Chapter 1

His feet planted wide apart, and his arms crossed in front of his chest, Ethan Stephenson watched Kevin bind his submissive to the St. Andrew’s Cross. Although Ethan wasn’t interested in women, the scene did something for him. Trust, vulnerability, and sensuality were ingredients in most BDSM scenes. When life partners played, there was something extra to the scene Ethan couldn’t describe. He could only just admire—and want for himself. With people like Kevin and Kimberly, who’d been through trauma and wore physical and invisible scars, this something extra was even more profound.

Kevin moved away to retrieve a heavy flogger from his bag and Kimberly tracked her Dom with her gaze. Ethan liked how attuned she was to Kevin and how her love and trust was evident in her submissive and relaxed posture.

Ethan had witnessed those eyes clouded with fear and pain after he helped rescue her from her deranged ex. Now her expression was steady, sure, and filled with love for her man.

Beneath Ethan’s folded arms, something twisted in his chest. Years of practicing self-control kept his facial muscles in check and his expression impassive as he continued watching the scene.

Kevin pressed against her body from behind and encircled her with his arms. Ethan wondered if they were aware of anything besides each other. Her head turned to the side, giving Kevin access to kiss, nibble, and nip at the sensitive spot. Kimberly moaned in pleasure and Kevin whispered something Ethan couldn’t hear.

When Kevin moved away from his submissive, he caught Ethan’s eye. With a curt nod, Ethan stepped forward. Kimberly’s expressive eyes were glued to them.

Ethan held her gaze and waited for Kimberly to exhale and relax.

As soon as she did, he closed the distance. "Hey, doll." Ethan tipped her chin up and brushed soft lips over her mouth in a friendly, non-sexual way. “Are you sure about this?”

She chuckled.

Chuckled! The little brat!

"Yes, Master Ethan. I trust you and I trust my Sir."

He shifted his weight. “Safeword?”

"Red to stop, yellow to slow."

"Very good." He pressed another kiss to her lips, then walked away.

Off to the side, Kevin was watching with avid attention. Their gazes locked, and Ethan searched his friend’s expression for doubts or regrets and found none.

Good enough!

Accepting his three-foot snake whip from Kevin, he rotated his shoulders and cricked his neck. Circling the whip about his head, Ethan focused on the weight and balance of the snake. He was excellent in wielding it, but so much depended on this. Kimberly had been used and abused, she’d learned the damage an implement in incapable hands could do, and now it was Ethan’s turn to show her how it could bring her to the edge of pain and ultimate surrender where subspace was to be found.

He cracked the lash, noticed her flinch, and almost dropped the implement.

We shouldn’t do this. We…

Kimberly sighed and rested her cheek against the cross. Her body language was the epitome of trust and submission. If she was strong enough, so should he be.

In a whisper of a touch, Ethan let the fall dance over her back. He paused. She didn’t utter a word, didn’t even moan.

All right.

Getting into the rhythm from Don’t You Know from Jaymes Young, Ethan lightly danced the whip up and down her back and upper legs, avoiding her spine and kidneys and slightly increasing the sting on her buttocks. The light pink of her back increased to a deeper sunburn-like shade, and Ethan stopped.

Kevin moved forward and touched her face. Ethan was standing close enough to hear their words.

"How are you doing, Curls?"

"Great, Sir," she affirmed. Ethan grinned when Kevin leisurely played with her breasts, enjoying the man’s half-lidded eyes, his expression of lust, and the deliciously outline of his hard cock beneath his pants.

"You can handle a little bit more, Kimberly,” Kevin stated firmly, “And you will take it— but not for me or for Ethan. This is for you.”

"Oh god.” Kimberly’s eyes were soft and glazed over. “I love you."

Kevin’s laugh cracked with an emotion that slithered over Ethan’s spine like a lover’s caress. "I love you too, Curls." He claimed her lips in a deep carnal kiss.

Behind his fly, Ethan’s dick swelled and throbbed.

Kevin stepped back and gave Ethan a firm nod.

Ethan cracked the whip, pulled back, and let the thong swerve back to woosh and thud against her back. Backing off a little, he let the fall flick against her skin. Finely attuned to the two other people in the scene, Ethan alternated between softer, brushing strokes, increasing the intensity, and letting up again, until Kevin moved forward in his peripheral vision. Breathing heavily, Ethan halted the sway of the whip and stroked sweat from his forehead.

“Eyes on me,” Kevin told his sub. “You did it, Curls. I’m so proud of you." Strong, tattooed arms surrounded her, and Ethan made quick work of the bindings.

Kevin turned her around, so she faced Ethan, who curled his hands around her face. "You have pleased me very much,” he murmured into her ear. "Thank you for your trust."

Kimberly blinked. She reached for his hands and pressed kisses to the knuckles. “Thank you, Master Ethan, for granting my wish.”

Surprised at her forward, but sweet behavior, Ethan allowed a grin to break free from his normally stoic expression. “It was entirely my pleasure.” He nodded respectfully at Kevin, before sauntering away and disappearing in the crowd. His body felt strangely buoyant, a peculiar levity overtaking him as his genuine joy for his friends mingled with an undercurrent of envy. They were so perfectly matched, having weathered countless storms to find solace in each other's arms. Ethan's heart ached with a longing for a similar connection, but with his working hours and personality a bond like that seemed out of his reach.

His eyes roved over the crowd, searching without intent at first. The room was a kaleidoscope of eager faces and shifting bodies, many of them women whose glances lingered on him with an intensity that spoke of more than casual interest. Ethan's reputation as a master of the whips and canes had earned him many admirers, but tonight he wasn’t looking for a pain slut. He needed a distraction, sex, and something—or someone—to divert his thoughts from his own solitude.

His gaze shifted, seeking out a connection in the sea of faces. He was looking for a submissive man, someone willing to take what he wanted to dish out. His search was almost aimless until his eyes caught on a striking figure: a man with a short, neatly trimmed grey beard and a gaze that held an inexplicable familiarity.

Recognition flickered to life, accompanied with a large dose of disbelief. Hunter "Crosscut" Maddox—the name rolled through his mind like distant thunder. What was Crosscut doing here, in Ethan's club?

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