by Jodi Payne
After a long pause on the phone, Clint had sternly reminded him that Doms weren’t supposed to look human or be called out for anything, and had given him a dinner invitation he couldn’t refuse. Even if he wanted to. Clint wasn’t just any Dom; he was Master at the club. A personal invitation wasn’t so much of an invitation as a summons.
But he’d so much rather have kept his mind on Sam’s body, and he promised himself he could, later, assuming he survived dinner.
His phone buzzed, a text from Angel showing up. The picture was Sam from behind, muscles tight under his button-down as he carried a keg.
Yep. That was all his. Mother of God. He spread his legs a little wider in the back of the cab, forgetting for a second where he was headed. You are a true friend, Angel. Keep your damn hands to yourself.
I’ll do my best, Tommy & you’re welcome.
Thomas chuckled, shaking his head at himself. He couldn’t help it—Sam made him young. Other parts of him were feeling young too, so he took a couple of breaths and told his body to cool it.
He climbed out of his cab and walked toward the club, wishing he’d had something less suit and tie and more leather and ink to wear to this meeting, but it was what it was. At least he looked good in a suit.
Scotty gave him a smile and a nod and pointed across the room to where Clint was seated at a table, presumably waiting for him.
All the way across the room. Of course.
He made his way over, noting the irony of feeling underdressed in a business suit.
Clint nodded to him, then to the chair across from him.
All right. He popped open the button on his jacket and took a seat. “Good evening.”
“Good evening, Tommy.” Clint looked him over. “You do pull off a well-cut suit better than most, I’ll admit.”
“Thank you.” And you manage to keep me off guard better than most. “Can I…are you interested in something from the bar?” Clint didn’t drink, so that was probably the worst possible way to try to break the ice.
One of those dark eyebrows rose into Clint’s hairline. “Okay, boy. Close your eyes and take a few breaths. Find your way here.”
Boy. He sighed, trying to let Clint’s tone ground him.
“I’d really just like a glass of wine.” But he did exactly as Clint told him to and closed his eyes, breathing in the calm energy coming from across the table, letting it blanket his anxiety, and breathing out all the chaos that made up every reason he needed to be here right now. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Clint held up his finger, ordering a glass of Pinot Noir and a cup of coffee before turning back to him. “I haven’t seen you this ramped up in years.”
He had to acknowledge that he hadn’t felt this off in a long time. “I know. I’m…there’s all this…” He looked at Clint, trying to find an anchor, and after another breath, he did. “I’m not grounded. I need to work.”
Clint dipped his chin, once. “Talk to me. Why aren’t you able to work? What do you need to do it? Basic information, remember?”
If Thomas had a dime for every time he heard, “talk to me” or “basic information,” he’d have a lot of dimes.
The trouble with basic was that it was difficult to dismantle this puzzle. It started with not understanding how to lose two loves at the same time in one man. It was muddied in the middle with a lot of uncertainty about Sam that made him question himself and his motives, and it ended with…confusion. “I need to find my compass. I don’t know how to define myself anymore. I’ve lost confidence. Also, I need a sub.”
He stared at the table. He was relieved to be able to get that out, to find those words, but he was appalled at the lack of emotion that went along with them. The words were the truth, but he couldn’t get them out and feel anything at the same time. He’d disconnected. That was an old, ingrained defense mechanism, and he knew Clint would recognize it.
“Fair enough.” Clint smiled at Scotty as he delivered their drinks. “I’ll let you know if we need you.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“So tell me about your compass. What is your true north?” Clint carefully doctored his coffee, the motions simple, controlled, as much a routine as everything.
“Order. Routine. Balance.” He picked up his wine and took a sip. “I think.” He shook his head. That was as ridiculous as it sounded. “I’m not sure. With James it was clear. We had a rhythm, a focus. I don’t have a focus anymore. I mean, I do, but it’s like a moving target. I’m all…honestly? I’m tangled up with Sam.”
“Do you regret that? Sam?”
“No.” He answered so quickly that he made himself think about it again. “No, I don’t regret that. He’s…we’re…we have something. It’s just new and fragile. But it’s real. I don’t even regret bringing him here, though I think that may have been a poor choice.”
“Why?” There was no judgment in the question, just calm energy reaching out to him, offering him a space to work this out.
“I think Sam is a natural sub. I do. I just don’t think I’m…I don’t have whatever it is he needs in my toolbox. I’ve been taking it slow. I’ve been introducing him to things carefully. He does what I ask, even when I know he doesn’t want to, but he doesn’t invest. This is either the wrong path for him, or I’m the wrong man to take him down it.”
Clint stirred his coffee, took a drink. “Tell me about meeting James, if you would.”
“What? I met him here. You introduced us.”
“Humor me, Tommy. You know I don’t ask lightly. You met him here. I introduced you. How did you know you wanted to work with him?”
He took another sip of his wine. Did Clint bring him here to talk about James? Wasn’t this hard enough without that? He sighed, looking inward, remembering what meeting James felt like. “It was in his eyes. He was curious. He wanted to know, wanted to learn. He was very direct, and he needed the connection.”
Clint smiled, the look bittersweet but warm, fond. “He was, wasn’t he? He was a lovely, gentle man.”
“He was smart. Self-aware. He knew he belonged here as soon as he walked in the door. He felt it. I remember the first time we worked together he was so…ready. He just opened right up. We never looked back.” But he was looking back now, wasn’t he? He picked up his wine again, held it to his nose, let the brightness help him focus. “I miss him.”
“You do. My next questions are harder. Are you ready, or do you need a break?”
He sipped the wine and put the glass down. “Go on. You’ve got me.” That was a good hook, making him remember James that way. The way it began.
“Why are you attracted to Sam? What intrigues you?”
That was a fair question. He went with the truth, as awful as it sounded. “It was his eyes first. They were so much like James’s. But they’re not really, they have more gold and less brown, and they have more questions than answers.” Many more. “I told him last night that he keeps surprising me. I think I’ve got him figured out, but then he proves me wrong. He’s unpredictable. He takes risks. He’s…fun.” Sam was fun. Challenging. James had been…satisfying. Validating. They were nothing alike, really.
Clint’s smile widened. “Next question. Would he understand if you chose someone else to work with? Another sub?”
He stared at Clint. “I don’t know.” Would Sam understand? He thought about yesterday and what Sam had said about fucking up. Asking him if he had any regrets. “He’d be disappointed in himself. He’d think he did something wrong. If he understood, it would only be because he thought I’d given up on him.”
“And how would you feel if another Dom wished to work with him? Train him?”
“I’d be…relieved for him that he found someone that knows how to be what he needs.” He rubbed his forehead with one finger, hard, like he was trying to force something out that wasn’t coming. If anyone had asked him that question about James, he’d have put his foot down and refused. He’d been everything James needed. He so wanted that for Sam.
>
What he’d lacked in emotion earlier in the conversation, he was finding in spades now. It was white hot and it burned his ego. “I’m not wrong. I know what he needs. If I’m not up to it, he should find someone who is.”
“I’ve had inquiries. He wouldn’t lack for attention.”
He hadn’t realized he’d been looking down at his lap until he had to raise his eyes to look at Clint again. “If you think that’s—”
Wait. No. Sam knelt for him yesterday. Sam was his.
“No. I want it to be me. It needs to be me. I want him.”
“Well, then.” The corner of Clint’s lips quirked. “That sounds much more like my Tommy. I approve.”
He squinted at Clint. How the hell did the man do that? “I hope you know what you’re doing, because I don’t.”
“A submissive deserves someone that is passionate about him. Even the most controlled relationship deserves that spark. If it didn’t exist, I would recommend that you find someone to work with. As it is, I can make some other recommendations.” Clint rolled his eyes, the look uncharacteristic, a glimpse of humor that he knew was reserved for a rare few. “I’ve had a bit of advice from a friend.”
It was comforting, that trust. It put him at ease, let him relax. “He’s mine, Clint. I just can’t find the right approach. He’s been vulnerable, but he’s also been detached. He knows what I want but not why, and neither of us knows what he wants. I ordered him to his knees and he went, but it grated on his last nerve, and even though I praised him for it, he was sure he’d disappointed me. I’m chasing my tail.”
“Have you considered that Sam is a vastly more active man than you’ve been used to working with? Perhaps you need to decide what the endgame is you’re looking for and work backward.” Clint sipped his coffee. “For instance, if you are looking for, say, peace, a certain headspace, information-sharing, how do you push Sam there? Is kneeling a punishment? A boredom? You may have to make new rules—not for Sam alone, but for yourself.”
“Work backward. Hm.” That appealed to him, made sense. As did rethinking conventions like kneeling. “Initially, I just need to figure out where to start. His mind works so fast, he can move six steps ahead of me while I’m pouring coffee. I don’t know where to muscle in, you know?”
“I do. How many times in the beginning did I have to remind you to talk to me? No filters, just the basics? There were times I despaired of exhausting you enough for you to begin to relax.” Clint’s expression was dramatic and long-suffering. “Pretend you’re a new Dominant. Start from the beginning. Just the basics. What do you want from your submissive?”
“Trust. Obedience. Honesty. Thoughtfulness.” It was that simple.
“Now unpack those. How does he show his trust? How do you reward that? How does he not? How do you work to improve that? You know how to do this, Tommy. You’re trying to add Sam into a pattern you built with another man. That’s unfair to both of you. It’s denying you both so much excitement.”
He took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. “I am. You’re right.” If he’d gone looking for a sub, he might have decided to find someone that fit that mold. But as it was, he’d met someone so different, and he’d tried to apply something that came easily, not put together something new. “You’re absolutely right, Clint. I don’t know how I didn’t see that.”
“You were mourning. The timing is harsh, but it happens. I think you can be forgiven. More than that, I think your boy would forgive you. You know I loved James dearly, but I’ve never seen anyone look at you the way Sam does.”
“You really think so? I mean about James. Is it all right for me to…for us to do this? Are you sure?”
That was a stumbling block. He picked up his wine again and took a sip, swallowing back the lump in his throat and pretending he wasn’t…leaking from his eyes.
“I think that happiness is a rare thing and to deny yourself another chance at it is wrong.” Clint took his hand, held it, and waited for Thomas to meet his gaze, those dark eyes unwavering. “I don’t lie to you, Tommy. If I felt you were making a mistake, I would tell you, straight up.”
He nodded, giving Clint’s fingers a squeeze. “You don’t know how badly I needed someone to tell me that, Clint. Someone like you, that I trust.”
“I’m glad you were ready to hear it.”
“It was exactly what I needed. I just didn’t know how to ask until now. Thank you.” He put his wine down, not even half-finished. He’d had enough.
“You are welcome. Shall we go find something wonderful for dinner?”
“Please.” He stood up, smoothing out his slacks and buttoning his jacket. He felt lighter, clearheaded. He loved having something to think about. Thank God it was only Monday. He had a lot of planning to do before next weekend.
23
Thomas arrived at the club early and spent half an hour working out with a flogger and a padded mannequin. Along with his new approach with Sam, he decided he needed a new warm-up routine to get his head right and leave his week and his own anxiety behind.
He had a goal, as Clint had suggested, and working backward from that took him in several directions, so he’d just need to see how Sam was responding and take his cues from his sub. There were other things to take into consideration—their new intimacy and his own renewed confidence would change their dynamic as well.
He’d debated about his choice of clothing, finally deciding that certain trappings of the lifestyle were what they were, and went for leather pants, heavy boots, thick cuffs, and a bare chest. He was dressing for himself, not for Sam. The boots especially gave him height, made him stand straighter, and gave him swagger.
He didn’t wait at the bar. He’d decided to wait in their reserved room and let Sam make the trip back himself. He was ready when he heard that knock at the door.
“Come in.”
“It’s just me.” The door opened, Sam stepping in. “Hello there…oh, aren’t you fine,”
The response was immediate, honest, and it felt amazing, as did the way Sam ate him up with a look.
His boy was wearing a heavy sweater, jeans, and work boots. Sam looked warm, cozy, and altogether too bundled up.
He crooked a couple of fingers, summoning Sam to him, and pulled his boy in, favoring him with a hard kiss. “Hello, sweetheart. It’s good to see you. Is that a new sweater?”
“Mm-hmm. It is. I needed something warm and presentable.” Sam’s eyes twinkled. “I mean, it’s not a moose humping a unicorn, but…”
“That’s all right. No one rocks that one like I do.” He stepped back and looked Sam over, head to toe. “You wear it well. Take it off, please. And the boots as well.”
“Socks too?” Sam took the sweater off, exposing that tight little hard body to him.
He hid his grin. “Good boy. Socks too, and thank you for asking for clarity. Also, for the future, if I ask you to remove your footwear, I mean to have you barefoot. You may assume socks too.”
He waited for Sam to comply and put the clothing out of the way. “I’d like you on your feet for a bit, and I know that’s not comfortable for you after a while. I wondered if it might help you to use the wall, perhaps brace your arms on it? Do you have a thought about a position you could manage to hold for a while?”
“I lean my backside against the wall at work when I’m bouncing, but when I was rodeoing, I could lean against the chutes all day.”
“Good.” He pointed across the room. “To the wall, then, please. However you’re most comfortable for the time being. Close your eyes and focus on the room. Don’t ask questions for now. I’ll give you time in a bit.”
Sam tilted his head but did as he asked, leaning back and propping himself up, nipples and abs going hard as his back hit the wall. Sam’s eyes flew open wide for a shocked second before they closed.
He grinned. The wall must be chilly. Poor boy.
“When I say focus on the room, I mean pay attention to the senses I’m allowing you to use. You do
n’t have sight, but you have touch, which it seems you’ve already discovered.” He let himself laugh softly and went on. “Hearing, smell. Yes? The purpose is to help you clear your mind. Forget the subway, work last night, the men you said hello to when you came in. Just breathe and open up your senses.”
He immediately gave the boy something to listen to, and paced the room in measured steps, passing first in one direction, then the other. Sam’s head tilted, following him, just barely. He didn’t know if Sam even knew he was doing it.
He thought about the things he’d noticed about the room before the boy arrived. The hum of the heater, the slight vibration in the floor when the subway went by underneath them, and now Sam’s own clean scent. He gave the boy time, watching for signs of concentration or fatigue or just plain boredom.
He caught it in, of all things, Sam’s toes. They were curling, rhythmically, slowly, over and over.
“Boy.” He made sure to speak softly so he didn’t startle Sam. “How many steps does it take me to get from one end of the room to the other?”
Sam’s chin bobbed, his boy counting. “Five one way, four the other.”
“Good boy. Do you need to move?”
That question earned him pursed lips, Sam shifting from foot to foot. “I think I’m okay. Maybe not hours, but for now.”
“Very well. Were you aware that your toes were moving just now?”
Sam went pink, and his eyes opened. “Were they? I mean, I do it all the time. It’s a habit I picked up a while ago.”
“Boy.” He stepped directly in front of Sam, authority in his tone. “Did I give you permission to open your eyes?”
“Dammit. No. Sorry.” Sam shut them again. “I got distracted by my toes.”