Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
JAMIE
TWELVE HOURS EARLIER
As the taxi gets close to Gold Coast, Jordi informs us that he’s been here before. That confirms my suspicion that he wanted us to go to this particular bar so he can hook up with a leather daddy he met a few weeks prior. I don’t say anything, though, because I want him to keep my secret.
Jordi claimed shotgun, and he turns his head toward the three of us crammed into the back seat and continues like a tour guide. “Don’t be too intimidated by the smokin’ hot leather daddies inside.”
It’s not like I’m going to hook up with one.
I roll my eyes at him even though he probably can’t see them in the dark.
“I should have stayed with the girls,” Clark snippily says, since the guy he hooked up with at The Limelight decided not to come along with us. But I bet once he steps foot into the bar and sees the men, he’ll stop complaining.
When the taxi pulls up to the bar, we peer out the windows and see a few men in body harnesses and leather pants and vests hanging outside the club.
I’m wearing what Jillian calls my “Miami Vice” outfit: high-waisted trousers, an electric blue silk shirt, and a jacket with wide, padded shoulders, and suddenly I feel overdressed.
My stomach starts flip-flopping around, and I try to calm myself, running my fingers through my hair—only to remember that I had a haircut yesterday.
Instead of the long, Jon Bon Jovi-style I’ve worn for a couple of years, I now have a short mullet, the new style worn by Rob Lowe in the movie St. Elmo’s Fire.
“Are you coming?” Jordi chides me, since by now, I’m the only one still inside the cab.
I gulp and slide out of the vehicle. The building is unassuming, but I’m sure that says nothing about the people inside the bar.
As my quick-getaway vehicle speeds off, I stand beside Dean, who’s silent, his mouth hanging open in shock.
I gently elbow him to get his attention. “Are you okay?” I ask in a whisper.
His eyes slide to me and then back to the two men kissing—no, not kissing, they are mauling each other like it’s the only way they can breathe.
“I want that,” Dean says in awe.
Okay. So, his mouth was not open in shock—it was envy.
“Who doesn’t,” Clark says, echoing my quiet thought.
Called it—he’s not complaining anymore.
“Come on. My dick needs attention,” Jordi announces as he takes the lead and enters the bar first, while I bring up the rear of our group.
The moment I step inside, the aromas of smoke, alcohol and leather hit my nostrils while my eyes feast on the men. All kinds of men, dressed in all kinds of different leather gear, and all fantabulous to look at.
I try to tamp down the hunger coursing through my veins, but it’s getting ridiculously difficult.
The volume from this many voices isn’t as loud as I would expect, but it’s still above the usual bar din.
All the same, talking isn’t what captures my attention.
There are muffled whimpers and grunts coming from the back end of the bar, but I’m just short enough that I can’t see past the men in front of me.
I decide I’m not going to worry about those noises until I can get back there to see for myself who is making them and why.
Granted, I’m not stupid. I may have never been to a leather bar or participated in kink play—yet, but thanks to Drummer I’m familiar with some of what happens.
Especially the way some leather men are a part of the BDSM community.
I don’t quite get the kink, but I’m all in with the way leather doms handle their partners.
Especially one. My mind goes straight back to my fantasies of Mitch Thomas, last year’s International Mr. Leather winner.
The moment I saw his spread in Drummer, and the more recent write-up of him in Gay Chicago Magazine, I made a promise to myself that one day I’d meet him.
I also read somewhere that he’s a Dom, which amps up his sexy-as-fuck factor.
Clark grabs my arm, pulling me out of my head. “Are you okay?”
I nod and smile. “Yeah,” I breathe.
On the left side of the room is the bar, and men are crowded in front of the black countertop. Almost in unison, their heads swivel our way and Clark, Dean and I pause. Being fresh meat is slightly unnerving.
Jordi being Jordi, he’s acting like this place is his second home, walking up to the bar and calling out to José, one of the bartenders.
José is wearing a harness, and I can see his pecs and biceps flex as he leans in, wraps a hand around the back of Jordi’s neck and pulls my friend in for a hard kiss.
Jordi pulls back, and a wide grin spreads across his face before my bestie orders us a round of shots.
Some of the men at the bar shuffle over, giving us room to approach the bar. We each grab a shot and Jordi gives a toast. “We’re here, we’re queer and we’re fan-tab-u-lous.”
I roll my eyes but stay quiet. We each down our shot of tequila.
I was already buzzing from the few drinks I had at The Limelight, so taking this shot only heightens my buzz. The alcohol does its job and loosens me up enough to relax. It also incites my need to piss.
I tug on Jordi’s arm. “Where’s the bathroom?”
He points toward the back of the bar before returns his attention to José.
Clark leans in. “Want me to come?”
I shake my head. “No. I’ll be fine.”
As I slowly make my way through the bar, I can’t help noticing that beautiful men—most of them with phenomenal mustaches, are giving me appraising looks. And I look right back, because of their impressive facial hair.
Stashes do it for me—that’s one of the things I’ve obsessed over when I look at the pictures of Mitch. He has a mustache worthy of Tom Selleck. And that these mustachioed men are leering at me like I’m a dessert they want to eat? If I had the balls to let loose my fantasy, I’d let them eat me up.
When I finally make it to the back, I freeze on the spot. No way did I expect to see a naked man gagged, bound to a makeshift cross, and being whipped with a flogger. Now I understand the sounds I heard when I first walked in.
I stare at the bound-up man, secretly wishing that one day I’d have the guts to try it myself. I don’t see horror or fear on his features. No. What I’m witnessing is pleasure—utter euphoric desire on his damp, reddened face.
Shivers ripple through me, one after another, as I stand there and watch the fully-clad leather daddy giving what this man needs. Sounds funny to say, but there’s no other way to explain it.
Then the leather daddy stops his flogging, turns my way and stares at me with such intensity that I have to look away. But not before I get a solid look at him—and his mustache, and realize that he is the leather daddy I’ve been obsessing about in my dreams.
There’s no way I’m looking at Mitch Thomas. Can this really be him?
As soon as I grasp that this is the same man, I also realize that I’m being intrusive by gawking at him. I drop my eyes and swallow down the apology that catches in my throat.
However, the absolute need to stare at Mitch again has me raising my gaze to meet his blue one, which is so intense that I take a step back.
“Do you have a problem?” His voice is gruff—grittier than what I assumed it would be.
“Umm…” Stupid.
“Umm? Use your words, boy,” he demands.
“You… You are—I mean, you are Mitch…”
“Do I know you?” he growls, his eyes narrowing into pinpoints, the flogger in his hand as still as an unmoving pendulum, ready to strike if I say the wrong thing.
I swallow hard. “No, but I know you.”
“Who do you think I am?”
“You’re Mitch Thomas, last year’s winner of International Mr. Leather.”
“So?” He sounds so incredulous that his one-word response feels like a slap across my face. I don’t hesitate, just turn and take off toward the bathroom. And still, I can’t help but look back one last time, while Mitch’s gorgeous face is marked by a deep frown.