He was reaching for the door when Landen appeared at his elbow.
"Hey. When did you get here? Didn't see you come in."
Low. Familiar. Close enough that Adriel could feel the warmth of him in the cool air near the entrance. He glanced up.
Of course you didn't. Why would you?
"Hello." Steady.Good. "Yeah, I came a while ago." A pause. "And now I'm leaving."
Landen looked at him for a moment.
That look. The specific one. The one Adriel couldn't interpret and couldn't stop craving; the one that had haunted him since the night the world had narrowed to just the two of them and the space between their mouths.
"Stay a bit longer. It's still early." He leaned closer as he said it. Just a fraction. Just enough to make the space between them shrink, to make Adriel acutely aware of every inch separating their bodies.
So close. Adriel could feel his breath, warm and faint. Could see the exact shade of his eyes in the low light, the pupils widened, the way he was looking at Adriel like…
"I…"
The word died in his throat.
His eyes connected with Landen's and just like that he was back in the office. Landen was looking at him just like he had that night, and Adriel was frozen. Stuck in the gravity of it. Unable to breathe.
Landen's gaze dropped to his mouth.
Just a flicker. But Adriel saw it, felt it, the way you felt the moment before lightning strikes. The air between them thickened. Became something you could almost touch.
"Hey, man! You gotta hear what Margo just told me!"
A hand landed on Landen's shoulder, long, elegant fingers gripping the fabric, and Adriel looked up to find Felix there, huge smile, already pulling Landen away, chattering as they moved back into the room. The noise of the bar rushed in to fill the silence he left behind.
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.
