1 Chapter 1

1

Mahiro Seta taps a flogger against his thigh in the soft, warm light of Rena’s most recent acquisition: a Tribeca loft that was part of a silk garment factory, now gutted and restored, and home to the biggest BDSM play party of the year.

It’s a gorgeous place, exposed brick and floor-to-ceiling mullioned windows, sparkling with candlelight and the murmur of a hundred enthralled voices. There are various small groups talking, eating, laughing; some sitting by the feet of others, some led on a leash, some being kissed, touched, wrapped around another’s body. But the most dominating feature by far is a thin, dark-haired, tattooed man lashed by his ankles and wrists to a St. Andrew’s cross stationed in the middle of the room.

And he’s waiting for Mahiro’s particular ministrations.

“Color?” Mahiro murmurs near his ear.

“Green.”

“Good.” Mahiro swings out with the soft suede until the tails snap against the man’s thigh with a gentle swish. The man breathes out a sigh, and Mahiro narrows his eyes at the light pink swath left in his wake. Not enough, honestly. Adrian is well capable of more, but Rena specifically told him to keep the demo a bit tame to not scare off any newcomers. So he flips the tails out again and barely snaps Adrian’s other leg, then his back, careful to only mark one area at a time until Adrian’s entire back and upper thighs are turning a beautiful dusky rose.

Mahiro assesses. Adrian’s hard and sweating already, wound up, on edge much faster than Mahiro’s experienced in the past from him, but performing for an audience can be nerve-wracking.

Mahiro knows this all too well.

So he snaps Adrian on the ass, making him twitch and swear and pull on his restraints.

Mahiro wanders close, drags his nails over Adrian’s ass and up his back until he can lean close again. “Color?”

“Green, sir, please,” he whispers, and drops his head back down, chin against his chest.

Got it. Mahiro steps back and swings the flogger again, a long, full-armed stroke that is perfectly calculated to leave a nice welt rising on the crest of his ass: a little lasting reminder for Adrian during the day tomorrow. Adrian moans his approval, and the sound goes straight to the pleasure center in Mahiro’s brain, bringing him the rush he craves, he needs, a flash of power that suffuses his entire body with deliberate, erotic purpose.

He glances out at the audience as he stalks around Adrian’s helpless body. Usually the crowd fades mercifully into the background at times like this, but here they’re pressed much closer than he’s accustomed to. He sees a few familiar faces, a few friends, and as he reaches the side of the crowd, he catches Chris Worthington’s eye. He’s leaning casually against a pillar, shirtless as usual and oddly collarless tonight. He winks and Mahiro tries not to roll his eyes. On the prowl, then. But as he turns away, he catches a glimmer of rather familiar platinum hair right at Chris’s shoulder.

Mahiro startles and almost drops the flogger.

Because the man standing next to Chris, the man leaning ever so slightly forward with an absolutely rapt look on his face, is none other than the star of Mahiro’s more lewd fantasies, inspiration for his first, rather desperate choice of career, and a face that still smiles at him from a poster he keeps folded up in his desk and only looks at when he’s feeling particularly bad about himself.

Retired figure skating legend Alex Breschi.

Mahiro turns around quickly and walks up to Adrian, uses the pretense of checking the welt he left as an excuse to catch his breath. He’s not sure how long he takes until he hears a quiet, concerned “Sir? Is everything okay?”

Shit. Mahiro needs to get his head together. Adrian is in his care. He can’t lose focus. “I’m sorry, love. I’ll make it up to you, okay? Let’s get finished here and maybe we can set something up for next week, just the two of us.”

Adrian nods and smiles. At least he smiles until Mahiro refocuses, takes aim, and snaps the flogger against his ass again.

* * * *

Adam catches up with him as soon as the scene is over and Adrian’s aftercare is handled. Mahiro left him resting on a sofa in the quiet room with a few other subs and happily downing a slice of cake, cheerful and forgiving of Mahiro’s momentary lapse in concentration. Mahiro, however, isn’t quite as happy with himself as he cleans his toys and repacks them in his bag.

“What the hell, Mahiro?” Adam says, dropping down on the floor next to him. “You utterly zoned out. Did you almost safeword or something?”

“No, Jesus, Adam, I didn’t safeword. I just—” Mahiro viciously shoves his riding crop into his bag. “You won’t believe who’s here.”

“Who? Oh God, don’t tell me Dylan’s here. He’s such a twatwaffle. I swear I’m about to yank that chain he keeps Isabella on right out of his hand the next time he—”

“No, Adam, God. No. It’s worse.”

“Worse than Dylan?”

“I kid you not, Chris is here with…with Alex Breschi.”

Adam stares in utter stunned silence.