Ice Man Page 2

  Rowan fed on the erotic energy and adoration. However, he never participated in the sex play happening in public rooms, private rooms, or the open fuck fest occurring in the Pit, a large room with few rules and few limits. His habits in the bedroom weren’t for public consumption.

  He couldn’t say the same of his vampire lover. Some looked at Rowan with loathing and contempt. He supposed that was to be expected, considering he was the blood slave to the ancient vampire. It wasn’t a role he accepted easily.

  Rowan didn’t have family. In his early childhood, he’d bounced from foster family to foster family. Adolescence was worse. He’d always known he was gay. His lips curled into a snarl as he took a mental trip down memory lane. Getting caught giving the captain of the high school swim team a blowjob had gotten him kicked out of the last home. He’d taken to the streets and had been there about a year when he’d met a man named Tac.

  Incredibly attractive, obviously wealthy, dressed in all black and screaming sex, he looked good and smelled better. Rowan hadn’t been able to take his eyes off the bulge of his cock encased in black denim. He’d worn a long black coat. That night seven years ago, Tac had offered Rowan a ride in his BMW, had taken him out to dinner then back to his bed.

  Seven years.

  Rowan shook off the maudlin thoughts. Part of him did belong in the club, belonged to the vampires. But that didn’t mean he didn’t want a traditional relationship. A man, not a vampire, to share his life. He glanced at Theron’s private table. He sat with friends, laughing, exuding a sexual aura that attracted men like moths to a fire. They knew him as Tac, the king of kink.

  “You have beautiful eyes.”

  Rowan focused his attention on the man seated in front of him.

  “Ah,” he said. “So you can smile.”

  “What can I get you?” Rowan wiped the counter with a bar towel.

  “A mojito, a private room and an hour with you.”

  Rowan took a tall glass from the stack. “I’m working.” He tossed the rum bottle and caught it above the glass.

  “You’re very good at what you do.”

  “Thanks.”

  The man had piercing blue eyes fringed with thick feathery lashes. He wore a gentleman’s haircut, trimmed close on the sides and a bit longer on top. Gray hairs weaved though the dark hair at his temples. Laugh lines creased the corners of his eyes when he smiled. Sharp angles created an interesting face. Ruggedly handsome, yet his deep voice spoke of refined elegance. A man who could sip champagne and still get dirty.

  Rowan’s cock stirred. The stranger intrigued him. Unlike many of the members of The Catacombs, this man wasn’t blatant in his predilections. Men around them wore leather, PVC or bare oil-slicked skin, chains and collars. This man had on a silk shirt and trousers.

  “I assume this is your first time here.” Rowan knew everyone in the club. That was his job. He’d never seen this man before. He passed a pad of paper and pen to the stranger. “Member number.” So he could put the drink charges to his tab.

  Inside the club, anonymity was a priority. Men could spend an evening, fuck one person or participate in group sex. Or a man could slip into a private room, revel in any fetish and never share his name.

  The man jotted his number on the paper. “Not my first time.” He gathered sweat from the glass on his fingertip. “Though I did recently move to the area.” He didn’t elaborate.

  Rowan focused on the way he traced patterns on the glass. Manicured nails capped long, thick fingers. Sparse dark hair swirled between his knuckles.

  “It’s a bit awkward,” the man said. “We aren’t supposed to ask for names and telling someone you want to fuck them isn’t supposed to be uncomfortable here.” He sipped his drink. His eyes raked over Rowan’s T-shirt-clad chest. An answering warmth rushed into his shaft. His cock jerked. It felt good.

  Men in the club didn’t usually affect him. Perhaps he’d become desensitized to the tempting flesh on display throughout the club or maybe his lack of interest in others stemmed more from the fact that Theron fucked him hard and often.

  “Rowan,” he said without thinking about it too long. He extended his hand and the man enclosed it in the strong, solid warmth of his. Fingers tightened and held for just a moment.

  “Brett Kirsch.” He loosened his grip and they slowly let go. “A pleasure.”

  What the fuck? Rowan’s pulse pounded and blood surged from his brain into his cock. His balls tingled and his skin was electrified. Desire simmered in his gut, turning hot. Sweat trickled down his back. A pleasure for sure. An unexpected one.

  Not that he could do anything about the rush of blood into his shaft or the flash of desire warming his balls. Not without interference. He immediately scanned the area for Theron. The vampire, in the Zenith, would know the dangerous thoughts in Rowan’s head.

  “So we have names.” Brett took a sip of his mojito. Now would they have sex?

  “Your offer is tempting but I don’t fuck in the club.”

  Brett raised an eyebrow and his mouth twisted with mirth. “You don’t find the surroundings arousing?”

  Rowan glanced at the men sipping beers, hooking up, determining who could best fulfill their darker desires. “No.” He snapped his gaze back to Brett. “Not usually.” He paused, took a chance on having his thoughts heard and then spoke. “That doesn’t mean I’m not interested.” Tension tightened his shoulders. “And I’m working.”

  “When do you get off?”

  Rowan smiled.

  “I meant, when do you stop working?”

  Rowan worked at the club every night. His shift started after dark. Normally he stuck around until the crowds thinned but Brett could tempt him away. He leaned forward and whispered, “Would you be interested in getting together outside the club?”

  Brett’s smile faltered. “I wish I could.” He took a hefty swallow of his drink. “I come to the club to avoid outside entanglements.” He pushed the glass forward. “If you change your mind, I’ll be around.”

  There won’t be an after-hours party. Tell him not to go.

  Rowan’s stomach plummeted and his eyes slid closed. Whispered words couldn’t keep his thoughts private—not from the mental link he shared with Theron. Usually he didn’t care. With Theron, he’d held nothing sacred. Tonight he wanted a taste of something he’d never before considered. Chills broke along his arms. “Brett, wait.” His heart pounded.

  Brett turned. Rowan gave himself a lift by stepping onto the shelf behind the counter. In a leap, he lunged up and stood on the surface of the bar. Their eyes locked. He wanted one touch. Perhaps one kiss. He didn’t know how Theron would react but he had to take the risk.

  He stepped across the bar surface then placed his booted foot on the barstool. He jumped to the ground. He moved with determination. Nothing was going to stop him. Not even Theron.

  What makes you think I want to stop you?

  “Some choices are mine to make.”

  Rowan stood nearly the same height as Brett. His tight T-shirt, worn denim and combat boots contrasted the “business hot” Brett wore. He touched his tongue to his lower lip. Nerves sizzled. He didn’t fuck members of the club. Nightly propositions were common. The heat firing through his system and hardening his cock wasn’t.

  “Does this mean you’re on break?” Brett’s smile cut deep dimples into his cheeks.

  “I don’t need a break to kiss you.” He stared at Brett’s mouth. Full lips, sensuous and soft.

  “Then kiss me.” He curled a finger into the waistband of Rowan’s jeans where they rode low on his hips. A gentle tug brought their groins close together.

  Rowan nipped at Brett’s mouth, tempting his lips open with a flick of his tongue. His body felt alive. The man smelled incredible. Cloves and leather. He wrapped his hand around Brett’s nape. The hair at his neck was silken against Rowan’s fingertips and his skin warm. He opened his mouth and thrust his tongue inside. Sweet flavors of mint and rum mingled with the tempting
demands of an aroused man. Brett groaned, grasped Rowan at the hips and crushed their erect cocks together.

  A group near the bar erupted in cheers. “Ice Man. Ice Man. Ice Man.” Ice Man wasn’t just his bar name, it’s how he lived. Rowan bantered and had fun while serving drinks but he had never savored the heady intoxication of a mysterious lover. Until now.

  Rowan banded his arm around Brett and reveled in the play of taut muscles beneath his designer clothes. Shifting his head to the left, he deepened the kiss. He couldn’t taste enough. Erotic swipes of his tongue glided against smooth inner tissues and teeth then dipped in again and sucked. Lips meshed. He hadn’t realized how careful he’d had to be when kissing Theron. Brett didn’t have razor-sharp teeth. He ate at Brett’s mouth, demanding, hungry for more. He rolled his pelvis. Friction warmed his cock as it pulsed behind the fly of his jeans. Yeah, he wanted much, much more.

  Brett grasped his buttocks. “Now do you want to fuck me?” Tongue rubbed tongue, slow then hard thrusts hinting at the intended promise of a night together weaving between them.

  Take him to a private room. I’ll join you there.

  Rowan jerked his mouth away. He flinched, stepping away from Brett as if he’d been burned. “No!”

  A dark shadow fell across Brett’s face. “I wasn’t insisting on anything. And you kissed me.”

  A lump like a boulder lodged in Rowan’s gut. “You don’t understand. It’s not you.”

  Brett focused over Rowan’s right shoulder.

  Prickles tingled along Rowan’s spine. He didn’t have to turn around to know why the atmosphere around them charged with tension. Theron.

  He stepped in close behind Rowan and rested a hand on his shoulder. “I see you’ve found someone to join us.” Good choice. I can smell his musk. He’s hot for you.

  Brett’s gaze shifted between them, recognition dawning. Members of The Catacombs had to go through Tac. To humans, he was a complex, secretive business owner who protected his establishment. He provided gay men a safe location to explore and be accepted in a dark sexual world of kink and fetishes.

  “Rowan, I didn’t realize you were involved.”

  Theron’s grip tightened. Foolish and dangerous. You know better. No names.

  “I’m only involved when my cock is,” Rowan said.

  Theron burst out laughing. “Well, I think your cock could be persuaded.” I’m hard, hungry and need you, now.

  “I’m working.” He glanced over his shoulder. Members crowded around the bar. Two other bartenders handled drinks but without the flair and style he brought to the job. Flair bartending was the only show he gave. The scene playing out between the three of them held several vampires’ rapt attention. Neither sex nor a situation with Theron was going to be the night’s entertainment. Damn it. He knew better than to start what he was unwilling to finish. And he wasn’t willing to play in Tac’s playground. Their connection was personal and private. That vampires knew he was a blood slave was enough.

  “I’m not opposed to joining the two of you.” Brett smiled.

  Will he let me fuck him just so he can fuck you? Interesting. I think we should put it to the test.

  “No.”

  “Ah, no big deal.” But it was and Rowan could see the disappointment in the downturn of Brett’s smile and the shrug of his shoulders.

  Rowan stepped forward and slammed his mouth over Brett’s. He thrust his tongue between his lips in wild possession. Hot, sexy and full of erotic intention. He cupped Brett’s cock and rubbed his palm over the erect length. Damn, the man was thick, long and hard. His mouth watered and his anus clenched.

  You want him. Take him.

  He ignored the voice in his head. “I do want to fuck you. Not here.”

  No.

  Brett ran his fingers over Rowan’s abdominals. Quivers rippled along his flesh. “I wish I could, but I can’t.” He turned his focus to Tac. “Another time, perhaps.”

  Tac grinned. “I certainly hope so.”

  Chapter Two

  Brett raked his fingers through his hair, a common action when he was frustrated. And damn was he frustrated. It wasn’t just because it had been a few years since he’d been in a sex club, it had been a hell of a long time since he’d met a man and wanted to tear off his clothes and fuck in front of a room full of strangers. He’d applied for membership in The Catacombs six months prior. At first, he hadn’t understood what the big deal was. All private clubs required membership. He’d never had to go through background checks and then an interview with the club owner. Now he understood the confidentiality clause he’d signed and the high security. Shit, he doubted the CIA could do a more thorough investigation.

  Which meant that the club owner knew everything about him. Pressure tightened his chest. He knew how he’d fucked up not only his life but also Karen’s and the kids’. His ex-wife was just as culpable. She’d been willing to accept that her husband was gay as long as it didn’t interfere with her social calendar. Hell, she’d been fucking her tennis coach twice a week for years. Brett hadn’t blamed her. The man had a nice ass and impressive bulge in tight white shorts.

  He slipped off his shirt and hung it over the new leather couch. A new matching recliner sat in front of giant sliding glass doors leading out to a small balcony overlooking the city. Going to the kitchen, he grabbed a beer out of the fridge. Everything was new. New condo, newly divorced, new fucking life. He twisted off the lid to the beer. The cool drink slid down his throat. At forty-three, he was finally free to live openly gay and he was still hiding, unwilling to take Rowan’s offer of meeting outside the club.

  Blame didn’t really lie with Karen or the kids. Karen was a thousand miles away in Texas. Both his kids were in college, both in military schools. Daniel was at Texas A&M so he could stay close to his mother. Brett had moved to Denver so he could be closer to Jennifer. She was in her second year at the Air Force Academy. When he and Karen had told them about the divorce, they’d also told them why. He groaned and set his beer on the counter. Why torture himself with bitter memories? That life was his past but he still had an obligation to Karen. Hell. She’d seen to it in the divorce settlement. He leaves the state and I pretend my ex-husband isn’t a fag. Her exact words. After all, her membership in the country club might be revoked.

  Thinking of the country club brought his thoughts back to the bartender at The Catacombs. Not only had he been gorgeous but he’d held the attention of the bar crowd with his bartending style and flair. Flames, juggling, he’d been amazing. Muscles had carved his form. Not big and bulging but tight and corded. Wavy brown hair, tousled and sexy. Blond highlights lent a good-boy image to his bad-boy attitude. Fringe curled around his collar and the sides had been finger-combed behind his ears. A hidden strength simmered beneath the surface. Long lashes, green eyes—eyes that kept secrets and hinted at mischief—and an expressive mouth. Dark whiskers had shadowed his jaw and grown thicker around his lips and on his chin. Not a clean-cut goatee but a sexy-as-hell face.

  Brett’s pulse kicked up a notch and blood rushed into his shaft. He brokered multi-million-dollar business deals. Had clients all over the world. He made decisions and played hardball with ruthless tycoons. Yet a man like Rowan could take him to his knees. Fire sparked behind his eyes.

  Brett wasn’t stupid. Obviously Rowan was involved with the owner of the club, Tac. Why did that thought arouse him further? Maybe because he could imagine the two of them together. Both strong, virile men—a film of sweat glistening on Rowan’s washboard ads. He pictured him with his head thrown back, pleasure straining his face and Tac sucking his long, erect cock. Size wasn’t a problem. He’d felt his heavy tool pressing against his groin during the kiss they shared.

  He opened the fly of his trousers and released his swollen cock. Ropey veins infused with blood lined the length. He wrapped his fist around the base and squeezed. Pearly liquid seeped from the slit.

  He leaned against the counter and stroked the hot, velvety flesh over
his solid erection. Felt good. Damn good. His balls tingled and pulsed, drawing closer to his body. Closing his eyes, he pictured the way Rowan had leapt onto the counter. Raw power and determination, he exuded sexual energy.

  Loosening his grip, he stroked faster. Intense flares of pleasure streaked through his cock. Muscles in his arms bunched. Faster. He clenched his teeth and hissed. “Oh yeah, fuck yeah.” He teetered on the cusp of orgasm. If he hadn’t been fearful of acting on his desires, he could be pushing his dick past Rowan’s luscious lips and thrusting into his wicked mouth.

  He spun toward the sink as hot cream spurted from his cock. Each pulsing jet convulsed through him. He jerked hard, squeezing his base and waves of pleasure rolled over him. His mind numbed as endorphins surged through his body.

  Gasping for breath, he sagged against the counter. His weakened knees buckled. He’d come but fucking his fist wasn’t going to quench his thirst for a man. Rowan. Sparks of interest had flared between them. He wanted to see if he could fan the flames. The bartender was young, hot, and if Brett read him correctly, he was barely containing his need.

  Turning on the tap, he rinsed his semen down the drain, washed his hands and headed for bed. A staircase led to the second-floor-bedroom loft. The bedside clock glowed the ungodly hour. He crossed to the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows. Controls on the wall adjusted the amount of light filtering through the glass. Blinds contained within the panes could be adjusted to blacken the room. The sun would be up in a couple of hours. Brett pushed down the lever. Blinds pivoted, blocking out the Denver skyline and plunging the room into darkness.

  He stripped out of his trousers. Using the glowing numbers of the clock as a guide, he crossed the sparsely decorated room and sank onto the king-sized mattress.