1. Tatum

CHAPTER 1

TATUM

PRESENT DAY

A bi Kincaid is an asshole. Of all the assholes who have ever assholed, my Russian captor reigns supreme. Tonight is the first night in months I've managed to escape the prison he's constructed for me, and thanks to the wallet I stole from his back pocket when I was pretending to squeeze his ass simply for the thrill, tonight's drinks are on Abi. It's not that I'm a thief or anything, but he keeps my ID with his, and I knew there was a chance I might need it. His debit card was simply a casualty of this idiotic war, and he has no one else to blame for any charges he sees in the morning.

Freedom's never tasted this good. Don't get me wrong, he doesn't keep me chained to the bed anymore, but with the way his unnecessarily muscular body stretches across me at night, pinning me down, he might as well. Worse, he doesn't just keep me weighed down with his body, he also has a habit of sticking his finger up my ass and just leaving it there. He tells me it's because my eager entrance is where he belongs , but, as with his sense of personal boundaries, his perception of reality is a bit flawed .

One night of freedom. It's all I want. A single night away from them . Scotty's going to think I'm abandoning him three weeks before his wedding, but I'm angry with him for landing me in this position in the first place, so we can call it even. As for my captors, it isn't that I don't enjoy their company, I'd just like to have a bit of personal freedom. I mean, I can't even take a shower without Abi's prying eyes exploring every inch of my body, recording me with his phone. I haven't showered without my jockstrap in months, just to keep his prying, peeping-tom eyes off me. Months!

I only have two goals tonight: flirt with pretty boys and get wasted. I rarely have the chance to drink anymore—not after last time. I mean, did I get a little tipsy and set all Fiona's clothes on fire after I caught her holding Abi's hand? Yes, but Abi also claims later that night, he woke up with me trying to sit on his cock, and I know that's a fucking lie, so he's hardly a reliable narrator.

It's nice not having him here, watching my every move. Abi tends to wordlessly scare away any man who gives me a passing glance, and Fee has a habit of seducing any man who catches my eye. She can call it "preventative maintenance" until she's blue in the face, it doesn't change facts; she only fucks them so I don't get the chance. Their jealousy makes absolutely no sense to me. I'm not in a relationship with either of these lunatics, but they both treat me like Abi's fated mate, and it's driving me insane.

Will they be angry at me when they realize I bolted out of the car when we stopped for gas earlier, high tailing it to the nearest gay bar? Yes. Do I care? Not in the slightest.

Music blares from the speaker beneath me. I've been dancing on it for the last hour, shaking my ass for anyone who wants to see.

A gay bar is the only place I could fit in wearing my current attire. Abi claims the reason he keeps me in nothing more than a jockstrap and a cutoff shirt is because my body is a work of art that deserves to be admired. While that's certainly true, it isn't the whole truth. I think he keeps me wearing next to nothing so I won't run away. Occasionally, I'll get the odd pair of flip flops, but even those are a rarity. The strange thing is, I don't mind it all that much. Anyone else might object to both Abi's possessive issues and the slutty clothing selection, but not me. I love the way I look in his favorite outfit. The way the shirt clings to my chest like a second skin. How the jockstrap lifts my already perky ass higher to the heavens. Part of me enjoys him selecting my outfit, because it's one less thing for me to worry about. I'd never tell him that, though. Just as I'll never tell him what does or does not transpire at this bar tonight. This is my night. It belongs to me. Not Abi Kincaid. If I decide to suck off a stranger, that's my prerogative. Should I decide to hop on the nearest cock and ride it until dawn, it's no one's business but my own.

Ahead of me, men move in time with the song's beat, making it seem like the only thing ahead of me is a sea of cock. If I were still me—if I were still the Tatum I was before Abi Kincaid stole me away—I'd probably dive right in, wanting to ride those rolling rapids. To surf the crowd as their fingers touch places they have no right touching. During my weekend shifts at Manhole, Benito's bar in Texas, it's the way I ended each night. I would dip and pop for the crowd as my boyfriends—Benji, Bennet, and my now ex-boyfriend Austin—danced at my feet or sides. Then, when the bartender rang the bell, indicating last call, I would lunge toward the crowd and surf my way across the room.

I have to swallow down the bitter taste of sadness when I think of my ex-boyfriends. It's been six months, and it feels like yesterday. We were happy once. When it was just Austin, Benji, Bennet, and me, we were a family. Sure, we're all strict bottoms, so we had to rely on toys for penetration, but we made it work. Our polyamorous grouping was one of the highpoints of my life. Then, he came along. Benito fucking Blankenship. In less than three months, he stole the hearts of the Bens and destroyed my relationship with Austin. During the final descent of our relationship, we were lucky to see each other once or twice a week; the Bens usually choosing to stay with Nito on the sleeper sofa in his office at the bar, Austin retreating to his stepfather's house, leaving me alone in a super-size bed.

There's no point dwelling on the past. They're happy. I know they are. I've followed their lives via social media these last few months. The Bens and Benito seem happier than they ever were with me. Granted, they've only uploaded two pictures since I left, but in those images, there is a lovesick look in their eyes. Austin, on the other hand, seems to be taking a break from sharing endless selfies with the world. As much as I want to reach out to him, I know it's pointless. He's moved on. He said as much the last time I spoke to him.

No. No point dwelling on the past, at all.

There's some sort of contest starting in five minutes. That's what the flashing neon sign above the stage says, at least. I'm not exactly sure what this contest entails, but the bouncer at the door told me it involves "lewd and immoral acts" unfolding in front of a live audience. Apparently, I'm in my slut era, because those four words made me harder than I've been in months, and I scribbled my name on the sign-up sheet before the bouncer even finished his sentence.

I hop down from the speaker box and make my way to the bar, wanting a shot of liquid courage before the competition. As I move through the room, I feel like a star. Every eye in the crowd is locked on me, and the sea of twinks and bears splits down the center like I'm Moses. I'm not sure why they seem so enthralled by my presence; it isn't like I'm the only one wandering around in just a jockstrap and a crop top. Yes, I'm the only one who can rock the ensemble so effortlessly, but that's neither here nor there.

When I make it to the bar, the bartender stares at me with a raised brow. I'm not sure what the look is about, but I'm not curious enough to ask for clarification.

"Can I get a shot of Patron?" I holler over the music .

She darts her eyes behind me and the color drains from her face. Rapidly shaking her head, she says, "We're all out." It's my turn to arch an eyebrow, and I lift my hand long enough to point to a half-full bottle of my favorite tequila, but she just continues to shake her head, saying, "It's just water."

"Fuck it. Fine. I'll take any tequila you've got."

Again, she looks over my shoulder before shaking her head. "We don't serve tequila," she quickly adds.

Okay, well that's clearly a bold-faced lie, considering there's a bottle of Jose right behind her. "Vodka, then." She refuses my request with another shake of her head. "Then what do you have? Just give me something that will make my head foggy and my body loose."

She peeks behind me again, piquing my interest. I need to know what it is that's stopping her from assisting in my quest to become inebriated. Confusingly enough, when I turn to look behind me, there's no one there. I mean, yes, there are a few stray bears and otters patiently waiting their turn, but their attention isn't focused on me or the bartender.

"We've got soda," she says cheerfully. "Any kind you like."

I blink at her. "I'd like liquor. The stronger, the better."

She grabs a rag from behind the bar and begins halfheartedly cleaning the counter. "No liquor here, sunshine," she says with a smile. "Just soda."

I scowl at her. She's lucky I'm not in a sour mood. All it would take to punish her would be a borrowed phone and a quick call to Abi.

Wait . . .

Abi.

I close my eyes and sigh, because it's the only explanation that makes sense.

"Tell me," I say, leaning in closer. "Did an unnecessarily attractive Russian behemoth threaten to kill you if you served me alcohol?" Standing on my toes, I lift my hand to roughly indicate Abi's height. "He's about this tall, he's got stupidly sexy brown eyes, delicious freckles across his cheeks that I do not want to play connect-the-dots with using only my tongue, and a body sculpted by the Goddess herself."

"The Goddess?" she asks, but I roll my eyes, because now isn't the time to discuss my religious beliefs.

I glance down at the nametag on her chest. "Listen, Beatrice, any other time, I'd be more than happy to tell you the wonders of the Church of Rinna, but this is hardly the time, and it certainly isn't the place. Focus, please. Where is he?"

She swallows, unable to meet my gaze. "I don't know what you're talking about."

I lean over the bar, resting my weight on my elbows, and give her my widest smile. "The thing is, that man likes to think of himself as my Daddy. Now, don't get it twisted, I'm not into age play, but I do enjoy showing off my bratty side. So, I indulge him."

"I'm not sure what this has to do with?—"

"My point is, he likes to pamper me. He dotes on me. Carries me around on his hip at all times, no matter how many times I tell him I hate it. What do you think Daddy's going to say when he finds out the mean waitress refused to serve me?" I cup my face with my hand and thrum my fingertips against my cheek, waiting patiently. "The last person who refused me hasn't been seen in months. I bet that guy's awfully lonely. Could probably use a friend to talk to until Daddy finally slits his throat. Tell me, do you have a problem with being tied up and trapped in a dark closet for months on end?"

Alright, I'll admit it. Clearly, I'm lying. The only man Abi's ever kidnapped is me, and he insists—repeatedly—that I'm actually the one who asked him to tag along. A bold-faced lie, if I've ever heard one.

"Please," she whispers, leaning in close. "I have children. Well, I have cats, but still."

"Fine," I shout, flinging my hands in the air. If she won't tell me where Abi is hiding, I'll find him myself. I whirl around on my heel, my eyes darting here, there, and everywhere the neon lights illuminate. The longer I look, the more frustrated I become, because he's nowhere to be found. Taking a step forward, I pause long enough to look over my shoulder at the bartender. There's a pressing matter that needs to be addressed. Squaring my shoulders, I try to make myself bigger than I actually am, but I don't know if it makes any difference, because she's still got that same dazed look on her face. "If you see him, don't you dare tell him I referred to him as Daddy. Do you understand me? The man has an ego the size of Dallas, and I refuse to allow you to stroke it by telling him I've dipped my toes into puddles of Daddy-kink. I will never hear the end of it. Don't even think about it. And, if you're already thinking about it, I'd advise you to think again." She opens her mouth to speak again, but we're done with the question-and-answer portion of our evening, so I whirl around like a dainty little thing and focus on the task at hand.

Abi. I need to find him.

There are twinks, twunks, and bears aplenty, but I don't see anyone resembling my Russian stalker. There's a small twinge of disappointment stinging my heart, but that's a ridiculous emotion that holds no relevance to my current predicament, so I shove it down into a tiny ball and pay it no mind.

He's not by the dance floor. Not by the speaker boxes. I glance behind me, wondering if he's trying to pull a fast one by sneaking up so he can pick me up and carry me out of this bar on his hip, but he's not back there, either. My heart races when I spot a giant on the other side of the bar, and beats faster the longer I wait for him to turn so I can see his face.

When the man finally looks over his shoulder, I quickly realize it isn't Abi. Yes, the men have the same unnecessarily conservative haircut, but his hair doesn't lay the same way as Abi's. They've got the same big brown eyes that sparkle like diamonds. They've even got the same square jaw. To anyone else, they might look related. I am not just anyone else, though. I've been literally attached to the man's hip for half a year. I know every line on his face. Every crinkle in his porcelain skin. The gray strands that have started growing in his short beard. The corner of his brow where the first sign of sweat shows itself. How his lips quirk at this fascinating angle when he calls me his little one .

The bar is dark, and the flickering neon lights are useless, but I don't need them. Rip out my eyes. Tear out my heart. I would still know Abi Kincaid.

I head toward the back of the room, sliding and shimmying between sweaty bodies until I finally reach the stage. There's a tap on my shoulder and I groan, because of course, this is the moment he chooses to show himself. Damn him for this. Goddess-fucking-forbid I have a moment's peace. Goddess-fucking-forbid I get one night to myself.

I whirl around, my hand already in the air, prepared to strike. Luckily, I'm able to stop myself when I realize it's not Abi behind me. Instead, there's a drag queen wearing a sequined gown and hair that looks like Jessica Rabbit.

"Sorry," I scream above the music, but she just reaches behind me and slaps my bare ass.

"We're even," she shouts into my ear. When she pulls away, she's got an oversized permanent marker in her hand, and I watch as she opens the cap, crouches down until she's level with my belly button, and writes something across my abdomen. Once she's done, she points at the small set of stairs leading to the stage. "You're up there."

Glancing down, I see the words Pretty Baby slathered across my tummy, and I want to crawl into a hole and die. Abi's here. It's the only explanation. He's the only person who uses the endearment. Three other twinks follow me on stage, and while I'm still not sure what I'll be forced to do up here, I can't lie and say it doesn't feel good to have everyone's eyes on me. The queen who scribbled on my chest is the last to step on stage, and when she does, she walks past us, gently cupping our crotches, one after the other, commenting on each man's heft. When she gets to me, she stares down at my bulge and snickers.

Fucking snickers!

Her death will be merciless.

"You might not be packing much, but that ass is the total package," she says into the microphone before spinning me around to show my ass to the crowd. Whooping and hollering, the crowd returns a bit of the self-confidence the queen stole when she casually insulted my cock. "Welcome!" She's facing the crowd, beaming ear to ear. "We've had a record turnout for this year's Hands on a Hard-On contest."

Hands on a hard-on?

I turn to the other men and notice they've got their hands in their pants, casually stroking themselves. What the fuck kind of bar is this?

"You all know the rules," the queen says to us. "You pump your hand in time with the rhythm of the song. If you intentionally stall, you're disqualified. If you ejaculate but pretend you haven't, you'll get a year-long ban from our bar." She darts her eyes back to my bulge and licks her lips. She may have insulted my size, but I guess size doesn't matter to her all that much. "As for our lucky winner; you'll be gifted a once in a lifetime vacation destination package."

I turn my head, looking around the room. Scanning the crowd, my breath hitches in my chest when I spot Abi leaning back against a wall, focusing on me. As usual, the beautiful bastard has his phone out, aimed at me, probably filming my every move. It's like he's daring me.

The man has a protective streak that knows no bounds. He's threatened to cut off men's cocks for staring at my ass, so I highly doubt he's going to allow me to masturbate for an entire crowd. My dick swells a little when he licks his lips. Instinctively, I raise my hand and offer him a wave. It's a ridiculous action, considering my current headspace, but it's like my body is working against me. I look at my hand, then my crotch, and finally, back at Abi. I expect him to motion me over to him, refusing to allow me to ejaculate in front of these men, but he doesn't. The motherfucker winks at me like he owns me. Like he wants me to thrust my bits around for every man in the bar to see, because those bits belong to him, and he wants everyone to know.

Well, if he wants a show, I'll give him one. I kind of want to see how jealous I can make him before he finally storms the stage, tosses me over his shoulder, slides a finger in my ass, and carts me away from any-and-everyone he considers a threat.

I slide my hand into my jock and wrap it around my ever-growing shaft. There's already pre-cum seeping from the tip, and when I look down, I watch as the wet patch spreads across the fabric. Part of me wants to pretend I'm leaking because of the crowd, but I think Abi and I both know it's because of him. The man makes me crazy, but the way he looks at me sometimes—the fire in his eyes—is like a sexual awakening in its own right.

As the drag queen shouts, "Gentlemen, to start your engines," over the sound system "Jai Ho" by Nicole Scherzinger (featuring the Pussycat Dolls) plays. I'm not entirely sure who the hell is in charge of the musical selection tonight, but it seems like they're stuck about twenty years in the past.

My eyes seek out Abi. I want him to watch me. For him to see the smugness on my face as I masturbate for a gaggle of drunken gays. My hand slides up and down to the song's rhythm, as do the hands of the men at my side. Having every eye on me like this feels like my body's gone supernova, imploding and swallowing the desire of each man in the crowd.

It's over embarrassingly fast. One moment, I'm stroking my cock, not a care in the world. The next, I catch sight of him. Our eyes lock, and it's all it takes. The second he mouths, "Come for me," I do just that, spilling over in my jock. It feels like he's ripping the load out of my shaft with his bare hands, dragging me toward orgasmic bliss with nothing more than three words and a smile .

My legs go wobbly, and I have to grab the drag queen for support. She turns and scowls at me, only to stop when she catches sight of Abi in the crowd. He points at the other three contestants before lifting his shirt and flashing the gun he has wedged in his waistband. My mouth falls open, because I'm pretty sure that's a terroristic threat. Mental images of Abi dying in a shootout with police swirl like a terrifying tornado through my mind. Panic rises like lava, and I know I need to somehow smooth things over, but I can't make my body move. Abi points at the other contestants and lifts his finger, twitching it left-right-left. I don't know what he's saying "no" to, but apparently the drag queen does, because she quickly steps to the man nearest me and grabs his wrist, stopping his movement.

"You're not moving with the beat of the song. You're out." Without missing a beat, she heads over to the next man, a twink with chest hair thick as carpet. "You too." Finally, she points at the last one. "Yep. You too."

"I didn't do anything," the final man proclaims.

The queen looks panicked, nervously darting around the bar as if she's seeking inspiration. She finds it in a half-drank bottle of beer resting on the edge of the stage. Bending down, she grabs the bottle and stealthily places it behind her back. Backing toward the man, she tips the bottleneck, letting the contents pour on the man's shorts. When she turns around, she feigns a gasp before dramatically pointing.

"He's ejaculated!" she shouts, and the crowd erupts into a chorus of applause. She makes her way to me, grabbing my wrist and yanking my hand out of my jock. My skin is still slathered in semen and the sudden motion sends stray globs flying into the crowd. I watch as a bit lands on an elderly woman in the front row. She's wearing a t-shirt that says, I'm not gay, but my grandson is, and I couldn't be prouder! Hashtag: Granny's first drag show. There are so many thoughts running through my mind. Why in the world would anyone bring their ninety-something granny to a gay bar? And why would you allow them to stand in the front row of a masturbation contest being touted as Hands on a Hard-On ? And—perhaps most egregiously of all—why in the world has someone spelled out the word hashtag on her custom-made t-shirt?

The woman reaches for her face, wiping my semen onto her fingertip and staring at it like if she looks long enough, the liquid will morph into something less unsettling than a stranger's load. She makes a face like she's going to vomit, as do I, and the man standing at her side—her grandson, I'm assuming—is staring daggers at me. I don't have time to unpack anything that's just happened, because Abi storms the stage and heads toward me. My heart thunders in my chest, because I can't read his current expression. Is he mad at me? Did watching me ejaculate have a stiffening effect on his cock? Not that I care about his cock, obvi.

He rips my wrist out of the queen's grip before leaning down and pressing his forehead against mine. "You escaped again," he says matter-of-factly. "Well done, little one. Daddy's proud of you for getting away."

My worry is replaced by annoyance. I hate when he acts like this. He may not mean to be condescending, but that's how it comes across. I rear back my arm to give him one of our usual slaps across the face, stopping when he grabs my wrist mid-swing. My eyes widen as he brings my hand closer to his face. There's still semen coating my palm, and as his lips approach, his mouth falling open, all I can do is shake my head.

Let me make one thing perfectly clear. Abi may finger my hole on a regular basis, but aside from the night we met, he's never touched my cock, he's never sucked me off, and he certainly hasn't tasted my semen.

"Abi," I say, feeling lightheaded and breathless. My heart is racing a mile a minute. "Abi, no." He stops moving, his tongue extended, one eyebrow raised questioningly. His eyes say the words his mouth can't get out. It's like he's begging me. Pleading to take this part of me into himself .

"Please?" he whispers, so low I almost don't catch it. "I don't ask you for much, but I'm asking for this."

"Why?" I ask, trying to steady my racing heart.

He stares at the cum on my palm like it holds all the secrets the universe has ever known. "Because it's a part of you, and I want every part of you." His gaze intensifies tenfold as he squeezes my ass with his free hand. "Please, Tatum?"

He wants this. More than Abi's ever wanted anything, he wants me to give him this. But I can't. I shouldn't. I shake my head, a twinge of guilt pricking my heart when I see the hope fade from his eyes.

"I'm sorry," I admit, because I really am. This man has turned my world upside down, and I'm still not sure if it's for the better. The way he looks at me—the way he worships me—should be enough kindling to light a spark of hope in my heart, but it isn't. He can't mean any of this, because stuff like that isn't meant for boys like me. Love isn't in the cards for the unlovable. I'm little more than a twink reaching the prime of his life, drenched in dazzling stardust and bathed in youthful beauty. Once the beauty fades, what will I be left with? A waifish figure, but not much else to offer. God knows Benito's told me I'm nothing without my beauty. Just a waste of space with an abysmal personality. It's basically ingrained in me. Scorched into my subconscious. Etched into my DNA.

Abi's eyes narrow. "I have upset you. I apologize." He uses his hand to scoop the remaining load from my palm into his. He wipes the cum on the side of his jeans, not caring that every soul we see tonight is going to know he's drenched in my essence. "I pushed too hard. I promise, I did not mean to offend."

Even though I want to shout at him, telling him he's done nothing wrong—kidnapping and drugging aside—I can't seem to make my mouth work. So, like a coward, I wait. Wait for him to take the lead. Wait for him to realize I'm unworthy. Wait for him to take my world apart, piece by piece.

"Little one," he whispers .

The drag queen slaps her hand on Abi's back, startling him. "If you're both done with ... whatever it is you're doing, it's time to crown the winner."

And just like that, the moment's gone. Abi's squeezing my shoulder, telling me, "Go on. Get your prize. You've earned it," sending me away with a kiss on the cheek.

This prize better be worth the emotional turmoil these last six months have put me through.