Matthew imagined himself in Kid’s place, ashamed the image was so arousing, so crushingly right, but Matthew had tears in his eyes because he knew it was wrong. It was wrong to listen to Olivia’s voice. It was wrong to listen to Kid’s misery. It was wrong. Wrong. Wrong!
Matthew came. Hard. His come spraying him across his chest, burning against the scored skin, and even that, was glorious. He panted loudly, alone in the dark, listening to Olivia’s voice. His other hand, the one not covered in come, reached for the recorder and switched it off.
In the end, it didn’t even matter. He was getting hard again. It had been a while since he’d allowed himself to come and his dick wasn’t going to be happy with a quick jerk-off session. He refused to listen to the tape again though. He refused.
He jolted out of bed and into the shower to rinse off. There was a club. There was always a club. And no matter how Matthew tried not to seek them out, he always did. He was constantly aware of where he could go to find what his subconscious demanded of him.
Out of the shower, he quickly dressed in a pair of jeans and button-up shirt. Nothing black, nothing that would suggest he was dominant. He hated when eager subs sat down next to him, thinking he’d love nothing better than to put them over his knee. He always sent them away in tears, ashamed he couldn’t give them what they wanted. He’d tried. He’d tried to be that guy. It always ended badly.
Chapter Eleven
Day 10:
Matthew woke up sore. Everything hurt. Slowly, he bent his head forward and grunted when pain shot down the back of his neck and settled in between his shoulders. He went limp and fell onto the mattress again. This was going to be more difficult than he thought.
With each passing second, more of his consciousness was regained and soon his heart picked up a frantic rhythm. He’d gone out last night.
“Matthew? Is that you?”
Matthew groaned. No. No, no, no, nooooo. He pressed his face hard into the bed beneath him. He noticed his dick was hard. It wasn’t just morning wood, either. He was remembering.
He was startled to hear a familiar voice. Her voice. “Fuck!” he grumbled under his breath. How could he handle this? How could he explain?
Anyone else! Anyone else would have been fine. No, it’d been her sitting next to him when he finally had the courage to turn on his barstool.
Her red hair was worn loose; soft waves cascaded down her back. She wore a white shirt wrapped around her waist and tied at the back. Her cleavage peeked out a little, just enough to make a man curious, but not enough to expose what she was hiding beneath her tight shirt. A black leather skirt at mid thigh and metal studded heels completed the ensemble.
Matthew’s face was hot all over again, his cheeks colored with his embarrassment. Especially when he recalled the way he’d tried to explain his presence.
“I needed a drink.”
“Oh, I understand that, believe me. I don’t drink when I play, though,” she said casually.
Matthew had wondered how the fuck she could be so casual. He’d wondered all night actually. He knew most people thought he was cold, efficient and detached, but he had nothing on her. She’d wrecked all of his carefully constructed control and she’d done it without losing any of her cool.
“I’m not here to play. I just needed a drink,” he said. His ears felt hot and he knew it would be spreading to his face and neck any minute. He wanted to leave, but she blocked his exit and stayed there, eyeing him with suspicion.
“And you just ended up here? Forgive me, Matthew, but that’s doubtful.” She arched a red brow.
“I’m…. I’m…,” he started to say.
“No need to be shy, Matthew. I mean, I’m here too, right? The only real question is: Who are you looking for?”
Matthew’s hips rolled and he felt the burn of his muscles protesting against the action. He’d be surprised if he could sit today.
“I’m not looking for anyone. I just –”
“Lying? Really? Of all the things I thought you might be, a liar didn’t really cross my mind,” she said.
“Fuck what you thought,” he countered and slammed his whiskey neat. He stood to leave, but Sloan blocked his path, trapping him between her body and the stool. She smelled sweet, like green apples. It certainly wasn’t the kind of thing one expected. Not in a fetish club.
Knowing it would hurt, he braced himself and reached back to touch his ass with his fingers. Yes: there were raised welts all over his butt. He traced them with the tip of his finger, marveling at the fact there was a perfect handprint where her slender, whip-like fingers had landed. He’d always wondered if the brilliant Dr. Janice Sloan would psycho analyze during sex. Now he knew the answer.