House Rules: The Jack Gordon Story by Liz Crowe Page A

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he didn’t truly give much weight to, considering his drive to make more, be
more, and have more, even now after having just rounded the corner on his
mid-thirties, and still alone.
    He
stretched his arms over his head and observed the subs being led into the dark
wood-paneled room. His skin pebbled in anticipation but his mind was not on the
task tonight, he could tell. And that was probably not good for any woman who
wanted him, so he started to rise and head for the side door, hoping to catch
Kyle on the way out and apologize.
    A
whiff of perfume, or something more primal, made him stop and turn, narrowing
his eyes at a luscious female form. She knelt on the stage, dressed in a
leather bustier, a thong, and high black leather heels. He stuck his hands in
his pockets and watched her a minute, trying to square what his head was
telling him—to go home—with what his body now suddenly, urgently messaged—go to
her.
    He
let his body lead, which was par for his course, and something he should
probably change. But his skin was tingling in a familiar way, and his brain was
clearing of all clutter. He knew nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing—but her.
    She
was curvy perfection, legs that went on for miles, and a head of thick auburn
hair that made his fingers curl into fists in anticipation of diving into it. 
He hesitated a split second, realizing why he’d been drawn to her and that he
should just leave and let someone else have her.
    That
hair…he touched it as he stood in front of her. It was like spun red silk under
his fingers. Heart pounding, he did the forbidden thing, unable to stop
himself. He put his finger under her chin, tilted it up so he could see her face.
He had to—the imperative drove him to break rules, even as he heard Kyle’s
throat clearing admonition behind him.
    Her
eyes were huge, hazel, and sincere. Her full lips parted, which made him bite
back a groan of anticipation. He sighed and walked away, kept going until he
hit the door. He heard Kyle calling his name as he pressed the elevator button.
    He
had to get the fuck out of here. He had no business doing this anymore. It
might calm him some but it revved him up too high at the same time. He needed a
break. But his body was putting on an admirable show of resistance. His legs
trembled, his scalp kept tingling in that way he knew could only be helped by a
long, hard, session aided by—he could guess by looking at her—handcuffs, a ball
gag, a flogger, and hot wax that he would drip, slowly, down her creamy white
torso.
    “Fuck
me,” he muttered, leaning on the wall with both hands, shaking like a leaf.
    “Jack!”
Kyle was nearer now, and Jack punched the button again, willing the damn
elevator to rescue him, as if he’d be free once the doors were shut. Which he
knew was nonsensical. But the way he felt, a slave to his…kink…to his fetish.
It was too much. Jack was a guy who had to be one hundred percent in control of
everything, everywhere. This thing he did, this urgent, base need he exorcised
more than twice a week, was gaining the upper hand. He had to wrestle it back
into its cage where it belonged.
    “Gordon,
shit.  What the hell? Do you have any idea who that was you just left, alone,
like an abandoned prom date? Jesus.” Kyle’s eyes were bright with angry
confusion. Jack was his prize pony, his Master stud, whose prowess was known
far and wide among the circles that cared about such things.
    At
that precise moment, Jack hated Kyle. Hated this whole sick scene. Despised
himself for falling prey to it.
    “No,
I don’t. I don’t care. I’m not…I don’t feel too hot. I gotta go.” He turned
from the man who had become a good friend to him and to Evan, and had been his
friend Rob’s lover, briefly, before that guy had run off to Chicago. What a
convoluted mess. When Rob had told him he was bi-sexual, after his years in
France had opened his eyes to that fact, it felt like one more thing Jack
should have figured out