Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 67966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
But for Thorn…it was the weight of his heartbreak he was attracted to. The way the man appeared so polished and strong on the outside while bleeding to death inside.
Lucas wore grief like a superbly knotted tie, so perfect and deceiving.
Oh yeah, he really needs Lincoln.
For half an hour, Thorn monitored him closely, deciding—almost against his better judgment and disregarding his rules—that he’d extend Lucas an invitation to Belladonna.
Oliver whispered something in Lucas’s ear before he took his keys and cell, and walked away from the bar.
That was his cue.
He raised two fingers for the waiter to bring his check, and when he shifted his gaze back to Lucas, a man the size of a linebacker in a wrinkled black suit was in front of him, blocking his view.
The guy’s suit looked as if he’d slept in it for days. Thorn’s gaze traveled up higher, and those eyes—gray and cold—radiated enough disdain to punch the air from his lungs.
“My god,” Thorn said before he could stop himself. “Evan. Is that you?”
“Thorn,” Evan grunted his name as if it pissed him off to even have to say it.
Shit.
Thorn’s pulse spiked as his ex slid into the booth beside him, trapping him between his bulk and the wall.
With his new broken heart only feet from him, Thorn’s mind was catapulted into flight mode. He had to get away. He’d been here before and knew what was coming next.
Thorn had his demons just like everyone else, and each time he thought he’d conquered them, they resurfaced, louder, crueler, and determined to tear him apart all over again.
He’d just been thinking how well Lucas carried himself—upright and strong—while a hollowed void on the inside.
Now here was Evan, the man who’d left Thorn feeling the exact same way.
The irony wasn’t lost on him.
Evan’s scent hit him first. The faint smell of Walmart-brand aftershave over the stale twang of cheap whiskey. Memories tried to follow the stench, but Thorn shut the door on them before they could get across the threshold.
The Kingdom BDSM Club
Norfolk, VA
Friday, 10:11 p.m.
“Galan.”
The thunderous voice carried before he’d even settled onto the last stool at the bar, tucked away in the shadows where he’d hoped to stay invisible.
Galan’s butter-soft leather pants made no sound as he turned to see who had recognized him already.
It was the owner, Ben Jacobs, but everybody called him Big Ben on account of the fact that he was almost six-five.
Leather draped across his towering frame, a peaked biker hat sitting ridiculously on his head, grin oily as ever. He looked like a caricature.
Motherfucker. Not tonight.
Galan wasn’t in the mood for this guy. It’d taken everything in him to even show his face in the club tonight, so the last thing he wanted was an audience or some random-ass chitchat. Especially with this poser. A fake Sir who possessed the title but not the heart.
Galan had been into dominance his entire adult life…and maybe a smidge before then, so he knew a real Dom when he met one.
Just because this prick had received enough of an inheritance to buy a club and stitch his name into genuine rawhide didn’t make him a fucking Sir.
That was a title that had to be earned, and this jackass couldn’t keep a boy long enough to get him off, not to mention know the difference between power and affection.
“I heard about what that slut did to you,” Ben snarled, plopping his thick ass onto the stool beside him.
The words hit like a slap. Galan clenched both fists on top of the bar to keep from wrapping his hands around Ben’s throat.
“Running off with another bastard…leaving you like—”
“I’m good,” Galan bit out, trying to dismiss Ben without being an outright dick.
He flagged down one of the bartenders, ignoring the burn of Ben’s stare.
“What can I get you, sir?” The server was pretty, too pretty, his smoky gaze lingering far too low down his chest, where the top three buttons of his white silk shirt were undone.
The ogling was intrusive, and he’d done nothing to invite it.
“Eyes up here, boy,” he rumbled before he softened the sting with a wink.
The blush blooming across the server’s cheeks was charming—but nothing stirred in Galan. Not anymore.
“I’ll have a Walker Platinum. Neat,” he ordered.
He’d had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before somebody brought up his long-term sub, Micah, who’d terminated Galan’s contract, without notice, in the most pride-crushing way—by email. Three cold paragraphs that accused him of not being a “true Dom.”
As if dominance was measured by how loudly he barked commands or how many toys he shoved up his boy’s ass.
Galan knew what kind of Sir he was and always would be. He refused to change.
He’d always cherish his boy. Reward generously, love hard. He believed in a devotion that nurtured, not consumed. He desired a boy, not a servant, to be the love of his life, his diamond, and the rewards would come back tenfold.