3. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

New York City at night is a fucking predator. All teeth and shadows, ready to swallow you whole. Late October makes it worse—wind bites through you and rain slicks the streets, reflecting neon lights like twisted invitations.

I love it. Even thrive in it.

The chaos, the anonymity—it's where I can be who I need to be, slipping in and out of roles like masks. The city doesn't ask questions, doesn't demand anything. There's power in that.

Freedom.

The kind I never had growing up, where every wrong word was like a fuse, just waiting to blow.

"Sure you wanna get out here?" The Uber driver glances at me through the rearview mirror. "Not much around here."

If he only knew about the debauchery hidden in this neighborhood. "Yeah, this is it."

"All right, then. Stay safe."

I exit the car and the cold rain clings to my skin, sharp and biting.

The mask in my hand—a black and gold skull that fits me like a second skin—catches the streetlight for a moment. I smirk, thinking about the innocents I've come across, the ones who grew up in some small town out in the middle of bumfuck America, their eyes wide with wonder when they step into the city for the first time.

Prey.

They're easy to spot. Easy to own.

But not me. I'm the one in control. I have to be. Because I know what it's like to feel powerless, to feel like everything's slipping out from under you.

And this city? It feeds that hunger, keeps me moving, never letting me stagnate or think too much.

I slip the mask on, the sculpted resin fitting perfectly against my skin, then head down the alley. The familiar stench of piss and desperation fills the air. No one would guess a high-end sex club sits just a few feet away.

But I know. And that's all that matters.

One of the things I love about this particular club is the anonymity. Not that I have to worry about people knowing my name. During the day, I'm just Jasper Kane, the restless drifter without a career or long-term direction. The guy who can't stay in one place too long because the stillness becomes too much like those cold, uneasy silences growing up.

The ones that always occurred before shit hit the fan.

Half the time I might as well have been invisible. Neither of my parents bothered to acknowledge my existence . . . unless I somehow fucked up.

But in these clubs, I'm something else.

Something more.

"Evening, sir." The bouncer steps aside, allowing me to pass, because I'm a regular, a fucking fixture at this point.

The stairs descend into darkness, the beat of the music pulsing through the walls like the heartbeat of some massive, sleeping beast, pulling me down.

At the bottom, the place opens up into a den of sin. Red velvet walls, dim lighting, shadows that twist and dance. Masked figures move through the space, some lounging in dark corners, others standing close to raised platforms, watching as people fuck.

It's a feast, and I'm fucking starving.

This club is built for people like me. Exhibitionists and voyeurs—people who understand the power that comes from being seen. Nothing gets me harder than the eyes on me, knowing I'm commanding the crowd's attention.

Not like when I was a kid and everything was chaos and nothing was mine.

I push my way through the bodies pressing against me, hands reaching out to touch. The anonymity of the masks makes people bold, desperate.

Hungry.

But I'm not here for them. I'm hunting for something specific tonight.

Ahead, a woman kneels, her back arched as she takes a man deep into her throat. Behind her, a couple fucks against the wall, the man's grip bruising the woman's hips. The tattoo on his shoulder is familiar. I've probably fucked them both at some point.

My eyes land on the guy beyond them.

A blond twink. Round blue eyes, delicate frame. He's wearing a simple pink mask, his full lips painted a dark red that matches the lighting.

Perfect.

Something beautiful to break.

I stalk toward him, my boots heavy against the floor, and his eyes widen as I approach. He's new here. His whole body screams inexperience and nerves. Perfect. His breath hitches as I lean in.

"Want to play?"

He nods, a small, eager movement, and I smirk behind my mask, running a finger along his jaw. His skin is soft, smooth. Untouched. But not for long.

"Come with me." I don't look back. I never need to. They always follow.

Once we're up on the platform, I turn to face him. His body trembles, but he's trying to be brave. Cute. I tilt his chin up with my finger. "What's your safe word?"

"Red," he whispers, his voice shaky.

I grin. "Good toy. Now, strip."

He does, his hands fumbling as he undresses, exposing his pale, slender body to the crowd. His cheeks flush, but he doesn't look up. Probably too afraid to face the eyes on him.

"First time being watched?"

His teeth sink into his bottom lip, neck flushing. "Y-yes."

I reach down, palming my hard cock, which is straining against the zipper of my jeans. "Perfect."

When he's naked, I run my hands over his chest, his body tensing under my touch as I trace a line down his stomach, his muscles tightening in anticipation.

"You're mine now. Get on your knees."

He obeys instantly, sinking down before me. I glance outward, thrilled at the crowd forming around us. I unzip my jeans, then push them down to my knees, my cock already hard and throbbing.

I grip his blond hair, guiding his mouth to me. "Suck, whore. And since you won't be able to speak, tap my thigh three times if you need to stop."

He nods, then wraps his lips around my hard length. Murmurs and gasps from the crowd reach my ears, fueling my hunger.

This is what I live for. The eyes on me, the control. I thrust hard into his mouth. He gags as I push deeper. Saliva drips down my sack, his throat tightening around me, but I don't stop.

I grip the back of his head, forcing him to take more. He's a good little slut, and I want the crowd to know it.

"Such a good fucking hole. Take my dick. That's it."

He moans, and I push in all the way until his nose is pressed against me, then I hold him there. I glance at the crowd, making sure people are still watching, then focus back on him, reaching down to pinch his nose closed.

His throat constricts around my dick, and in a few seconds, he starts struggling, the need to breathe taking over. I pull out as he coughs and sputters, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

I smirk, running a thumb over his swollen lips. "You want more?"

"Yes, please."

"Turn around, ass in the air."

He maneuvers so his ass faces me, his chest flush against the floor. I run my hands over the perfect round, firm muscle, squeezing before landing a sharp smack. He jolts, a gasp escaping his lips.

I do it again, harder this time. His skin reddens, the imprint of my hand clear. "Like that, whore?"

"More."

I oblige, raining down harder slaps, until his pale skin is as red as the velvet walls. Then I reach into the pocket of my jeans and pull out a small bottle of lube and a condom. I slick up my fingers, pressing one against his entrance. He tenses for a moment, then relaxes, letting me in. I work him open, adding another finger, then another.

"Such a tight, greedy hole. It's sucking my fingers in."

When he's loose enough, I withdraw and push my jeans to my ankles. I roll on the condom, then press the blunt tip of my cock against his entrance. I look out at the crowd. They're silent, but their eyes are glued on us.

Just the way I want it.

Gripping his hips, I thrust into him in one harsh motion. He cries out, the entirety of him tensing around me. I lean over, my body pressing against his back, my lips brushing against his ear. "You feel that? You feel every fucking inch of me?"

He nods, his breath hitching. "Yes. Yes."

"Good." I smirk and straighten, my hips moving faster, my dick slamming into him.

"Because I want you to remember this. I want you to remember who fucking owned you tonight."

I fuck him hard, each thrust drawing a gasp from deep within him. Gripping his hair, I pull his head back, allowing the crowd to witness the mixture of pleasure and pain written across his face. "Look at them. Look how they're watching your slutty ass taking my dick."

He mewls, his hands grasping the edge of the stage as if trying to hang on for dear life.

The crowd is getting louder, their voices a chorus of moans and whispers. They're feeding off us, off the energy, off the fucking raw desire that's filling the room.

I reach around, wrapping my hand around his dick. He's hard, throbbing, and leaking. "Such a horny little whore, aren't you? Bet there's a big puddle under this little prick."

"Please. Please."

I stroke his length, hard. "Tell them what a whore you are."

"I'm a dirty whore. Nothing but a toy. Oh God. More. Fuck me harder." He moans, his body tensing, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

My hand tightens around him, moving in time with each of my thrusts. "Come for me. Come for me like the greedy little whore you are."

He cries out, his body convulsing as he comes, his release spilling over my hand. His muscles tighten around me and I groan, my hips moving faster, my dick slamming into him as I chase my own release.

But something shifts, a tension in the air that's . . . wrong. It's subtle at first, like a cold breath on the back of my neck. I scan the crowd, and that's when I see him.

A man in a Venetian metallic mask stands near the back, his eyes locked on mine. There's something about the way he's watching—like he knows me, like he sees through the mask I'm wearing.

No one watches me like that.

My rhythm falters and I tear my gaze away, refocusing on the hole I'm fucking. But the pressure in my chest grows. I rut into the twink harder, chasing the high, but the man's gaze is burning into me, searing my skin.

I can't shake it, can't ignore it.

When I look back at him, he nods—a small, almost imperceptible movement. And then I break. The tension snaps, my body shaking as I come hard, a strangled cry escaping me.

My eyes stay locked with the man's, and when my orgasm starts to fade, he smiles.

What the fuck!

I pull out, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The twink collapses onto the stage, his body trembling. I look down at him, at the handprints on his skin, at the bruises forming on his hips.

He's a fucking mess—a beautiful, broken mess.

My eyes close as I rake my hands through my hair, tugging at the roots. I should be basking in the fact I just owned him, should be eating up the soft applause from the crowd.

But all I feel is unsettled.

All because of that fucking man.