Chapter 10
Landen
The view from the balcony at The Knot was designed to be both panoramic and intimate.
It overlooked the main lounge like a private box at the opera, the low railing of dark polished walnut the only barrier between observer and scene.
The air up here was cooler, laced with the club's ventilation, carrying up from below the layered notes of sandalwood and leather and warm bodies.
Landen stood at the railing, one hand resting loosely on the wood. In his other hand a glass of bourbon hung from his fingers, forgotten. Shoulders relaxed, weight balanced on one hip. To anyone glancing up, he would have appeared engrossed. A connoisseur appreciating the craft on display.
He was not appreciating anything.
Below, in a pool of golden chandelier light, a scene was unfolding.
The submissive was a man in his thirties, lean and well-muscled, bound in an elegant harness of black leather that traced the lines of his chest and cinched at his waist. He knelt with his head bowed, his back a long, graceful curve, hands clasped behind him.
The harness cut into his skin just slightly, leaving red marks that would deepen as the scene progressed.
His breathing was visible; a steady rise and fall against the restraints, each exhale carrying a soft anticipatory sound.
His Dominant stood beside him, a woman in her forties with silver threading her dark hair and an expression of focused calm.
Her hand moved unhurriedly over his back, tracing the lines of the harness, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath.
Then she raised the whip, a single-tailed implement of dark leather, the fall narrow, and brought it down across his shoulders.
Thwack-crack.
The sound was sharp, cutting through the lounge's noise.
The submissive's body responded immediately; a full-body flinch that melted into a shiver, then a low guttural moan that spoke not of pain but of pleasure, of welcome, of a body that knew exactly what it was being given.
His skin bloomed pink where the fall had landed, a single stripe across his shoulder blades.
She waited. Let the sensation settle. Then she raised the whip again.
Thwack-crack.
Lower this time, across the small of his back. His spine arched into it, seeking more, and the sound he made was louder now; raw, open, carrying through the lounge. His hands clenched and released. His bare thighs trembled with the effort of staying still.
It was a good scene. The kind Landen had watched a hundred times, had conducted just as many, had built his understanding of desire around.
The Dominatrix paused after the third strike, her hand coming up to cup the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair.
She leaned down and murmured something against his ear, and the submissive sagged into her touch; a visible release of tension, a trust so complete it was almost painful to witness.
Then she stepped back. Raised the whip again.
Thwack-crack. Thwack-crack. Thwack-crack.
Each strike landed true, building a pattern of pink and red across his back.
His skin flushed deeper with every impact, marks overlapping, heat visible even from this distance.
His moans had become a steady rhythm now, punctuated by the crack of the whip, his body pushing back into each blow like he couldn't get enough.
Landen watched it and felt nothing.
Not the familiar stir of appreciation he might have felt months ago.
Not the dull hollow absence of recent weeks.
Tonight the nothing was different. Sharp.
Impatient. Edged with something that had been building since he'd stood at the door of that wine bar and leaned in too close and known, with the particular clarity that four bourbons and Adriel's upturned face could bring, that he was in far deeper than he'd been willing to admit.
He watched the woman's hand rise and fall, watched the submissive's body writhe and surrender, and all he could think about was the way Adriel's lips had parted. The way his breath had gone shallow.
He lifted the bourbon. Put it back down.
He'd come here tonight with the expectation that it would settle him, ground him, return him to himself.
He'd taken a willing submissive through a scene that should have emptied his mind of everything but the present.
The boy had been beautiful. Landen had gone through every motion, delivered every strike, taken his release.
And through all of it, his mind had been elsewhere.
Now he stood at this railing thinking about the way Adriel had looked at him tonight. Close enough to feel his breath. About to do something profoundly unwise before Felix pulled him away.
He was furious about it. Not the wanting, he'd made a kind of uneasy peace with the wanting, but the fury. The specific, directionless anger of a man who has no claim on something and resents that fact with an intensity entirely disproportionate to the situation.
He had no claim on Adriel. Adriel was his employee. Twenty-four years old and soft and bruised in ways Landen was only beginning to understand, and absolutely no business being the focus of what Landen was currently feeling.
Below, the scene was reaching its peak. The woman had set aside the whip and was working the submissive's bound body with her hands; stroking, slapping, gripping the flushed skin of his ass with enough force to leave fingerprints.
His cries were ragged, desperate, his hips rocking forward into nothing, seeking something he couldn't reach.
He still felt nothing.
A presence materialized at his shoulder. Silent as a shadow.
Gael leaned against the railing, mirroring his posture, his gaze directed at the scene below. For a long moment neither of them spoke. The woman's hand connected with the man's ass again, a sharp, wet slap that made him cry out, and the sound drifted up to them, swallowed by the ambient noise.
"You've been quiet lately," Gael said.
"Have I?"
Gael ignored the tone.
"You're usually a pain in the ass. So yes."
Landen said nothing. He knew what Gael meant; the needling, the dry commentary, the particular energy he brought to a room. He had none of it tonight. He'd had none of it for weeks, but tonight was worse. Tonight he felt like a wire pulled too tight, humming with something that had no outlet.
"I feel off."
Gael turned. The light caught the sharp planes of his face, the dark assessing eyes that had always seen more than Landen wanted them to.
"Off how?"
Landen looked down at the glass. He'd been rolling it between his palms without realizing. The condensation was cold against his skin.
"Off," he said. Then, because Gael would wait him out forever if necessary: "Irritable. Distracted." A pause. "Possessive about something that isn't mine."
He hadn't meant to say that last part.
Gael went very still beside him.
"Possessive," he repeated. Careful.
Landen's jaw tightened. He stared at the scene below; the woman now easing the submissive onto his back, her hands gentle on his overheated skin, the aftercare beginning.
"There's someone," he said. Flat. "At work. And before you say anything…"
"I haven't said anything."
"You were about to."
Gael said nothing. Which was somehow worse.
"It's a problem."
"Clearly."
"I was with him tonight. At the work event. I'd had too much and I was standing too close and I…" He stopped. Pressed his mouth into a line. "I almost did something stupid."
"But you didn't."
"No." A pause. "We were interrupted."
The fury was back, quiet and specific.
"How did you know?" His voice came out rougher than he intended.
Gael blinked. "Know what?"
"With Samuel." Landen kept his eyes on the room below. "How did you know it was different?"
Gael was quiet for a long moment. The scene below was winding down, the submissive now curled against his Dominant's side, her arm around him, his face pressed into her shoulder.
"I just knew," Gael said finally. "Even before I was willing to admit it.
" A faint, humorless curve of his mouth.
"I spent a long time explaining it away.
Telling myself it was inconvenient. Inappropriate.
That it would pass." He exhaled. "But he was the only thing I could think about.
All the time. In every room. In the middle of scenes. No matter what I was doing."
Landen said nothing.
He didn't need to.
Because that was it. That was the damning truth of it, sitting in Gael's words like a mirror. The office, his home, the Knot, the play room; it didn't matter where he was or what he was doing. Adriel was always there.
He picked up the bourbon. Drank. Put it down.
"You made it work," Landen said. "With Samuel."
"Barely." Quieter now. "But yes."
Landen nodded once. Below, the woman was helping the submissive to his feet, guiding him toward the quiet rooms. The marks on his back were vivid, beautiful, a work of art.
He thought about Adriel's skin. About what it would look like marked. About the sounds he might make, the way his body would move, the trust it would require.
He put the thought down.
"Right," he said.
Gael looked at him.
"Right," Landen said again, quieter. To himself, mostly.