Galan
The Kingdom BDSM Club
Norfolk, VA
The thunderous voice carried before he’d even settled onto the last stool at the bar, tucked away in the shadows where he’d hoped to stay invisible.
It was the owner, Ben Jacobs, but everybody called him Big Ben on account of the fact that he was almost six-five.
Leather draped across his towering frame, a peaked biker hat sitting ridiculously on his head, grin oily as ever. He looked like a caricature.
Motherfucker. Not tonight.
Galan wasn’t in the mood for this guy. It’d taken everything in him to even show his face in the club tonight, so the last thing he wanted was an audience or some random-ass chitchat. Especially with this poser. A fake Sir who possessed the title but not the heart.
Galan had been into dominance his entire adult life…and maybe a smidge before then, so he knew a real Dom when he met one.
Just because this prick had received enough of an inheritance to buy a club and stitch his name into genuine rawhide didn’t make him a fucking Sir.
That was a title that had to be earned, and this jackass couldn’t keep a boy long enough to get him off, not to mention know the difference between power and affection.
“I heard about what that slut did to you,” Ben snarled, plopping his thick ass onto the stool beside him.
The words hit like a slap. Galan clenched both fists on top of the bar to keep from wrapping his hands around Ben’s throat.
“Running off with another bastard…leaving you like—”
“I’m good,” Galan bit out, trying to dismiss Ben without being an outright dick.
He flagged down one of the bartenders, ignoring the burn of Ben’s stare.
“What can I get you, sir?” The server was pretty, too pretty, his smoky gaze lingering far too low down his chest, where the top three buttons of his white silk shirt were undone.
The ogling was intrusive, and he’d done nothing to invite it.
“Eyes up here, boy,” he rumbled before he softened the sting with a wink.
The blush blooming across the server’s cheeks was charming—but nothing stirred in Galan. Not anymore.
“I’ll have a Walker Platinum. Neat,” he ordered.
He’d had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before somebody brought up his long-term sub, Micah, who’d terminated Galan’s contract, without notice, in the most pride-crushing way—by email. Three cold paragraphs that accused him of not being a “ true Dom.”
As if dominance was measured by how loudly he barked commands or how many toys he shoved up his boy’s ass.
Galan knew what kind of Sir he was and always would be. He refused to change.
He’d always cherish his boy. Reward generously, love hard. He believed in a devotion that nurtured, not consumed. He desired a boy, not a servant, to be the love of his life, his diamond, and the rewards would come back tenfold.
He’d encouraged Micah to have his own interests and independence, and it’d backfired.
Now, Galan was here, saving face, while men like Ben strutted around calling themselves Master.
“You know my rule, brother. Two-drink maximum if you’re going to play,” Ben grunted. “The action is—”
“I’m not interested.”
Galan would never play in a club.
He was into light Sir/boy relationship roles in his daily life. He only came to the club to observe and enjoy the atmosphere. He went for the ambiance and sense of community, not to score, and not to put on a show.
He’d been a VIP member for years, and The Kingdom used to be his safe place. Until he’d made the unfortunate mistake of bringing Micah there.
Galan found out the hard way that it could cost a man his treasure when he showed it off.
“You’re an uncontracted Dom, Galan. You need to find one of these tight asses shaking around here to sink your meat into and forget your troubles. Besides, I can see you’re still the most wanted Sir in town.”
He heard the jealousy in Ben’s tone, but Galan wasn’t surprised when the sweet bartender gave him a double shot of the top-shelf whiskey instead of a single.
Galan ignored him, tossed back his whiskey, and gestured for another.
“Whoa, big guy”—Ben clamped his heavy hand on Galan’s shoulder—“take it easy. It can’t be that bad.”
And how the fuck would you know?
Galan jerked away from the unwanted touch, and Ben dropped the offending arm back to his side.
The waiter set Galan’s second drink in front of him, but didn’t linger.
There were a lot of men—Sirs and boys—vying to get Galan’s attention, but he wasn’t interested. All he saw were the faces of men who would take advantage of the kind of man he was.
He needed to leave.
“You’ve always been one of our biggest donors, Galan. So I’m not going to do to you what I would’ve done to anyone else who tried that shit and toss them out the front door on their ass.”
“I’m sure you won’t,” Galan replied coldly. “Not when I’m paying five thousand a month in membership fees and contributions.”
Ben’s Adam’s apple bobbed before he lurched away from his seat. He looked angry enough to put his hands on Galan, but he must’ve thought better of it.
“It’s no wonder a diamond like Micah voided his contract with you. Your boy looks happy now—on his knees for someone who knows what to do with him,” Ben added before he left.
Galan shook his head.
His ex had posted pictures all over his social media pages of his so-called upgraded life with his new Dom.
The laugh that tore from his throat was cynical and bitter.
He’d thought he was saving face by coming out tonight. That he could silence the whispers and prove he wasn’t at home pining, but his demeanor and posture said it all.
He was lonely. Angry. Reeling.
“Sir, I think it’s an absolute pity you have no willing boy on your lap.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered under his breath as he lifted his gaze to the half-naked five-foot beauty who was already working his way between Galan’s thighs without permission.
The club lights dimmed and the music shifted from soft rock to a dramatic instrumental that sounded as if it should’ve been played during the credits of a Stephen King movie.
“Oooh, we’re in luck. Master Lorenzo is about to do a knotting demonstration with his sub.” The talking sex-on-a-stick lowered his eyes and pressed his palm against the bulge tenting his silver boy-shorts. “Would you like a seat closer to the stage to watch? And maybe some company at your feet?”
Galan didn’t flinch. He didn’t care if the boy was gorgeous, forwardness had never enticed him.
He preferred reverence, devotion, not this grasping for attention.
Galan’s expression was the same it’d been for weeks—emotionless.
“No, thank you.”
“No?” the boy teased, already sinking lower, lips wet, knees bending. “Then perhaps another drink.”
“I said no, boy.”
Now that the club was dark and everyone was focused on the demonstration on stage, it was the perfect time to pay for his tab and escape through the side exit.
“But I insist, Sir. I can be amazing company. I assure you.”
The boy—who still hadn’t introduced himself properly—was almost to the floor.
“You’ll go down on your knees so easily?” The angelic voice cut through the music. Smooth yet dripping disdain. “Have you no class, Shiloh?”
The bartender smiled wistfully at whoever was standing over his shoulder.
The boy between his legs froze.
Galan turned to see who was speaking and almost swallowed his tongue.
“Casey,” Shiloh said through clenched teeth, “so nice of you to join us.”
Apparently, this man was well-known.
He was dressed in a collared black linen shirt with one button fastened in the center, giving Galan a taunting peek of a smooth, flat stomach. His chocolate-brown leather pants hugged his slim legs in all the right places, and before Galan knew it, he was gazing down at him in appreciation.
But it wasn’t the outfit that gripped Galan—it was his presence.
The way Casey swept the room as if he owned it. The way he stood with four men flanking him, each carrying themselves like they knew exactly who they were.
“‘ Joining us’ would imply that you and the Sir were having a mutually enjoyable conversation. That doesn’t appear to be the case.”
Damn, this guy has balls. And who talks like that?
The man had a no-nonsense set to his smooth jaw, his authoritative presence the only hard thing about him. Everything else—his compact frame, that sexy platinum-blond hair, and those pink bow lips—were all soft curves.
“I was just telling the Sir how nice it is to see him back in the club.”
“And now that you have, enjoy the rest of your evening, Shiloh.”
Casey raised a confident brow and motioned with his head in the opposite direction, indicating Shiloh should be on his fucking way—now.
The irritation was evident, but Shiloh obeyed and backed away from the bar, taking his overpowering cologne and cheap advances with him.
A round of applause kept everyone’s attention on the masterful display of roping being performed on stage, but Galan was gazing at something far more spectacular.
Casey stared at him for three full seconds before he slowly lowered his lashes over pale-blue eyes, laced his fingers behind his back, and rested his gaze on Galan’s throat.
The boy smelled of powder and sugar, soft, sweet, and clean—delicate. But there was steel beneath that silk. And it called to him.
Galan groaned under his breath as something inside him shifted.
He hadn’t seen Casey in The Kingdom before tonight, though he appeared to be well-known…and respected.
Two of the men who stood behind Casey wore collars—meaning they were contracted by another Dom—and to Galan’s surprise, the other two, including their leader , were not.
“Enjoy your evening, Sir.”
Before Galan could gather himself and ask Casey to join him, he’d already turned on the heels of his brown snakeskin boots and walked away with his entourage following.
Heads turned and men tried to get their attention when they passed, but they never broke formation.
Galan rubbed his hand over his full beard, baffled at how fast his heart was racing. Need and desire sputtered back to life as pleasure pooled in his groin.
“Compliments of the gentlemen.”
Galan blinked, surprised to find that one of Casey’s friends had doubled back and was extending an embossed black card toward him.
There was an oceanfront address, date and time printed on the back and a single word written in shimmering gold script on the front.
Belladonna