Casey
Belladonna Mansion
Virginia Beach Oceanfront
It wasn’t by sight or sound, but something more—a sense that had been imprinted on him the night they’d met. Like a magnet finding its other half, he knew Galan had crossed the threshold.
He was so nervous he was almost sick, but he talked himself down as he checked his appearance one last time in the mirror.
He’d been preparing all day—well, preparing was too small a word—he’d rehearsed it like a performance he couldn’t afford to fuck up.
He’d taken three milk baths, chosen a soap and lotion he hoped reflected his gentle refinement rather than desperation, pressed his shirt three times, and checked the mirror so often it felt like punishment.
If Galan walked away tonight, Casey knew he’d crumble.
Thorn had given him the notes from his interview he’d had with Galan, but he had told Casey that he was still considering the contract and to give him some time to think it over.
In Casey’s mind, that had translated into getting dressed in his best clothes and stalking Galan at the BDSM club he sometimes visited on the weekends.
He’d only wanted to show the gorgeous Sir, who was waiting none too patiently for him.
Casey checked his condo one last time from top to bottom, yet his restless hands still returned to the carefully arranged spread of gourmet cheeses, crackers, and a platter of ripe fruit on the coffee table.
Every detail was chosen because they were Galan’s favorites.
He’d studied that interview tape like scripture, memorizing every detail, from Galan’s favorite food and drink to his stress triggers.
He wanted to create a night for Galan that felt like a sanctuary, and he’d built it with his bare hands.
Most of the lights in his condo were turned off except for the dim recessed lighting over his mahogany baby grand piano. Everywhere else was lit with candles.
The flames flickered low and soft, painting the room in gold.
Galan had mentioned in Thorn’s interview that he got a lot of headaches from work stress. Well, Casey knew how to care for that.
He sat on the piano bench and lifted the lid.
He took special note that his Sir was a big classical music lover and had taken a few classes on the subject while studying for his medical degree.
Casey gazed out at the serenity of the dark ocean, letting it seep into his mind and out through his fingers. It’d been years since he’d played the complex notes of one of Mendelssohn’s emotional ballads, but as he closed his eyes and began to stroke the keys, it all came back to him.
Composing was a talent Casey had possessed since grade school. He’d joined the orchestra in fifth grade and music had been a part of his life ever since.
But this wasn’t just a ballad—it was a prayer disguised as music.
When Galan heard him playing it, Casey hoped he would hear the plea beneath it… choose me, Sir.
The shadows bent and swayed to the song, shrouding the space in peace and intimacy. He wanted Galan to walk in and feel it immediately—that this was not just a mansion, it was the safe haven for his heart…it was him .
Galan
Galan gravitated toward the melancholy chords of Songs Without Words , Mendelssohn’s most romantic ballad.
He followed the sound farther down the hallway—each keystroke striking a tender place inside him.
The music wasn’t simply being played. Each note carried the weight of suffering, the pianist dragging out the harmonies as if reluctant to let them go, grounding them with a bass so heavy it pulsed with longing.
It was the sound of a soul confessing through melody.
Is that coming from Casey’s room?
Galan stood in front of the door at the end of the hall, his hand shaking as he let out a slow breath.
Just stay calm.
Every part of him wanted to bolt as his hand trembled on Casey’s door. Yet something in the chords being played tugged harder than his fear.
The music paused long enough for him to hear the gentle voice on the other side of the door. “Please come in, Sir.”
He hadn’t even knocked.
The moment Galan stepped across the threshold, the sea claimed his gaze first—an infinite sweep of black and silver beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Then he saw him , Casey, shoulders bowed over the polished piano, his lithe frame bent in quiet surrender to the song.
Galan had walked in with muted expectations in hopes of avoiding disappointment, but now he stood frozen in wonder. Not much stirred him anymore—but this sight left him breathless.
The room had been lit with candles that smelled like lavender and something mossy.
He crossed the shiny flooring in the foyer, passing an antique console table with framed photos of Casey on his left.
He slowed and lingered at a foyer table that looked like a gallery of Casey’s life.
One frame in particular made his breath hitch.
It was a framed photo of Casey in New York, standing proudly before a Broadway marquee, a violin gripped in one hand, a playbill in the other, his smile shy but triumphant. The billboard above him blazed the title of a Broadway show.
My god.
There was more of his boy on grand stages, playing in some of the world’s most prominent orchestras.
Another box to check off the many things Casey did that surprised and pleased him.
Galan’s mouth watered as his gaze moved over Casey’s ass and legs clad in black leather pants and his bare feet on the pedals of the piano.
Everything he saw as he moved through the space told him a bit more about the man serenading him. It was clear Casey loved and had studied music. Galan ran his hand over a music stand full of handwritten sheet music.
Casey didn’t miss a note as Galan stood marveling at the water, his nervousness long gone as heat enveloped him like a shroud. It was the most comfort he’d felt in a long time.
He was enjoying the kind of ambiance he might find at a spa, not a boy’s home.
Galan closed his eyes and lost himself in the bluesy melody.
He’d been enjoying it so much he didn’t notice when Casey had stopped playing and was standing silently behind him.
He was a few inches shorter than him, almost the perfect height for his own six-one.
Casey wore a white silk shirt with a single button fastened at his navel, enticing him with a sneak peek of smooth ivory skin across his flat stomach.
He had his hands clasped behind his back, his chin almost resting on his chest, waiting to be acknowledged.
Galan allowed the silence to settle around them, wanting to see if Casey was going to fidget or grow impatient, but to Galan’s surprise, he was still, his slim chest rising and falling in slow, rhythmic breaths.
Another check.
He was probably feeling more than he should have at this point, but there was something about Casey, Thorn, and this whole place that made him think it was safe to do so.
If these gentlemen were running some kind of con game, then they deserved Oscars for their performances.
Galan was almost afraid of how his voice would sound when he began to speak. He gently clasped Casey’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilted his head up so he was staring into those powder-blue eyes.
He needed to be sure Casey was telling him the truth.
“I have some questions for you. And I want a one-word answer, yes or no, followed by a Sir,” Galan explained. “Do you understand me?”
Casey blinked all innocent and pretty at him, his cheeks warming as his gaze roamed Galan’s face.
He licked his pink lips and whispered, “Yes, Sir.”
Galan tightened his jaw to keep from moaning as intense pleasure clawed up his spine.
“Did Thorn Blackwell tell you about me before I saw you at the club Friday night?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Did he send you there?”
“No, Sir.” Casey’s breathing quickened as soft gusts of air drifted against his goatee.
“Are you in any kind of intimate relationship with Thorn?”
God, I hope not.
“No, Sir.”
He stared into Casey’s eyes, stunned by his beauty, his voice caught in his throat. He disguised his silence as contemplation. He cleared his throat before he rumbled, “Thank you for being honest.”
Galan was happy with those answers and decided to pause the interrogation for now.
He knew a lying sub when faced with one, and Casey was telling the truth.
But this was still a very unorthodox way of meeting a new guy.
And if he signed Thorn’s contract, Casey would be the one to help him through his disappointment of being played by love.
“Do you have a question you want to ask me?” he encouraged while smoothing his hand over Casey’s chin to his flushed cheeks.
Casey’s breathing stuttered as he nestled deeper into his touch, his eyelids appearing heavier.
Galan wanted to give him more contact, press his body against him, take some of that comfort for himself, but none of this was about him.
That was the difference between a poser and a real Sir. It was always about the sub’s pleasure.
“No, Sir. I don’t have a question, but I do have a request.”
He liked the way Casey’s silky voice made him feel. How it made heat pool in his groin.
“Mmm, yes,” was all he managed.
Casey took a bold step forward, his needy gaze unwavering, “May I put my arms around you and lay my head on your chest, Sir?”
Holy-fucking-hell.
Where had Casey been all his life? Someone sweet, selflessly submissive, and cultured, but most of all, someone who would reciprocate his affection. Or at a minimum, appreciate it.
Galan unbuttoned his suit jacket as Casey’s lustful gaze roamed over his chest. He shrugged it off his shoulders, never breaking eye contact, and draped it over the piano.
Casey wet his lips when he unfastened the first three buttons of his dress shirt and eliminated the last inches of space between them. He placed his hands on Casey’s shoulders before moving them up his long neck.
“Put your arms around me, sweet boy.”
Casey’s eyes shone with unguarded emotion as he wrapped his arms around Galan’s waist and squeezed him so tight and close he almost forgot to breathe.
He fit against him like the perfect piece of a puzzle. Casey pressed his cheek against his chest, whimpering softly as he rubbed his face over his pecs.
Galan returned the intensity, letting Casey know he felt it too.
Galan was solid and throbbing in his thin pants, and he could feel that Casey was in the same predicament, but he didn’t feel the need to do anything about it…yet.
Galan rested his chin on top of Casey’s head, inhaling the scent of vanilla while he stared out at the ocean.
He didn’t know how long they stayed wrapped in each other’s arms. Time seemed to slow in this place, and Casey didn’t appear to be close to letting him go anytime soon.
They had powerful chemistry. There was no denying that. Galan couldn’t hold in his satisfied groan as blunt fingertips dug into the muscles in his back.
Casey took a deep inhale as he began to tremble against him.
“Just a few more minutes, Sir. Please,” he begged.
Galan’s heart thudded.
After being discarded as if he were nothing, to be wanted this desperately was almost too much.
No boy had ever clung to him this way. Casey wasn’t acting out of duty or performance. This was pure need.
Every Sir had his reward. For Galan, it wasn’t the obedience, the “Yes, Sir,” or the kneeling. It was this: his boy shaking in his arms, asking nothing more than to rest his cheek against his chest.
Thank you.
Galan was thanking every higher power there was that Belladonna was already working.
Now all he needed was Thorn to tell him where to sign.