Birthday Licks

by VJ Summers

  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.

  “One of my…friends likes for me to get bossy during sex.” He paused. “Bossier than I’m comfortable with.

  “He wants you to top?”

  “I always top with him.” Ryan sighed. “I usually top, Sir.”

  “Now that is a waste,” Vincent commented. Ryan tensed. Thomas petted him.

  “Shut up, Vincent.” This time Ryan didn’t think he’d bothered to look at the silver fox. “Is that what you like, boy? To top?”

  “It’s sex, Sir. It’s all good.” And that was true.

  “But you’re looking for more than just good. And topping makes you uncomfortable.”

  “Not uncomfortable, exactly, Sir. And not all the time. It just feels like Tristan needs something I can’t give him. And when he talked about this, about being Dominated, that felt right in a way nothing else has since I understood that I liked boys for sex.”

  “And Tristan brought you here?”

  “Yes, Sir. It’s my birthday present.”

  “This just gets better and better,” Vincent said. “A virgin, here on his birthday for his first ever scene. If you don’t spank the boy, I will.”

  Ryan tensed every single muscle to keep from running. The words virgin and spank echoed in his head, all mixed up with his aversion to Vincent and the mysterious pull he felt toward Thomas.

  “Look at me, boy.” Thomas’ voice cut through the roaring in Ryan’s ears. Ryan lifted his head, not meeting Thomas’ gaze.

  “Is that what you’re here for? A birthday spanking?” His voice was soft, almost tender. Ryan dared to glance at his eyes. Dark, seemingly bottomless wells of q
uiet.

  “I don’t know, Sir. I thought so. It’s confusing.”

  Thomas nodded encouragingly, but Ryan’s words had stalled out.

  “Let’s narrow it down, then.” The Dom’s voice was matter-of-fact. “Do you want Vincent to spank you?”

  “No, Sir.” No hesitation at all, just a slightly tardy realization that he might have offended the man in question. “No offense, uh, Sir,” he added.

  Vincent laughed, the same slightly cruel sound that had grated on Ryan’s nerves and sent him into a near panic. Or something.

  “Rejected!” he crowed. “Shot through the heart by Cupid’s arrow and then brutally rejected by the object of my affection.” He reached down and grabbed a handful of Ryan’s butt-cheek, and this time Ryan did more than flinch. He moved, moved closer to Thomas, closer to security.

  “Oh for Christ’s sake, Vincent.” Thomas curled his hand around Ryan’s neck, sending an irrational wave of calm through him. Irrational that he should feel so safe in such a fraught situation. Irrational that one man, Scary Dude, should make his skin prickle in revulsion while another, Thomas, should send a shiver of longing over his body and fill his mind with quiet in practically the same action.

  Vincent laughed again, with an edge that hinted he was less amused than he was attempting to appear.

  “Fine, Thomas. Don’t allow me my entertainments. I suppose I shall have to find a less alluring playmate elsewhere and leave the pretty for you.”

  There was a rustle of expensive fabric, and Vincent was finally gone. Thomas’ hand fell away and he shifted back in his chair.

  Light the Candles

  “You’ve dropped your position.”

  The words were soft, spoken without inflection, but they struck Ryan like a blow. He jerked upright, locking his hands at the small of his back and lowering his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Sir.” Because it seemed like what he was supposed to say. “And thank you.” Because he couldn’t have borne to let Vincent touch him, and he wasn’t entirely sure he could have continued this instruction with the other Dom’s ironic commentary. And he wasn’t ready for this interlude with Thomas to end.