Heads turned. Eyes traveled over my bare chest, the cuffs on my wrists, and my obvious bulge. I felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the lack of clothing. They could see my hunger. My need. The way I trembled.
A womanin a corset caught my eye and smiled knowingly. A man at the bar raised his glass in what might have been appreciation or amusement. I kept my gaze forward, focused on the broad expanse of Kiernan’s shoulders, as he guided us over to Callen, who waited by the bar.
There were two cushions on the floor beside the leather armchair where Kiernan sat—positions clearly intended for us.
He settled his hand on my shoulder. “Kneel, then rest on your heels.”
I sank down, and the position drove the massager impossibly deeper.
The pressure was constant now, unrelenting. There was no readjusting, no way to escape it.
“Kiernan.” Callen looked at us with obvious appreciation. “I see you’ve been busy.”
“They’re learning.”
Ophelia knelt beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touched. Her breathing was uneven. When I glanced at her, the flush spread down her chest, and her thighs pressed together as if she could create friction through sheer force of will.
People stoppedto speak with him. Club members I didn’t recognize, faces I couldn’t focus on because my attention was consumed by the massager’s relentless stimulation.
“Lovely pair,” someone commented. “Yours?”
“Mine,” Kiernan confirmed, his fingers tightening on my shoulder.
Mine.I was his.
“How long have you been training them?”
“Not long. They’re naturals.”
A woman crouched down to my eye level. Her perfume was heavy, floral. She studied my face with an appraiser’s gaze.
“He’s beautiful when he’s desperate,” she said to Kiernan. “Those eyes. Like he’s about to break.”
I was. I was going to shatter. I couldn’t take much more of this—the pressure, the need, the humiliation of kneeling here while people discussed me like I was an object to be evaluated.
“He’s stronger than he knows.”
His touch was claiming and steadying, as he squeezed my shoulder, then stroked my hair. I leaned into it without meaning to, starving for any contact, any anchor.
More people came and went. Conversations happened above me that I couldn’t follow. Time lost all meaning. There was only the burn in my knees, the throb of my cock, and Kiernan’s hand in my hair—the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.
When he finally rose,I was close to tears.
“Come, I have one more thing planned before we leave.” Kiernan led us down to the observation level, but instead of stopping at the windows, he opened a door and motioned us inside. The room beyond was small and intimate, with a bed draped in dark silk, soft lighting, and a large mirror on the same wall as the door.
“This is a performance suite,” Kiernan explained. “The glass is two-way. They can see everything. We can’t see them.”
The mirror reflected the bed, the three of us, and my flushed and desperate face. Behind it, anyone could be watching—or no one at all.
“Color?” Kiernan looked between us.
“Green, sir,” Ophelia said.
“Also green.”
“Good.” He looked at me. “On the bed. Oliver, on your back.”
I obeyed, so hard I hurt.
