Velvet Memories (8 page)

Okay, maybe that wasn’t entirely fair. But Trey was about to do a scene with Rob, and for all his big words about how he wanted Rob to find someone else to stalk, now that it was happening there was a big part of Michael that wanted to shove Trey off the stage and spread himself out in his place like some pagan offering.

“Mikey!” His body recognized the voice before his brain did, and Michael found himself standing just in time to catch an armload of softly scented female.

“Hey, Ce.” It was always nice to see Master Dorian’s little sister, though the way Master Brady rampaged around behind her could be downright terrifying. “The bossman hasn’t seen you yet tonight?” He set her down gently on the barstool next to his.

“Apparently not.” Her silver eyes twinkled. “Since I’m still here and all.” She tossed her head, letting what seemed like yards of indigo silk hair slither over her shoulders. “So, who’s the new stud?” She cocked her head toward the stage, and Michael automatically looked in Rob’s direction.

If his voice was a little tighter than usual, it was just because he was worried Brady’d see Celia out here and tear a strip off Michael for sitting with her. It had nothing to do with the fact Rob had laid down a solid coating of wax along Trey’s back, and was using a hollow tube to put little holes at irregular intervals along the submissive’s spine.

“Master Rob,” he answered shortly. When Celia turned her gaze in his direction and raised a raven brow, he added, “We went to high school together.”

“Ah,” she hummed knowingly. “So is he the one who got away, or are you?”

Curse the woman’s amazing flipping intuition.

“It’s not like that, Ce. He’s just here now, and so am I. And I’ve gotta figure out how having him here changes things.” Now both brows were disappearing into her long fringe of bangs, and he hastily added, “If it even changes anything.”

“Michael, did you tell Brady he was a problem for you?” One small, strong hand covered his on the bar. “I can’t believe even the Monster of Metro-Detroit would deliberately allow someone in knowing it would upset you.”

“Don’t worry, Ce,” he hurried to defuse her. God knew, when Celia Jenner got riled up, she was a force to be reckoned with. She might be little, but then Napoleon had been little, too, hadn’t he? “It’s not a problem. Master Brady spoke to me before approving Rob’s membership. It’s fine.”

Before she could comment on how not fine it looked to her, Gregori approached. He was on duty tonight in his capacity as Head of Security rather than here with his Mistress, so he went ahead and towered over Celia, rather than kneeling at her side. Of course, Michael hadn’t ever seen evidence that Celia was a Domina, so perhaps Gregori was just treating her as an equal. Whatever the case, Michael was grateful for the save.

“Good evening,
dushka
.” Gregori’s eyes were a darker gray than Celia’s, but they managed to sparkle with just as much laughter. The big man just didn’t let it show on his face.

“Gregori!” Celia popped off her stool to hug the huge man, dangling for a moment from his neck before dropping back to the floor. “You look amazing! How are you? How’s Meggie? Is she here? I haven’t seen her in ages!” She grinned up at the Russian, then sent a laughing glance in Michael’s direction. “Well, I haven’t seen her since Monday, anyway.”

“My Goddess is well. Better than you will be if I don’t escort you out before Master Brady gets off his phone and looks at the monitors.”

Celia heaved a sigh and rolled her eyes before blowing a kiss toward one of the security cameras located above the bar. Michael could swear he heard Brady’s growl of frustrated anger vibrating through the floor.

After giving him another quick hug, the dark-haired vixen allowed Gregori to escort her down the stairs leading to the second floor, leaving Michael alone with his thoughts and the sight of Rob, who was holding Trey’s buttocks open, blowing a stream of cool breath on the runnels of wax dripping over the firm curves.

Michael cursed under his breath and turned away from the spectacle. He was not jealous. He wouldn’t let himself be. It had just been too long since he’d had a good, complete scene himself.

He’d come. God, Rob had made him come like a fucking freight train. But Michael needed more than an orgasm. He needed to slip firmly into sub-space, to trust his Master to take him there, to care for him when he could no longer think clearly enough to care for himself. He needed to be Dominated, topped; needed it to stay sane.

Trey’s ecstatic cry cut the air, and Michael just had to look. Rob stood to the side, giving the crowd a clear view of the long line of the submissive’s body. Trey’s back was arched, ass high in the air, cock bouncing between his own body and the table surface. Pink streaks decorated the golden skin, and fragments of hardened wax littered the floor around the table.

As the crowd murmured appreciatively, Rob lifted a wide wooden blade and dragged it slowly along the back of Trey’s thigh, removing another curl of dried wax. The submissive moaned and pushed into the touch. Michael almost moaned, too. He could fucking feel the scrape of the dull wooden blade on his own skin.

With a slow smile, Rob spun the blade in his grip, holding it like a paddle. With his free hand he reached below the submissive spread before him, wrapping the man’s dick in what was obviously a rough grip. Trey moaned again and writhed in the Dom’s grip.

Both men seemed totally caught up in their scene. Trey was red-faced and sweating, moaning incoherently and so clearly in sub-space it was almost painful for Michael to watch because he wanted, needed, to be there so badly himself.

Rob’s face was stern, eyes serious and intent and fixed on his submissive’s body. His skin glowed with a slight sheen of sweat between the straps of the harness, and Michael had the urge to lick the salt from his skin.

Then Rob raised his head, gaze nailing Michael to his bar stool, hitting him like a body blow because it was clear in the Dominant’s eyes that his attention was all for Michael. Rob’s tongue swept over his lower lip, and after an eternity he looked away from Michael, turned his focus back on the man he held in his hand. Michael wanted to scream, to rage. He wanted every second of Rob’s attention, dammit to Hell. Damn
him
to Hell.

Then Rob flicked another, lightning fast glance in Michael’s direction and raised the wooden blade like a paddle, and brought it down almost playfully against Trey’s ass. Just that easily Michael was transported back ten years, back to his bedroom, to the sight of Achilles and Patroclus. His cock ached, harder than he could remember it being. He didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes until Trey’s raw cry snapped them open again, just in time to see Rob catch the submissive’s cum in his palm, to slick it up the length of Trey’s velvety, golden back.

Low, appreciative conversation filled the area for a long moment then, when it became clear that the scene was over, that all that was left was for Rob to care for his submissive, DJ Wicked, with his impeccable sense of timing started the music, Linkin Park’s “Waiting for the End” providing a fitting soundtrack as Michael slipped from his stool and made his way out of the room.

The man was making him insane. Something had to give.

*

Rob’s dick was hard
—
after all, Trey was a gorgeous piece of ass, and he fell into sub-space like a rock
—
but it wasn’t aching. At least, it hadn’t been aching. Not until he’d looked up and caught Michael’s eye. Not until he’d smacked Trey’s ass and imagined it was Michael on the table before him.

To his profound disgust, while Rob’s dick wasn’t exactly disinterested when it came to anyone else, it took the heat of those pale blue eyes to bring it to full attention.

He knew he’d made an impression. He’d seen Michael’s eyes go wide and a little glassy when he’d lifted the wide wooden blade. And he was pretty damned sure he’d seen something suspiciously like jealousy in those glowing eyes before the submissive had turned his back
—
dammit
—
and walked out of the bar like it was nothing.

Now Rob was stuck caring for Trey. Okay, stuck wasn’t really the right word. Bringing his submissive down, bringing him or her safely back to reality, had always seemed like a privilege, one Rob embraced. It made him feel every bit as powerful as the scene itself, knowing it was his hands, his voice, keeping his submissive glued together when they couldn’t do so themselves.

So, it wasn’t that he was stuck with Trey. It was that everything in him needed to follow Michael. It wasn’t just that he wanted the man, though God knew he did. It was the way something in that expressionless face told him Michael needed to be brought down gently every bit as much as Trey did. Maybe more.

But that wasn’t how things worked, and for the moment Rob’s job was to take care of the beautiful, golden man lying in front of him. He’d get to Michael, though. No question about it.

Chapter Six

Michael had started thinking of his life as the time before Rob and the time after Rob. It wasn’t a particularly happy contrast.

Every fucking night he worked Rob was lurking. He hadn’t taken on a sub for another scene, though it was clear to everyone at the club Trey would be more than happy to accommodate him. Hell, it was clear that pretty much any of the club subs would be happy to work with him. The idea filled Michael with an uneasy combination of jealousy and yearning that just flat-out pissed him off.

Rob had infiltrated every part of his life, featuring prominently in his dreams and even showing up in his artwork by way of the hint of a green-black eye, or a swirl of gold suggesting a hard, muscular shoulder.

Worse, it felt like Rob had stolen his one release, the freedom to submit at the Club.

Michael was a sexual submissive. Putting himself into the hands of a strong partner he could trust was as necessary to him as breathing. Rob’s presence at the club made it impossible for Michael to give in, though. Just the thought of submitting, of making himself so vulnerable and open, with Rob nearby set a knot at the base of his belly. And the idea of submitting to someone other than Rob was even worse.

He wasn’t about to quit his job, though. This perverse obsession with Rob would fade. Yeah, and if he told himself that enough times, maybe he’d come to believe it.

No, he needed to burn Rob out of his brain and he needed the release of submission. The answer was quite simple. So simple he felt like kicking himself for taking so long to think of it. He volunteered to be a public display submissive. In truth Michael always had enjoyed letting others watch. It helped to build the tension during a scene and take him higher; it gave him the adrenaline rush like nothing else.

And being at the mercy of a series of Doms and Dominas would obliterate any thoughts of Rob from his head like nothing else could.

He was completely nude, adorned with only a black cock ring when he climbed onto the platform before the St. Andrews Cross. The device was set on a vertical turntable which allowed passersby to give a spin and leave him head down at their whim. Coincidentally, that would put his mouth at groin level. He wasn’t complaining.

Of course, the set-up required more than usual precautions. He was joined on the platform by one of the floor managers. Ty had been a fixture at Velvet Ice long before Michael had come to work there, and he imagined she’d be there long after he was gone. If he had to guess, he’d put her in her early forties, but there was a timelessness about the woman that made age incidental. There was also a calm surrounding her, a peace that soaked into his skin, clear down to his bones. He didn’t know if she was a Domina or a submissive. He suspected maybe she was a switch. What he did know was her serene presence was one of the things that made working at Velvet Ice such a rewarding experience for the Club submissives.

Ty tightened the Velcro straps around his wrists and ankles. He felt wonderfully stretched, a small stirring in the base of his balls signaling his growing excitement at what the night was to bring. She moved to the straps securing his biceps to the arms of the cross, then the straps around his thighs. A final strap around his waist ensured his back would be supported if things got strenuous. It would also give him an extra pinch of restraint that tingled in his balls like cayenne pepper on his tongue.

“All set?” she asked as she stepped away from him with a final tug on the straps.

“Always,” he replied with his naughtiest smile.

“You know what to do if things get out of control,” she reminded him, indicating the alarm near one of his hands. He nodded and she walked away.

Music blared announcing the arrival of DJ Wicked, and Michael settled back against the smooth leather-bound cross. It didn’t take long for the third floor to fill up, Doms and subs flooding the area.

Club submissives were bound and presented on spotlighted pedestals around the room. Since it was a public play night, no alcohol would be served
—
that was reserved for nights when the dance floor served its original purpose. Part of safe and sane was being sober, and Michael knew Master Brady would never condone liquor being served when scenes were being enacted. Alcohol or not, the bar area filled up with people ordering from the extensive menu of non-alcoholic drinks.

Anticipation flared in Michael’s stomach as a table was set up next to Michael with various play instruments, and he was itching to discover who would be the first to approach him. He absolutely wasn’t searching the floor for a certain dark head, a certain pair of dark emerald eyes. Absolutely not.