4. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The condom snaps off with a practiced flick of my wrist. I tie it up, toss it into the nearby bin, then yank up my jeans, tucking myself away. My heart is still pounding as I hop off the stage, the echo of my boots hitting the floor resonating through me.

I need a fucking drink.

Pushing my way through the crowd, I ignore the hands that reach out to touch me and make my way to the bar. Normally, I'd bask in the attention and admiration. But right now, it's nothing more than white noise buzzing in the back of my skull.

The bartender, a woman with ice-blonde hair and a latex catsuit, slides a glass of whiskey toward me without a word. "Rough night?"

I down it in one go, the burn grounding me, and slam the glass back onto the counter. "Something like that."

She quirks a brow but says nothing more, moving along to help other patrons.

I clench my jaw and exhale through my nose.

Why did I come so hard, so suddenly, when some asshole in a Venetian mask nodded at me? It was like my body wasn't my own, like he pulled on strings I didn't even know were attached to me.

My grip tightens around the glass, wanting to smash it against the counter. I'm not some submissive little bitch waiting for someone to tell me when I can come. That's not me. I'm the one in control.

Always.

No one else.

But my dick disagrees since it's already getting hard again at the memory of that man's eyes, the way he seemed to see right through me. It's unsettling. Actually, it's downright unnerving.

I signal for another drink, then turn to the stage. The twink I just fucked stares at me, his legs shaking like a newborn deer. He bites his lower lip, then looks away, hopping off the stage. Not sure what he expected.

Even if the asshole in the mask hadn't thrown me off my game, I would still be here getting a drink. I don't do that aftercare bullshit.

"Here you go." The bartender slides another glass toward me, and I down it in one go, relishing the burn as the whiskey slides down my throat.

I need to get a grip, to remember who I am. But the unease is still there, lurking just beneath the surface. I can't shake it.

Can't shake the way the man's eyes seemed to strip me bare, even more than the crowd ever could.

And I fucking hate it.

"Interesting performance."

I don't need to turn to know who it is. His presence floods the space around me even without a touch.

Still, I glance sideways. And sure enough, there he is. The man from the crowd. The one who didn't just watch but dissected me with his eyes.

Up close, he's taller. His frame is lean and solid. There's a dangerous edge to him, despite the expensive black suit that clings to his frame like a second skin. The elaborately designed Venetian mask covering half his face doesn't hide the intensity of his gaze either—dark eyes that gleam, sharp and unreadable.

"You enjoy the control." His voice slides over me, low and smooth, as if it's a secret meant just for the two of us.

It isn't a question. It's a statement. A challenge.

My body tenses, my hand tightening around the empty glass. I turn to face him fully, narrowing my eyes. "And you don't?"

A smile pulls at his lips, not quite friendly, not quite anything I can pin down. He steps closer, just a fraction, but it's enough to make the air between us charged, like an electric storm brewing. "I enjoy watching you fight to keep it."

His gaze drifts down my body, lingering, unapologetic, before settling back on my eyes. There's something predatory about him—not aggressive, but poised, like he's daring me to push back, to prove him wrong.

And fuck if I don't want to.

I lean against the bar, crossing my arms over my chest. "You get off on watching, huh? That's cute." My voice drips with sarcasm.

He just smirks. "I get off on watching people like you. People who think they're in control."

"Excuse me?"

He doesn't react to my biting tone, and there's something both unsettling and alluring in that. Like he already knows what makes me tick.

"What's your name?" I ask, my voice sharper than I intend.

He tilts his head slightly, as if considering whether or not to answer. "Adrian."

"Jasper," I reply, keeping my tone even. My heart, though—fuck, it's racing.

"You enjoy the thrill of exhibitionism, don't you, Jasper? The eyes on you, the power of being watched. It's intoxicating, isn't it?"

I raise an eyebrow, trying to regain some semblance of control. "You don't know shit about me."

He chuckles, a low, rich sound that goes straight to my cock. "I know more than you think. You're bored. You crave something more, something deeper. Something that will remind you why you started coming here in the first place."

I snort, though there's a twinge of truth in his words. I've been feeling it lately, the staleness, the monotony. Even the temporary sense of power is beginning to become hollow. "And you think you can offer me that?"

"I can offer you a thrill you'll never forget."

I expect a phone number. A line. A key to his place.

Instead, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a black business card—sleek, unmarked except for an address in silver lettering.

"Tomorrow night." He extends it but doesn't just hand it to me. No. He holds the black card just out of reach, making me lean in ever so slightly to take it.

Our fingers brush, the brief contact sending an electric spark that goes straight to my already aching cock.

I look at the card. "This it? A night of sex at your house?"

"There's more than physical pleasure waiting for you. If you're ready for it." His tone is measured, seductive, but it's the look in his eyes that makes me hesitate. There's something dark, something dangerous lurking beneath the surface.

I should walk away. I should toss the card in the nearest trash can and forget this ever happened. But the way Adrian speaks, the way he watches me—it's impossible to shake the feeling will be more than just another random hookup.

"It isn't about control. It's about what happens when you let it go." His voice is barely a whisper, yet undeniably commanding.

He turns and walks away, disappearing into the crowd like a ghost, leaving me standing at the bar, staring down at the black card.

I stare unblinking, palms sweating. Not just from him, but from one phrase.

It's about what happens when you let it go.

I've spent years perfecting this persona, this mask of dominance and control. It's who I am. It's what I need to be.

But what if it isn't?

What if he's right?

I take in the card again, the silver letters gleaming under the dim lights of the club. My fingers tighten around it.

Control has always been my anchor. My safety net.

But what happens if I let it go?