Birthday Licks

Birthday Licks

VJ Summers

Prequel to Melting.

What happens when an untrained submissive drops into the lap
of a Dom who isn’t looking for more than a hook-up? Every “Happily Ever After”
has to start somewhere. Master Thomas and his beautiful submissive Ryan are
rock solid and completely committed—now—but things weren’t always so smooth.
Before Thomas and Ryan could get to their
Melting
point, Thomas had to
light the candles and Ryan had to take his
Birthday Licks
.

Birthday Licks

VJ Summers

Admire the View

Ryan snickered, feeling the flush of the tequila warm him
from belly to balls to fingers and toes. Yeah, he’d done his share of college
drinking, enough for it to have lost its glamour, but this tequila, slammed
back on the night of his twenty-first birthday, somehow tasted better than any
other tequila he’d ever had.

It had also smoothed some of the ragged edges catching his
nerves. It was one thing to talk to Tristan about having someone get a little
bossy with him during sex. It was another thing entirely to walk into a club
and see a naked boy on a leash, thick silver ring through the tip of his cock,
rubber mask covering everything but his nose and mouth.

That had been terrifying. And disturbingly hot.

Now, with the tequila wrapping everything in a warm glow,
terror was settling into titillation, and disturbingly hot was just plain hot.

He was so busy gaping around as he enjoyed his beer chaser
that he didn’t notice the “conversation pit” until he’d literally fallen into
it.

“Shit!”

It seemed to come in three-part harmony—his own yelp of
shock, the surprised shout of the man sitting in the leather chair off to the
side of the pit and the pissed-off growl of the man he’d landed on.

The guy in the leather chair was a silver fox. Silver hair,
liberally and dramatically shot through with black. Silver shirt with a
monochromatic tie under a dully gleaming black suit. Chunky silver signet ring.
He was the embodiment of power, and something in the way he was examining Ryan
made his stomach squirm uncomfortably. He could totally see this guy tricking
someone into eating some pomegranate seeds.

“Well, well,” Hephaestus incarnate said. “Look at the
pretty.”

The man Ryan was currently draped over gave an
irritated-sounding grunt, and Ryan somehow found himself kneeling in front of
him. He didn’t even have time to be annoyed at being called “the pretty”, which
he totally would have been. Yeah, Ryan knew he was good looking enough, but he
wasn’t
pretty
, dammit. And he had a brain.

A brain that was currently floating like a balloon on
endorphins and a happy tequila breeze—so the Lord of the Underworld was scary
and most likely an asshole, but in a cartoon villain sort of way. After handing
out the pomegranate seeds, Ryan expected scary dude would twirl his
non-existent moustache and growl, “You
must
pay the rent.”

Deciding to ignore the man in black, Ryan lifted his gaze to
his accidental victim, ready to apologize and invite the guy to laugh with him.
Maybe use his shiny new ID to buy him a conciliatory drink. Thankfully, Ryan’s
own beer bottle had been nearly empty when he fell, and both bottle and dregs
had landed on the floor without dousing any of them in yeasty goodness. Any
thought of laughter died unrealized and the apology dried up in his mouth when
he met the man’s eyes.

Oh holy fuck
.

This man had none of the trappings the silver fox flaunted.
He was wearing jeans that were faded with age rather than from trendy
distressing, and a white button-down, un-tucked. The only concessions he made
to the BDSM sensibility were the black leather vest he wore open over his shirt
and the heavy black boots that currently bracketed Ryan’s knees.

He was older than Ryan. Mid-thirties, maybe. A clump of hair
near his temple glinted lighter than the rest of his shaggy blond mane. A patch
of gray? His eyes, indeterminately dark in the dicey club lighting, were framed
with a few tiny lines, as though the guy smiled a lot. Ryan took in the hard
line of the full lips. Or maybe he squinted.

He was so painfully hot, he practically glowed.

Ryan struggled to process through adrenaline and his fading
tequila buzz. The men were sitting together. At a BDSM club. One was clearly
dominant, dressed like a corporate shark and wielding condescension like a
whip. The other was dressed casually, hadn’t spoken, other than his involuntary
shout when Ryan landed in his lap. Didn’t even remotely fit Ryan’s
pre-conceived notion of a sexual Dom.

He let his gaze flit from one man to the other. Were they
partners? A Dom and sub taking a break from play, or warming up with a drink
before scary dude stripped hottie naked and whipped his ass?

Hottie raised an eyebrow and Ryan’s cock practically burst
the zipper of his cargos.
Nope. There was nothing submissive in that look.

“I think he likes you.”

Ryan dragged his eyes from hottie. Scary dude had slid to
the edge of his seat, legs spread wide to showcase the bulge growing between
them. That uncomfortable, squirmy sensation slithered through his stomach
again. The idea of that man touching him… Well, Ryan might be interested in
someone getting a little bossy with him during sex, but he had the feeling that
scary dude wouldn’t stop at a little. Or even at merely bossy.

“Shut up, Vincent.”

Oh. Wow. When hottie wasn’t grunting and growling, he had a
voice like suede. A little rough. A little smooth. Ryan practically felt it rub
over his skin.

Scary dude—Vincent—slid even further forward on his chair.
Ryan caught the motion in his peripheral vision. But he didn’t turn to look. He
couldn’t. He was well and truly captured by those dark eyes. Hottie was giving
him a look every bit as speculative as Vincent had, but the squirmy feeling
he
provoked was a lot lower than his gut, and uncomfortable in a whole different
way. Ryan shifted as his cock got even harder and his nuts began to tingle.

“Lighten up, Thomas.” Vincent reached out and ran a rough
hand through Ryan’s hair, startling him. He jerked back instinctively, unnerved
by the thrill of dread, and the just plain thrill, that shot through him as
Vincent pulled. When he turned back to the silver-haired Dom with a scowl,
Vincent smirked.

“A feisty one. And not very well trained.” Vincent gave a
final tug and then patted his cheek. Confusion swirled through Ryan. Something
in the man’s touch, some assumption that he had the
right
to touch, that
Ryan’s body was his to use, spoke to the place in Ryan’s soul that had always
ached through sex, the place that had gone tense with anticipation when Tristan
described The Iron Mask, the men and women who played there.

Something was there, just beyond Ryan’s reach. Scary dude’s
touch wasn’t quite right, but it was the closest Ryan had come so far.

“Not trained at all, I think.” Hottie’s—Thomas’—voice jerked
Ryan’s attention back front and center. Thomas reached out and cupped his chin,
all the authority of Vincent’s touch, but tempered with a hint of gentleness
that melted the knot of nerves in Ryan’s gut.

“Is that it, pretty thing? You haven’t any training?” Ryan’s
attention whipped back to Vincent, though his eyes remained caught by Thomas’
mesmerizing stare.

He was a little dizzy. The tequila, the anticipation, that
uneasy feeling he got under Vincent’s pale eyes and the inexplicable safety he
felt in Thomas’ touch left him lightheaded and confused.

“Who’s your Master, boy?” The edge of command in Thomas’
voice was every bit as irresistible as Vincent’s, but rather than making Ryan
want to pull away, it drew him closer.

“No Master,” he managed, though his tongue tangled on the
words. Well, that was embarrassing. He drew himself up. “And I’m not a boy.”

That stern mouth quirked at the corner, and Thomas shot an
amused glance toward Vincent.

“Nope. Not trained at all.” He turned back to Ryan. “You’re
a submissive, beautiful. A young and pretty one.” He made a sweeping gesture,
seeming to indicate the people wandering around the club, gyrating on the floor
and…yes, actually fucking in dark corners. “You’re not a bear or a leather
daddy. You’re a boy. It’s a descriptor, not an assessment of your age or
maturity.” He was still cupping Ryan’s chin, and now he stroked his thumb over
Ryan’s lips. Ryan shivered and resisted the urge to sneak a taste of Thomas’
skin. “But you are young.”

Duh
. He was young, not stupid. He’d been out since he
was sixteen. He knew all about the descriptors. He knew he wasn’t a twink,
wasn’t quite cute enough for it, but he’d never thought about what he
was
.

“Okay. But that doesn’t mean I’m looking for a daddy.” Not
that there was anything paternal about Thomas. Or Vincent, for that matter, but
the longer Ryan looked at Thomas, the farther away Vincent seemed.

“You might not want a daddy,” Thomas murmured, “but you
desperately need someone to teach you the rules.”

There were rules for just coming to the club? Ryan
considered it for a moment. Yeah, he could see it. These people had tacitly
agreed to play a game while they were here. Games had rules.

“Tell me,” he said, but the tone of his voice made it a
request rather than a demand. Thomas smiled and dropped his hand.

“First, take your shirt off.”

Ryan obeyed, crossing his arms in front of himself to grasp
the yellow cotton and pull it over his head. The t-shirt, a gift from his
ex-college roommate, featured a birthday cake with a decidedly phallic candle
and the legend “A Pinch to Grow an Inch.” It had struck him as ridiculous—which
made him immediately love it—when he’d put it on. Kneeling in front of Thomas,
it just struck him as somewhat juvenile.

“Excellent,” Thomas murmured as Ryan folded the shirt and set
it on the floor next to him. “Now, hands behind your back, grasp the opposite
wrist.” Ryan complied quickly, unconsciously responding to the command in
Thomas’ voice. “Elbows at a ninety degree angle. Keep a solid frame. Thighs
apart. Back straight. Shoulders back, chest out.”

Ryan obeyed, each command wrapping around him, wrapping him
in an unfamiliar and unexpected sense of rightness. The anxiety of Vincent’s
perusal was gone. Hell, his awareness of Vincent as anything but a vague
phantom was gone. There was only Thomas.

“Very nice,” the man in question murmured. The snap of
command was softened, but something in that suede voice still prodded at Ryan.
“Lower your eyes now. A well-trained submissive would never make eye contact
unless invited.”

This time Ryan hesitated. He didn’t want to give up the
connection he felt in Thomas’ gaze. The older man raised that challenging brow
again, and Ryan opened his mouth to explain. Before he got the first word out,
though, Thomas’ eyes narrowed, silently admonishing him to shut the hell up. If
it wasn’t his place to make eye contact, it certainly wasn’t his place to speak
without permission.

Reluctantly, he dropped his gaze to the dull silver buckles
on Thomas’ boots.

“Not bad,” Vincent observed, and because he no longer had
Thomas’ gaze to hide in, Ryan flinched. Thomas seemed to read his body
language, or maybe his mind, because the Dom ran his fingers through Ryan’s
hair, a caress as different from Vincent’s rough pulling as his commands were
from Vincent’s arrogant demands.

“This is your kneeling display position.” Thomas’ voice was
matter-of-fact. Instructional. Every word throbbed in Ryan’s dick like a
heartbeat. “Think of it like a military ‘at ease’. It’s the stance you take
unless directed otherwise.”

“Okay.” Ryan’s answer was rewarded with a sharp tug to his
hair, and it was still nothing like Vincent’s touch. “What?” he asked. He’d
waited to be spoken to. His eyes were still on the toes of Thomas’ boots.

“Okay,
Sir
,” Thomas corrected softly.

Duh. Again
.

“I’m sorry, Sir. I know that.” Ryan tilted his head in
thought, started to speak, then stopped himself. He felt Thomas’ eyes on him,
waiting for something. For him to screw up again? Finally, he couldn’t stay
silent. Thomas’ quiet attention was too much, and Ryan’s mouth was moving
without his permission.

“May I ask questions, Sir?” At least he’d been polite.

“Go ahead, boy.”

Why does it make me shiver in my soul when you call me
boy? I shouldn’t love it, should I? But then, isn’t that why I’m here?

What he said was, “Shouldn’t I call you Master?”

“Oh-ho!” Vincent’s laughter was like nails on a chalkboard.
But feeling Thomas’ fingers thread through his hair made the distraction worth
it.

“Master is for the one you belong to.” Ryan didn’t look up,
even though he really, really wanted to, but he had the sense Thomas was
looking at Vincent. The Dom’s voice had gone desert dry. “Or for egomaniacs who
are in love with the sound of their own voices.”

Vincent laughed again. “Now, Thomas. There’s no need to be
mean.”

Ryan felt Thomas’ attention on him once again and let the
subtle caress of the Dom’s voice rub away the rough edges Vincent’s words left
on Ryan’s brain.

“Sir is the proper address for any Dom you encounter in a
place like the Mask. Master is, in my opinion at least, a much more intimate
form of address. Your Master owns your body. A Sir is just borrowing it.”

“I understand, Sir.” Ryan did. And if a tiny voice in his
head was calling Thomas Master, well that was only because of the striking
contrast between Thomas’ firm, touchable voice, and the broken glass in
Vincent’s tone. Right?

“This is your first time at The Iron Mask.” The words
weren’t a question, but Ryan nodded an affirmative anyway. “Have you ever done
a scene? Informally?”

Thomas stroked his fingers through Ryan’s hair one last time
before removing his touch. Ryan swayed a little bit, trying to follow, then
caught himself and resumed his position. Thomas made a low, satisfied sound
that Ryan felt all through his body.

“No, Sir. Not really.”

“What does that mean, not really?”

Ryan hesitated. This was as much Tristan’s confession as his
own, and it somehow felt wrong to discuss it with a stranger. No, Ryan
realized. He felt as if he could discuss anything with Thomas. It felt wrong to
discuss it in front of Vincent. He spoke slowly, chose his words carefully,
when he answered.