Chapter 1

Three years and Stefan’s yet to find that

certain someone who can take him to the precipice of lust, dangle

him over the abyss, and shove him headlong into the darkness of his

own desire. Someone who drives him to the edge but won’t let him

fall. Someone he can trust completely, body and soul, someone he

can lose himself in. When a local gay bar called the Code hosts a

fetish night, Stefan goes looking to be conquered.

August in Richmond is sweltering—even at

quarter to midnight, the air is sticky like a wet rag and the

humidity takes Stefan’s breath away. He settles for a black latex

vest, no undershirt, and a pair of bright blue latex boy-shorts so

tight Daisy Duke would be jealous. The shorts make his buttocks

look like two round rubber balls, high and tight, and the outline

of his cock bulges along the top of his upper left thigh. The vest,

tapering to twin points just above his narrow waist, accentuates

both assets.

But when he enters the bar, he’s just one

more body in the crowded sea that undulates over the dance floor.

Music pounds around him like the surf, washing him up to the bar

with the rest of the driftwood. He orders a White Russian, his

first mistake. Then he eases onto a vacant stool, his second. Just

to wait for the drink, he reasons, but sitting at the bar in a

place like this is social suicide. After his next Russian, Stefan

stops trying to make eye contact with anyone other than the

bartender. By his third, he thinks this party is a bust.

He stays, if only because the night is young

and the drinks are cheap. Between refills he swivels around on the

stool, leans back against the bar, and surveys the room around him.

In the dim lighting, the bodies meld into one, a primordial animal

that gyrates obscenely in time to the music as if masturbating to

the beat. The thought turns Stefan on. He has to slide down a

little to ease the chafe in his shorts—his dick tries to swell

beneath the latex but the shorts won’t give an inch, and the

restriction only makes him harder. He shifts his package a bit,

rearranges the goods, until the swollen tip of his cock ends

dangerously close to the bottom hem of the shorts. As he presses

against the stiff length, his eyes slip shut at the sweet ache that

blossoms in him. And no one to share it with, he thinks.

As he turns back for his drink, a shadow

detaches itself from the dance floor, heading his way. When Stefan

spares a glance over one shoulder, the stranger takes that as an

invitation and sidles up next to him at the bar. The guy is a few

years older than Stefan, early forties at the most, with long blond

hair tied back from his face with a thin leather strap at the nape

of his neck. The arm closest to Stefan bulges with strength, the

skin rough and ruddy from long exposure to the sun. Raising his

glass, Stefan gives the stranger a drunken grin and has to shout

over the crowd to be heard. “Hey.”

A hand falls to Stefan’s thigh, large fingers

clamping down on the erection that strains his shorts. Blunt

fingertips trace the length and the latex warms beneath the touch.

When the guy looks at him, Stefan’s lower lip is caught between his

teeth to bite back a half-muffled gasp that manages to escape

anyway. The stranger has eyes like diamonds, so pale they’re almost

clear, rimmed with black kohl that gives him a deadly look, and the

set of his jaw imbues him with a wrath worthy of any young god.

“Please,” Stefan sobs. He wants to give himself up to this man,

with his white mesh tank top and his black rubber pants. The

fingers on his dick make it hard to remember a time before their

touch. Struggling not to appear too eager and failing miserably,

Stefan wants to know, “Where?”

The guy doesn’t answer. Far away in another

world, the bartender sets another White Russian in front of Stefan,

with a tall shot of amber whiskey to accompany it. The stranger

knocks back the whiskey, never dropping his gaze from Stefan’s. He

holds Stefan prisoner in those crystal eyes, pins him to the stool

like a captured moth. The hand on Stefan’s thigh inches higher, the

latex rolling up beneath it, until the tip of his dick dampens the

stranger’s palm. With one hand Stefan grabs on to the bar to hold

himself steady; with the other, he dares to touch the stranger’s

muscled forearm and feels the tendons stand out beneath his

fingers.