Theo let out a breath. “Well.” He shut his notebook with a snap. “Technically? Brilliant. The breath control, the ornamentation—yes, some of the runs were excessive, but he knows his instrument. My concern is the drama.” He frowned.“He arrives in leather and lip gloss, sings Britney like Puccini, and then dares us not to roll our eyes. That kind of energy could throw the group dynamic off balance.”
Max’s grin spread slow and wicked. “Or it couldmakethe group. Comeon. He swaggered in, bratty as hell, and then he delivered. That’s not chaos. That’s a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.”
Theo arched his brows. “You’re forgetting the flicker. The second he stopped performing, you saw it too. The gloss cracked. Underneath all that attitude is someone terrified of being left behind. Drama like thatneverstays offstage.”
Max tilted his head, his eyes glittering. “Which is why it worksonstage. Audiences eat it up. Brats are irresistible. They push, they tease, theydareyou to break them. Andhecan. He’s not just a singer, he’s a spark plug.” He locked gazes with Theo. “Tell me you didn’t feel it.”
Theo exhaled slowly, tapping his pen against the table. “Oh, I felt it all right. But sparks can burn down a house if we don’t contain them.”
Max leaned back, satisfied. “Then let him set a few fires. I’ll bring the extinguisher.”
Theo gave him a flat look. “This isn’t your dungeon, Max.”
“Maybe not.” Max smirked. “But Julian? He’s the kind of brat who makes an audience beg for the encore. We’d be fools to say no.”
Theo hesitated, then finally nodded. “All right. But he stays on a short leash.”
Max’s grin sharpened. “You know he’ll just pull against it, right?”
Theo rubbed his temples. “That’s exactly what worries me.”
Chapter Six
The first thingMax Rivers had noticed when he stepped into Obsidian was the bassline. It was low and steady, thrumming through the bones of the club like a second pulse. The air smelled of polished leather and anticipation, sweat and spunk. The throb of the bassline was accompanied by the sounds of play: cries, moans, gasps, whimpers, thethudof a paddle impacting against flesh, thecrackof a whip or a flogger as it sliced through the air…
Max scanned the room. He wasn’t there to hunt or cruise, or even to connect.
He was there to contain.
Obsidian wasn’t a place for chance encounters. Every scene was negotiated, every desire catalogued. Max liked that about the place.
Precision mattered.
Boundaries mattered.
A flogger slapped against skin somewhere to his left, the sound clean but muted, shooting straight down Max’s spine, forcing a memory to the surface. A smaller room.
Jordan bent forward, his shoulders trembling.
More, he’d whispered.I need more.
Max shook it off, his jaw set. That was then.
This was now.
He turned his attention to the guy waiting on the cross, his eyes already soft with anticipation. Negotiation had been clean: impact, breath play, aftercare. The rules were clear.
No honorifics. No Sir. No emotional entanglement.
Chains rattled as Max lifted them into place. The sound was innocuous here, a familiar background noise. But in his head, it echoed too closely.
You’re not my Dom. You’re my jailer.
He steadied himself. His voice, when it came, was calm, commanding. “Breathe for me.”
The guy obeyed instantly, his chest rising, his lips parting with a sigh, the sound of obedience and surrender. For a moment, Max was fully present, guiding the rhythm, shaping the scene.
Precision.
