it behind his ear, weaving its stem into his hair.

Amani’s heart leaped forward, shuddered back, raced forward again, as the delicate scent of vanilla flooded his senses and he reached up to gingerly feel the petals. “What’s this…?”

“You smelled like vanilla, the first time I met you. You always do,” Vic said, husky, deep, that intensity radiating from him, drawing Amani in. “The flowers make me think of you.”

Swallowing hard, Amani ducked his head. No one ever made him feel like this—soft, overwhelmed, shaky with the sweet rush of surprise, of warmth. “Vic?” he whispered.

“Hm?”

“Stop talking. Stop talking and just…” He leaned over, tucked himself against Vic’s side, curled his hand against the fine fabric over his arm, and just soaked him in. “Hold me.”

l

THEY SAID NOTHING, FOR THE rest of the drive through the city. There was no need, and Amani simply leaned against Vic and breathed in his scent mingled with the scent of vanilla, and tried not to let his heart run wild.

The limo took them through night-lit streets to the Financial District, Broad Street…and a line of limousines clogging the street, trails of red headlights ahead, moving forward one at a time as they deposited people in fine glittering clothing and sharp black edges onto a red carpet rolled all the way from the elegantly column-framed front doors of a tall, stately sandstone building down to the edge of the sidewalk. Amani leaned toward the window, craning to see all the shining people, and the glow of lights from inside the building each time the doors opened and closed.

“What kind of event is this?” he breathed.

“Bit of a banquet mingler, music and dancing, followed by a live orchestra performance. Spending what you would no doubt call obscene amounts of money to raise even more obscene amounts of money for charity,” Vic answered idly, gaze trained out the window, preoccupied, not even watching the cars or guests but instead looking blankly across the street. “This one’s political. Annual drive to raise donations for the ACLU. In two weeks it’s Newcomb Textiles’ turn to host one to end child factory labor overseas.”

Amani studied him, the tight set of his brows, then rested his hand to Vic’s thigh. “You actually don’t like these things, do you?”

Vic smiled tightly. “Not really. Maybe you’re rubbing off on me. Seems like a waste to buy people’s donations with entertainment. Just write the check and do the work.” He muttered under his breath. “And believe it or not, I cannot stand most rich people. I promise you nearly everyone here tonight will be detestable and obnoxious.”

Amani chuckled, leaning over and nudging him with his shoulder. “For once, we agree on something. So is that why you really invited me here? To keep you from suffering too much?”

“Somewhat.” That smile softened. “Maybe I just wanted your company.”

“One day I’ll train you to stop flattering me.”

“That, Master,” Vic said, reaching around him, his entire body enveloping Amani in warmth as they pulled up to the curb and he flicked open the door, “is a rule I will always break.”

With the devil’s smile, then, he slipped out curbside and closed the door before rounding to the streetside and opening the door to let Amani out, reaching in to hand him out lightly. Their hands remained loosely linked as they stepped up onto the sidewalk, and not all of Amani’s shiver was from the cold as their fingertips flirted with every step.

The doors opened to admit them into a small receiving area; Vic conferred briefly with the concierge, before a coat check attendant came for Amani’s cloak. He let himself be swirled out of it, smoothing out the train of his gown, turning back to Vic.

Only to find the man staring at him with his lips parted and breathless, winter-blue eyes warmed to summer’s heat with what could only be described as admiration, desire, and some breathless and wondering emotion Amani could not bring himself to give voice to.

Yet within him it was bright, and whispered like the notes of a duet sung with one voice.

Vic drew closer as if drawn by a lead, and captured both of Amani’s hands. “I don’t need anything else,” he whispered. “Just to see you like this.”

“Oh?” Amani tilted his head up to him, lacing their fingers together. “So all it takes is one pretty dress, and I have you in the palm of my hand?”

“You’ve always had me. But tonight…” Vic pressed a kiss to Amani’s palm. “The pull you have on me is inescapable.”

A soft breath caught in Amani’s throat, and didn’t leave. This…this was one reason why deep down, some part of him craved to be around Vic, he realized. Vic had never once treated him like an oddity. Never stared at him as if trying to figure out which he was or what was wrong with him or why he had to do something so simple as be himself. No mockery, no scorn, no disgust, no hesitation, no fumbling through he-she-you-um. Nothing of the deep misunderstandings that Amani had come to know as a painful yet everyday normal.

Vic simply accepted him as he was, purely and without question. Accepted him, and looked at him as though he was the most beautiful star in Vic’s orbit.

And he didn’t know if he would ever find that again, once they came to their senses and this was over.

He couldn’t breathe with the weight of that; with the weight of the longing in Vic’s gaze, and he looked away, gripping Vic’s fingers tighter. “We’re drawing attention.”

“I’m such an embarrassment, I know.” Smiling with a sort of gentle, wordless understanding, Vic offered his arm. “Shall we brave the filthy rich and moneyed hordes, then?”

“We shall,” Amani said, and slipped his fingers around Vic’s forearm.

Together they stepped forward into a grand ballroom made all of golden stone columns and great arching ceilings, majestic and strung from wall to rafter with dangling motes of light, as though constellations had been plucked from the sky one by one and rearranged into the shadows of these vaulted heights. People in gold and silver and crimson and black, encrusted with jewels and gleaming with silken edges, moved everywhere—dallying at tables placed along the edges, swirling across the central ballroom floor to a piped-in waltz, lingering in little conversational clusters.

And before Amani could even wholly take it in, a rather loud, syrupy voice crested the general murmur of noise in the room, shrill enough to hurt his ears.

“Vic!” cried a woman who was half human, half piled up tower of golden curls. “I was wondering when you would show your face.”

Vic clenched his jaw, and covered Amani’s hand with his own. “Brace yourself,” he muttered from the side of his mouth. “Here we go.”

The human fountain of ringlets was only the first in the assault. Suddenly everyone wanted to talk to Vic, simper over Amani, who might you be, oh darling who made your dress, names flying by him and false, cloying smiles nearly drowning him in their stickiness. It was overwhelming, and yet…

Vic navigated it smoothly, practically holding court as one after another tried to curry him with platitudes, maneuver him with slyness, pry for information, drop hints. This was political in more ways than one, Amani realized, a complex game of negotiating alliances that could make or break international businesses, and what nearly everyone in this room wanted access to was what Vic had.

And yet Vic was impenetrable—smoothly deflecting attempts to manipulate the conversation, sallying back veiled insults with tart yet cutting politeness, more than once sidetracking anyone who attempted to ask Amani anything inappropriate by baiting them with some tantalizing line of conversation about secret mergers or scandals on Wall Street before leaving them hanging as he moved on to the next group. He was cool, in control, utterly sure of himself and his place here, and Amani realized…

Vic only bowed his head for him.

Outside of the nights they shared together, this was who Vic had learned to be, and who he had now learned to shed when Amani whispered in his ear and called him sweet boy.

Finally, as a lull came in the barrage, Vic drew him off into a shadowed niche just to the edge of the main ballroom floor, resting a hand to the small of his back to guide him. “That was exhausting.”

“Very,” Amani admitted. “No wonder you’ve got high blood pressure.”

“It’s normally worse.” Vic slipped an arm around his waist with a gentle squeeze. “I only had to fend off the greedy guts this time, and not the propositions.”

“So everyone wants you so very much, hm?”

“They want something. I’m not sure it’s me so much as what I represent.” He cocked his head. “Would you like to dance?”

“I didn’t put this gown on to stand around, now did I?”

Vic let out a rough, tired laugh and swept another of those bows that didn’t feel quite so mocking when he still looked at Amani as if the moon danced on his fingertips. “After you, Master.”

“Mm…be careful calling me that in public.”

Amani swayed away, reaching back to capture Vic’s fingertips and draw him after as they stepped out onto the floor to the tune of a slow and winding waltz. Vic’s arm slipped around Amani’s waist, pulling him in close with an easy, thrilling burst of strength, the fingers of his other hand lacing with Amani’s as he stepped to the side…and led Amani into a lazy, flowing dance, swirling across the floor as if time could stop and wait, until they were ready; until they were done.

For the moment, Amani let himself forget the people around them; the entirely wearying social games; the very real feeling that this was not somewhere he could ever belong, or would ever want to. All that mattered was the feel of Vic’s body moving against his own, the gentle pull of the music guiding them, the clasp of their hands and the winter-blue eyes shivering him as each lingering look kissed over him with utter absorption.

“I was impressed, you know,” he teased softly, his other hand curled against Vic’s shoulder, curling as powerful sinew corded and moved beneath his palm with every turn. “Watching you like that. And not one of these people has any idea that all I have to do is tug your leash to have you on your knees.”

“That’s not something they need to know. That’s just for us.” Vic glanced past Amani briefly, before locking eyes again. “People are staring though. Are you all right?”

“I’m used to it. Let them stare.”

“Why are you so used to it?”

Amani smiled fondly. This bizarre man, at once so oblivious and yet hardened to face the rigors of this life. “I’m an anomaly in most people’s worlds, Vic,” he said softly, as if sharing a secret between them. “If they don’t see me as a threat for the color of my skin, they see me as a threat for the way I toss my middle finger at masculinity but still dare to claim to be male.” He leaned closer still, letting Vic’s warmth be a comfort, a reminder that at least one person didn’t need to define him by their rules and only their rules. “Just by existing in people’s spaces, I challenge their comfortable boxes. But I knew what I was getting into when I made the choice to be myself, instead of repress myself. So…yes.” It shouldn’t hurt so much to smile. “I’m used to it.”

As the music slowed, faded, trailed off, they swayed to a halt, and Vic curled his fingers against Amani’s chin, tracing his lower lip reverently. “Maybe they’re just staring because you’re stunningly beautiful.”

“That too.”

“And vain,” Vic pointed out, and the heaviness in Amani broke and lifted as he laughed.

“That would be you, sweet boy.”

“Oh, God.” Vic tensed, shoulder going rock hard under Amani’s palm, and he closed his eyes, swearing throatily. “Amani, I told you not to do that in public…”

“I’m sorry.” He bowed his head, resting his brow to Vic’s chest. “I am. Really. That was out of line.”

He’d thought Vic would laugh it off, move on…but then the hard flexion of the arm around his waist captured him closer, his gut tightening as the pressure of Vic’s cock stroked against his stomach, and a thrumming, deep plea melted warm against his ear.

“Say it again.”

Amani’s fingers clenched against Vic’s jacket. “…sweet boy.”

Vic groaned, pressing his face into Amani’s hair. “I am about to embarrass myself in front of very many rich people.”

Words hovered on the tip of Amani’s tongue, reckless, hot, and he knew he should swallow them back, save them for later, be appropriate and respectable and composed…

…but all he wanted right now was Vic, and the rest of these people be damned.

He let his body mold to Vic’s in soft suggestion, and suddenly the soft layers of organza felt like nothing at all, as if he stood unabashed in his naked skin. “I should be kind,” he whispered, “and not make you wait until we leave.”

A growl, near soundless and yet vibrating hot, sank from Vic into Amani. “…here?”

The note of breathless longing in Vic’s voice, as if he didn’t dare hope, brought a smile to Amani’s lips. He dared to let his mouth brush against Vic’s throat, his jaw, right here in public. “Find us somewhere safe and I’ll let you do anything you want to me, Vic.”

“But…we don’t have…”

“My dress has inside pockets. Penny’s really quite clever. And yes, we do.” He traced his fingertip down Vic’s chest, then pulled back, catching his hand once more. “I know you, by now.”

Hot eyes rained over him, nearly stripping him, as Vic prowled after him. “You know what you do to me.”

Amani’s only answer was a glance through his lashes, as he coaxed Vic to follow him from the ballroom floor. But as they slipped into the recessed shadows lining the room, Vic took the lead, trailing along the fringes until they found a door leading off from the main hall. Furtive backward glances, breathlessly exchanged looks, and then they slipped through, into a darkened corridor that branched off into multiple shadowed, unused private banquet rooms. Amani gathered his skirts and ran with Vic, torn between laughter and tense, needy silence, his blood pounding, his core tight.

They ducked into the first room that would open for them, and Amani barely had a moment to slam the door behind them before he found himself slammed up against it, Vic’s body hot and hard and pinning him against his bulk. He stroked his fingers into Vic’s hair and dragged him down, crushing their lips together, falling into a kiss that was neither dominance nor submission but instead pure raw desperation, this nameless thing between them building to a break point and crashing over them with destructive force. They were hands everywhere, tearing at buttons, ripping at silks, and Amani arched against the door, tangling one leg around Vic’s as rough fingers stroked along his thighs, sank into the flesh, cupped and kneaded his ass.

Moaning hotly, he dragged his mouth over Vic’s throat, biting at him, slipping his fingers inside his shirt, caressing over tight skin and writhing to every touch that dragged him in and ground his hips to Vic’s, pressure like violence making heat burst through him as his cock dragged against his pet’s. He tore one hand from raking over Vic’s body, fumbling and searching the hidden pockets of his gown until he found the little bottle of lube—only for Vic to catch it from him, flicking it open, fingers coated and suddenly instead of Amani’s own fingers stretching himself it was Vic’s, rough things coated in silk, dragging his underwear aside and sliding inside him and lifting him up and twisting deep. He rocked his head back against the door, writhing and impaling himself on those fingers, living for the swift swelling rushes that poured over him each time Vic stroked him from inside. His cries were hungry, gasping, and he silenced them by stealing Vic’s mouth again, feinting his tongue against his pet’s and teasing in little darts.

But when those fingers slipped out of him, leaving him empty, he could barely stand the agonizing seconds with the rasp of Vic’s zipper the clicking cap on the lube bottle, the muted thud of the bottle on the carpeted floor. Vic pressed hard against him, those wild animal breaths washing against his throat, his chest, as Vic drew his legs apart, spreading him, baring him, opening him for the burning press and heavy weight of his cock.

Their breaths mingled in tandem rushes, as Vic filled him. Their bodies moved, and Amani lost himself with utter abandon, chasing every thrust that burned him from the inside out, melted him with slick friction, kissed deep inside with a wicked tongue searching and stretching every forbidden place within him. Every sound between them was a whisper, and every sound on Amani’s lips was “Vic, Vic” as he kissed him again and again and again, sharing their breaths. Vic felt too good inside him, dripping and sinful and hard-ridged, the flare of his cock-head stretching Amani in ways that melted him, tore him apart, scattered the pieces into a needy wreck.

And when Vic slammed him hard against the door, capturing his mouth and kissing him deep, angling his body so Vic could fill him more and more on very powerful thrust, working his fingers over Amani’s cock brimming with a feral ferocity that seemed to have slipped its leash…

He collapsed, coming undone, everything that held him together tumbling apart until he was crashing, clinging, arching, clenching, bursting as he went so tight around Vic’s cock and milked it inside him, begging for more. Begging for that last dripping burst, that feeling of being deliciously used, that jerking throb of spilling flesh inside him. When Vic gave it to him in sharp, short shudders of his hips, groaning, Amani gasped out in pleasure, squeezing his thighs against Vic’s hips, rolling and undulating his own to take every drop deep, deep, so fucking deep.

They came down together in a limp tangle, practically radiating steam from the heat trapped between them, sagging in a tangle to the floor and leaning there hard. Panting hoarsely, Vic rested his brow to Amani’s chest, and Amani enfolded him close, nosing lazy, sated kisses into his hair and just existing in the quiet as his blood slowed its rush.

“That was different,” Vic whispered, and Amani smiled.

“It was.”

“Was it bad?”

“No, Vic. No.” He captured his chin, and drew his sweet boy up for a lazy kiss. “It wasn’t bad at all.”

l

BY THE TIME THEY MANAGED to put themselves back together, the speeches were beginning, the lights in the main ballroom darkened, and no one looked their way as they crept along the edges of the room to find their seats, hands linked under the table.

And when the grand tributes and promises and obligations had ended and they were ushered to the terraced concert hall, Amani settled with his head resting to Vic’s shoulder, their clasped hands resting between them, silent as he watched the orchestra warm up and felt every flex of fingers and stroke of bowstring against skin with muscle memory, and when they played he was a ghost inside, haunting himself with every note. He remembered the stage, the lights, the tension of it all, the breathlessness building up to something that created awe and emotion and an understanding so hard to find when people clashed and broke away and never seemed to hear each other the way they heard each concerto, each cadenza.

Vic gripped his hand tight, stroking his thumb over Amani’s knuckles and bent to his ear. “Do you miss it?”

“Yes,” Amani breathed, as his eyes prickled and burned.

“Maybe this time, it wouldn’t be so hard to try again.”

“Maybe,” he said, and turned his face into Vic’s shoulder as if he could hide the wetness blurring the hall into nothing but color and sound.

l

IT SEEMED NATURAL TO RETURN to Vic’s apartment, then—no question, as they trailed into the building together, leaning in hard as if holding each other up. Loosened buttons, discarded cummerbunds, unlaced heels, and they tangled in the bed together atop the spreading lake of Amani’s disarrayed gown, drifting and quiet and now again remembering to bridge the silence with murmured words.

Amani fingered the open throat of Vic’s shirt, trailing down the line of unfastened buttons to stroke over his chest. He followed the dip and grove between his pectorals, traced the sharply defined cut of one flat plane of his chest, stopped on the faint raised definition of one of those many old scars.

“I’ve wondered about these since I first saw you,” he said, finding it by touch when it was nearly invisible by starlight. “These scars. They’re old.”

“Almost fifteen years old. Some of them, anyway.” Vic’s hand covered Amani’s, weighing it warm against his chest. “They were for Ash.”

“Ash…?”

“Mmhm.” Vic smiled faintly, eyes lidding. “He was always a small thing. Smaller than the other boys. There’s just…something about him that makes you want to protect him. We went to boarding school together, and the moment he showed all those little rats started picking on him for being American, or pretty like a girl, or anything else they could think of. Didn’t matter as long as they could toss the new kid around.” He sighed a tired laugh. “The one day he tried to fight back, he started a food fight with me in the cafeteria when I hadn’t even been bothering him. Somehow when it was over we were fast friends—and on cleaning punishment for a month—but the other blokes still never much liked him. Tried to have a go at him all the time.” Vic twisted his lips, then finished softly, “I didn’t let them. But I didn’t fight back, either.”

“You made yourself his human shield.” Amani moved his hand beneath the rough one covering his, seeking out another scar, tracing his way to its faint roughness. “And you just…took it, when they hurt you?”

“‘Course I did. I was bigger than they were.” Vic nuzzled into Amani’s hair. “I could take the pain. What if they couldn’t take what I’d have done back to them?”

“You are at once entirely misguided and yet bizarrely noble.”

“And you find it charming and irresistible.”

“Do I?” Amani tilted his head back enough to catch Vic’s lower lip for a sharp nip. “So now you’re telling me what I like.”

“Shit,” Vic said, “I’m sorry, Master.”

No matter how many times he heard it…Amani liquefied inside when Vic said Master, and he pressed into him, sliding his body against the honed sculpture sprawled against him, his next breaths shuddering, breaking. “Call me that again, sweet boy.”

With a gasping sound, Vic tightened his arm around Amani, dragging him in close. “…fuck. Master.”

“Again.”

“Master. Master.”

Yes. Just like that. Completely abandoned, completely responsive, Vic flushed and bending to Amani’s will without ever breaking. Amani pushed himself up, draped in the tangles of his gown as he slid across Vic’s body, mounting his hips and moving himself in slow circles just to feel the thick surge of Vic’s cock pressing up against him.

“You’re so deliciously obedient.” He stroked his palms up Vic’s chest, fingers splaying. “So you can take the pain?”

Vic looked up at him with glazed eyes, breaths thin and fast. “I can if it’s coming from you.”

“I only want to give you a little.” Amani caught the last of the buttons on Vic’s shirt and dragged them open, pulling it up out of the waist of his slacks, then tugged the slacks open so he could slip his hand inside. Past fabric, past skin, past that lush little tuft of dark, curling hair that tickled his palm, and he curled his hand against Vic’s cock, gripping its heaviness, kneading it against his palm. “Just enough to make the pleasure feel even better.”

Vic parted his lips—only to throw his head back with a cry as Amani gripped tighter, holding in a slow, deliberate stroke, massaging one inch at a time down Vic’s rapidly swelling cock. Vic dropped his hands to the bed, gripping up the covers, his hips lifting roughly enough for Amani’s body to rock upward with him.

“Ah…ah, Amani…”

“Do I have your permission to hurt you, my sweet boy?” At Vic’s wordless nod, Amani smiled. “Then…arms over your head.”

Vic started to lift his arms—but then stilled, hissing, a wince twisting his features as he clutched at one shoulder…and Amani hadn’t done anything. Amani hesitated, slipping his hand free from Vic’s pants, some warning raising the fine hairs on his body and telling him to stop. Something wasn’t right.

“Vic…?” he whispered, but Vic rolled his head back, lips pulling back from clenched teeth, his entire face twisted with pain. Twisted, red, sweat breaking out and beading on his brow, and his breathing—his breathing wasn’t right, and he made sounds that weren’t words and…and…

“Vic…Vic!” Amani tumbled off him, pressing his fingers to Vic’s throat, panic lancing through him as Vic’s pulse leaped against Amani’s touch like racing rapids. Too fast. That was too fast, and Vic was rolling away, his body curling, shaking, lips trembling as they fought to form rasping, broken syllables.

“N-ni…nitroglycerin…”

“Yes—yes, right—” Amani spilled out of the bed and, tripping over his gown, bolted for the bathroom, fumbling the prescription bottle off the shelf before racing back. He nearly spilled the pills as he fought the bottle open with shaking fingers, his throat knotting, chest tight, his heartbeat counting out frantic seconds as he fought to fish out the pill and press it to Vic’s mouth. “Here. Here, take it, I’ll…I’ll call 911…”

Vic lipped the pill from Amani’s fingers weakly, then collapsed against the bed, wheezing, eyes closing. “D-don’t…don’t, I’ll be f-fine…”

“You’re not fine,” Amani said, clutching at Vic’s hand; it felt so feeble, so fast, and it was terrifying watching Vic go red then pale then red again, the pain knotted across his brow more than Amani could stand. “And I’m calling 911.”

Vic didn’t answer.

Vic didn’t do anything, his fingers going limp in Amani’s hand, and Amani’s entire body froze with pure dread.

“Vic?” he whispered, then grabbed for his phone, a sob rising up in his throat. “Please, oh please don’t do this to me…Vic!”