but hadn’t.
He
sighed. Kyle put a firm, and very large hand on his arm. “I am not in the mood.
I won’t be any good for anyone.” He kept his gaze trained on the still closed
elevator doors.
“Relax.
It’s fine. Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply you had to do anything you didn’t want
to.”
“Oh,
I want to.” Jack turned around fast, anger licking at the edges of his brain.
“I want to toss her sweet ass up on a cross and spank her, hard, use wax on her
too…I want to make her scream my goddamned name and beg me to fuck her. Then I
want her to suck my cock with those amazing red lips so hard I see stars.” He
tucked his hands in his pockets, not even sure why he’d said all that. Now that
he’d stated it, he wanted it even more.
Kyle
leaned back, raised an eyebrow and stared at him. The guy was nearly six foot
ten and three hundred pounds of powerful muscle. With a light brown complexion,
odd, reddish–brown, tightly-curled hair and gray eyes. He’d always been a
specimen on the gridiron. Now, covered in bespoke dark navy silk and wool,
Egyptian cotton with three-thousand-dollar leather shoes and sporting a watch
that cost twice as much as Jack’s own, he was the epitome of success.
As
owner of the Midwest destination BDSM club, a bi-sexual man, he was
lonely at times he claimed, but content. Jack looked up at the ceiling, tried
to calm his twanging nerve endings. Kyle stayed quiet, waiting for him to
speak.
“Sorry,”
he muttered, finally, blowing out a breath. Something about the man’s silence
made him relax.
“Jack,
you know I understand how you feel, right? I mean, when we met I ID’d you right
away as a Dom and as the kind who has to use it as an outlet to stay sane. I’m
the same way. It took me nearly twenty years to come to terms with it. But if
you need a break, I get that too. This whole thing,” he held up a hand,
indicating the expensive carpets, huge bouquets of fresh flowers, original
artwork and the soft music, “can be overwhelming after a while. It’s why I go
away for a month every year.” He dropped his arm and mirrored Jack’s stance by
putting his hands in his trouser pockets. “You’ve been coming here nonstop for,
what? Nearly three years now? And not a single one of these women has intrigued
you enough to see them again? To go out on a date, have a cup of coffee?
Anything? That worries me.”
Jack
scoffed, opened his mouth to tell Kyle he had plenty of coffee dates and every
other kind of date for that matter and not to worry about him. Then he stopped,
the words frozen on his lips.
He
had… nothing. And he knew it. A shit ton of money in the bank, a showplace of a
house he’d renovated with his own hands, a job he loved, his father’s
construction company humming along, and yet…. Gulping, he started to turn back
around, to escape the hard reality his friend had just tossed in his face.
His
ears burned and his body still thrummed with that old annoying, restless
energy. And the fear, that he would open himself up to emotion and get
bitch-slapped by it once again.
“Wait,”
Kyle said. “Let’s go sit and talk. I’ll break out the Pappy Van Winkle. You
don’t have to do anything else but have a drink, and relax. We’ll let all the
others be on stage for a change tonight.”
Jack
squared his shoulders, faced his friend, and nodded. Kyle Summerlin was just as
“in demand” as Jack himself, and with both sexes, which gave him more options,
Jack supposed. He, himself, had never once been inclined, not even tempted to
do anything with a guy other than that once when he and Rob had been higher
than kites and some girl wanted them to kiss. He’d done it, but it meant
nothing, and it had turned her on so much well… it had been worth the
weirdness.
Even
when Rob came out to him when he got back from cooking school, it hadn’t
mattered. These men were his friends and always would be. He was never more
grateful than he was for Kyle, sensing his need to
He
sighed. Kyle put a firm, and very large hand on his arm. “I am not in the mood.
I won’t be any good for anyone.” He kept his gaze trained on the still closed
elevator doors.
“Relax.
It’s fine. Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply you had to do anything you didn’t want
to.”
“Oh,
I want to.” Jack turned around fast, anger licking at the edges of his brain.
“I want to toss her sweet ass up on a cross and spank her, hard, use wax on her
too…I want to make her scream my goddamned name and beg me to fuck her. Then I
want her to suck my cock with those amazing red lips so hard I see stars.” He
tucked his hands in his pockets, not even sure why he’d said all that. Now that
he’d stated it, he wanted it even more.
Kyle
leaned back, raised an eyebrow and stared at him. The guy was nearly six foot
ten and three hundred pounds of powerful muscle. With a light brown complexion,
odd, reddish–brown, tightly-curled hair and gray eyes. He’d always been a
specimen on the gridiron. Now, covered in bespoke dark navy silk and wool,
Egyptian cotton with three-thousand-dollar leather shoes and sporting a watch
that cost twice as much as Jack’s own, he was the epitome of success.
As
owner of the Midwest destination BDSM club, a bi-sexual man, he was
lonely at times he claimed, but content. Jack looked up at the ceiling, tried
to calm his twanging nerve endings. Kyle stayed quiet, waiting for him to
speak.
“Sorry,”
he muttered, finally, blowing out a breath. Something about the man’s silence
made him relax.
“Jack,
you know I understand how you feel, right? I mean, when we met I ID’d you right
away as a Dom and as the kind who has to use it as an outlet to stay sane. I’m
the same way. It took me nearly twenty years to come to terms with it. But if
you need a break, I get that too. This whole thing,” he held up a hand,
indicating the expensive carpets, huge bouquets of fresh flowers, original
artwork and the soft music, “can be overwhelming after a while. It’s why I go
away for a month every year.” He dropped his arm and mirrored Jack’s stance by
putting his hands in his trouser pockets. “You’ve been coming here nonstop for,
what? Nearly three years now? And not a single one of these women has intrigued
you enough to see them again? To go out on a date, have a cup of coffee?
Anything? That worries me.”
Jack
scoffed, opened his mouth to tell Kyle he had plenty of coffee dates and every
other kind of date for that matter and not to worry about him. Then he stopped,
the words frozen on his lips.
He
had… nothing. And he knew it. A shit ton of money in the bank, a showplace of a
house he’d renovated with his own hands, a job he loved, his father’s
construction company humming along, and yet…. Gulping, he started to turn back
around, to escape the hard reality his friend had just tossed in his face.
His
ears burned and his body still thrummed with that old annoying, restless
energy. And the fear, that he would open himself up to emotion and get
bitch-slapped by it once again.
“Wait,”
Kyle said. “Let’s go sit and talk. I’ll break out the Pappy Van Winkle. You
don’t have to do anything else but have a drink, and relax. We’ll let all the
others be on stage for a change tonight.”
Jack
squared his shoulders, faced his friend, and nodded. Kyle Summerlin was just as
“in demand” as Jack himself, and with both sexes, which gave him more options,
Jack supposed. He, himself, had never once been inclined, not even tempted to
do anything with a guy other than that once when he and Rob had been higher
than kites and some girl wanted them to kiss. He’d done it, but it meant
nothing, and it had turned her on so much well… it had been worth the
weirdness.
Even
when Rob came out to him when he got back from cooking school, it hadn’t
mattered. These men were his friends and always would be. He was never more
grateful than he was for Kyle, sensing his need to
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