Chapter Four

Sebastian

Licking my lips languidly, I lean down once more to place a wicked, tantalizing kiss on Jackon's cockhead, before I rise to my feet. "Well, that was a little bit of fun, wasn't it?" I ask, casually leaning against his desk as if I didn't just blow his damn mind.

"You're a fucking cock-demon," he answers. His broad, inked chest heaves with desire as he catches his breath.

"I think that's the nicest thing you've said since I walked in this room."

Jackon grimaces ever so slightly. "I've hated you for fucking years, Crenshaw," he says by way of an apology. "And now, you're locking my office door and giving me some of the best head I've had in my life. Forgive me for being a little thrown."

"You hated me, seriously? You hardly know me," I reason with a small shake of my head. I reach into my pocket and retrieve a spliff I rolled earlier in the evening. "You indulge?" I ask.

"Always," he answers, pulling a beautiful, custom-engraved The Dungeon zippo from his ass pocket. Flicking back the cap, he lights that baby up, offering the flame to the joint between my fingers.

Leaning forward, I puff to get her going. Satisfied, I take a few long drags before exhaling a plume of delicious, sweet-smelling smoke, then pass it to Jackson as he puts his lighter away. "So," I say, staving off the silence. "What did I ever do to shit you off so bad?"

Jackson inhales and exhales, filling the office with the telltale smell of good weed, before he cracks a grin that has me swooning. "I honestly couldn't fucking tell you," he answers. "It's just everything about you. You're cocky as hell, not to mention a bloody pretty boy. Your club has patrons for days, and you're always in the damn media. You with your fucking perfectly fitted suits, your cane, and your Emo-ass hair … you just get under my skin."

I smirk, and reach for the spliff, hanging it loosely between my fingers as it slowly burns. "And you only just realized you were attracted to me tonight, for real?" I ask, one brow cocked in amusement.

Jackson pushes himself up from his chair and makes a show of putting himself away, slowly zipping himself up and re-buckling his belt. "Watch it," he says. He wanders over to the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office that look directly over The Dungeon. "This club is my life. It was easy to hate you. You were— are —competition. It's just business."

"Is it?" I reply. I saunter to his side to watch the depraved and kinky activities going on below in The Dungeon's lush, Gothic space. "Our clubs serve very different types of clientele, Jack. The Dungeon is a true haven for the debauched BDSM lover. The Red Bastille is just for fun. It's all pizzazz, entertainment, and a little sex on the side. It's a good night, that's it. My clients aren't yours. Some may grow to be, one day. But my club is for those new to the scene—those who are exploring. Your club is for those who already know they're different, know what they like, and aren't ashamed of it. I don't know why you ever felt threatened by The Red Bastille. The difference between our establishments is night and day."

Jackson grabs the last of the spliff off me with a wry smile. "Well, when you put it like that, I don't bloody know, either. Though I wouldn't call it threatened, pretty boy. I just didn't like your showy cabaret shit."

I roll my eyes and slip my hand into the tight back pocket of Jackon's leather pants and squeeze his hard ass. "So, friends then?" I ask. "Unless you want to keep up the enemies charade?"

Jackson drags the joint to death, snuffing it out beneath his boot on the matte black tiles, before blowing the smoke in my face. "I don't know what you're fucking talking about," he says, seizing my wrist, and removing my hand from his ass in the blink of an eye. "We aren't friends, Sebastian. We never will be."

"How about friends with benefits, then?" I offer, letting my inner brat out to play.

"I said, I don't do friends. You're either my enemy or my lover."

I sigh. Jackson is so hot when he puts on his grumps. "All right then, you win, big guy. Enemies it is."

Jackon releases my wrist and wraps his huge hand around my throat, forcing me to the tips of my toes. "Oh, you are a bratty little shit, aren't you?" he croons by my ear. "I'm only too happy to play," he warns.

"Then put your Dungeon Master moves on, bitch," I breathe, defiantly holding his eye. "Because I might bend, Jack, but I don't break."

Jackson's mouth crashes into mine as he pivots—still choking me—shoving me against the one-way glass that overlooks the club.

My mind melts at his perfect control and brutal power. I haven't been manhandled properly in a good, long while. I've missed it.

Releasing my throat, his voice takes on a deliciously husky and dangerous tone. "You're a bit of a pain slut, aren't you, Sebastian?" he whispers into the crook of my neck, nipping and biting at my tender skin in the most erotic way imaginable. One hand gropes my ass, while the other teases my cock through my tailored trousers. I spread my legs automatically without shame to give him better access. "What of it?" I rasp, craving more.

Jackson squeezes my package firmly and looks deep into my soul. "Tonight, you're my whore, Sebastian. I'm going to show you how we have fun here, away from all the feathers and frou-frou shit."

I grin, riling him. "All I hear are words, Jack. Show me," I challenge. Jack's palm sings across the side of my face, and for a moment I see stars, before a deep, hot throb develops in the cheek where he struck me. Fuck, yeah.

"It's Master to you, slave boy," he snarls. "And next time you disrespect me, I'm going to take it out on your ass."