Chapter 27 #2
Every rational thought had dissolved. The club, the people, the rules; they were a distant blur.
There was only the taste of Gael, the faint sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, and a building, desperate need for more.
For the barrier of clothing to vanish, for his palms to meet the warmth of Gael’s skin, to feel the shift of muscle and the proof of life beneath his hands.
He was adrift in sensation, sure he would dissolve into sparks if they didn’t get closer, if this aching distance wasn’t closed.
A soft, deliberate clearing of a throat cut through the haze.
Gael went still. His mouth left Samuel’s, but he didn’t pull away. He turned his head just enough, his body a solid wall between Samuel and the source of the interruption. Sam could feel the tension that flooded into him, a swift, invisible hardening of every muscle.
He peered over Gael’s shoulder.
Two men stood there. One was Landen, the blonde man from before, his usual smirk present but tempered by something more observant. His blue eyes flicked from Gael’s protective stance to Samuel’s flushed, kiss-swollen lips, and his eyebrows lifted a fraction.
The other man was a stranger. He was older, perhaps in his late forties, with hair the color of iron and a face that seemed carved from stone.
He was impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit with no tie, his posture radiating a quiet, unassailable authority.
His gaze, cool, grey, and analytical, went to Samuel immediately.
It traveled from his disheveled hair, down his heated neck, over the rumpled front of his shirt, and then back to his face.
Samuel felt a flush of heat that had nothing to do with desire. He wanted to disappear. Instinctively, he shuffled closer, pressing his side more firmly into Gael’s, seeking the shelter of his body. He dropped his eyes to the polished toe of Gael’s shoe, feeling exposed and strangely evaluated.
“Wise,” the older man said. His voice was as cool and even as his gaze. “Charles said you were here. With a guest.” He didn’t phrase it as a question.
“Sebastian,” Gael replied. His own voice was flat, giving nothing away, but Samuel, pressed against him, could feel the rigid line of his spine. “Landen.”
The pleasantries that followed were brittle, a thin veneer over a silent tension Samuel couldn’t fully decipher.
He kept his head down, listening to the low murmur of their voices.
He heard Sebastian ask a question about a club board matter.
Gael’s answer was curt. Landen made a light comment that hung in the air, unanswered.
The older man’s eyes kept returning to Samuel, a weight he could feel without looking up.
The urge to flee became a physical pressure in his chest. Not to run away, not truly, but to escape that piercing, judgmental scrutiny. He needed air. He needed a moment where he wasn’t being silently measured by Gael’s formidable, unreadable friends.
He lifted on his toes, his lips brushing the shell of Gael’s ear. The scent of his skin, the faint citrus of his soap, was a familiar anchor. “I’m thirsty,” he whispered, the words barely audible. “Can I go to the bar, get some water?”
Gael’s head turned slightly. He looked down at Samuel, his dark eyes searching his face.
After a moment that stretched too long, Gael gave a single, slow nod. His arm loosened its hold, but before Samuel could step back, Gael dipped his head. His lips brushed the very corner of Samuel’s mouth; a touch so soft it was almost a breath.
A fresh wave of heat bloomed on Samuel’s skin, this one sweeter, private.
A small, involuntary smile touched his lips as he met Gael’s eyes for a fleeting second.
Then he turned, feeling the weight of three different gazes on his back as he walked away from the alcove, heading toward the soft glow of the bar.
He reached the bar, a long sweep of polished mahogany under soft, pendant lights. The bartender, a woman with a serene expression, nodded as he approached. "Just water, please," he said, his voice a little unsteady.
The glass appeared, beaded with condensation. He wrapped his fingers around it, the cold a shock to his heated skin. He took a slow sip, then let his gaze drift back across the room.
The alcove where Gael stood with Landen and the older man, Sebastian, was partially obscured by other patrons, but the tableau was clear enough.
Gael's posture was rigid, his shoulders a straight, unyielding line.
Even from this distance, Samuel could see the tight clench of his jaw, the way he held himself perfectly still.
Landen was talking, his smile wide and easy, his hands moving in animated gestures that seemed out of place in the club.
He looked delighted, as if he'd been told a particularly juicy secret.
Sebastian stood slightly apart, a silent, watchful statue. One iron-grey eyebrow was arched, his head tilted as he regarded Gael with an expression of cool inquiry. He said nothing, but his mere presence seemed to ask a question Gael wasn't answering.
Gael's lips moved, his response to Landen short and sharp. Samuel couldn't hear the words, but he saw Landen's grin falter for a second before it returned, wider. Landen said something else, shrugging his shoulders in an exaggerated motion. Gael’s head snapped toward him, a swift, predatory movement. The shift in Gael’s attention was so immediate, so visceral, that Landen’s hands came up, palms out, in a gesture of theatrical surrender.
The smile stayed on Landen’s face, but it looked thinner now, more careful.
Samuel watched, fascinated and uneasy. He was so absorbed in decoding the silent power play across the room that he didn’t notice the space beside him at the bar fill.
A presence materialized at his elbow, close enough that Samuel felt the displacement of air, the subtle warmth of a larger body. He turned, and his gaze landed on a chest clad in a simple, tight black t-shirt stretched over what seemed like a wall of muscle. He had to tilt his head back.
The man looking down at him was huge. Not just tall, but broad, with the solid, dense build of a professional athlete or a dedicated weightlifter.
His dark hair was cropped short, his jaw square and clean-shaven.
His eyes were a startling, bright green, and they were currently fixed on Samuel with open appreciation.
He was, objectively, stunningly handsome.
“Hello there, beauty,” the man said. His voice was a warm, pleasant rumble.
“I haven’t seen you around. First time?” He smiled, a genuinely kind smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
“It can be overwhelming. The Knot has a lot of… energy. If you ever want to talk to someone who’s been around the block, get the lay of the land…
” His hand came up in a light touch on Samuel’s forearm. His fingers were thick, his touch firm.
Samuel’s stomach twisted.
It wasn’t fear, exactly. The man was being polite. Friendly. But the touch felt wrong. His throat closed. He wanted to pull his arm back, to step away, to say no, thank you, but his vocal cords seemed frozen. He just stared, his mouth slightly open, trapped.
He didn’t see Gael move.
One second the man’s green eyes were smiling down at him, the next they were looking past him, widening slightly.
A solid arm banded around Samuel’s waist, pulling him back a step.
Gael’s body inserted itself between them.
Samuel was tucked against Gael’s side, the soft wool of his sweater against Samuel’s cheek.
Gael’s voice, when it came, was low. “He’s spoken for.”
Samuel’s eyes were wide. He looked up, but could only see the hard line of Gael’s profile from his position, sheltered against him.
His face was set in lines of pure, fierce intensity.
His gaze was locked on the larger man, and there was no friendliness in it, no civility.
It was a glare of raw possession, a silent warning that vibrated in the air between them.
It was the most openly aggressive Samuel had ever seen him.
The flip in his stomach this time was entirely different. It was a lurch, a dizzying swoop of heat and something primal.
The big man’s friendly smile had vanished.
He looked from Gael’s face to Samuel, tucked against him, and then back to Gael.
He gave a single, slow nod, his hands coming up in a placating gesture not unlike Landen’s had been.
“My apologies,” he said, his voice still calm, but now carefully neutral. “No offense intended.”
Gael didn’t acknowledge the apology. He didn’t say another word.
His arm tightened around Samuel’s waist, and he turned, guiding him firmly away from the bar, his steps purposeful and direct, cutting a path through the lounge toward the archway that led to the exit. There was no discussion, no pause.
Samuel went without a sound, without a glance back. He let himself be led, the solid heat of Gael beside him the only thing that felt real in the suddenly too-bright, too-watchful room.
∞∞∞
Gael
The drive home was tense. Gael’s hands gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles standing out white and sharp against the dark leather. He stared straight ahead at the rain-slicked streets, but he wasn’t seeing the traffic lights or the blur of neon signs.
Every time he blinked, the image was there, branded on the backs of his eyelids: the Dom, that mountain of a man, standing too close. His green eyes fixed on Samuel with a bold, appreciative hunger. His large hand, coming to rest on Samuel’s arm.
A hot, corrosive feeling churned in his gut, tightening his chest. It was a primitive, snarling thing, utterly foreign to his mind. He had reacted on pure, unthinking instinct.