The Deeper He Hurts (2 page)

Asher didn't blink or respond, not right away. His focus seemed to penetrate right through Sawyer in that way Doms tried to read him. It didn't concern him, though. There was nothing showing he didn't want seen.

“I need a copy of your driver's license,” Asher finally said. “Social Security, certification, and first aid cards. And a contact number.” He motioned toward the office space. “You're welcome to use any open desk and computer. There are showers off the garage area. Do you need any gear?”

Asher was all practical efficiency once again. A part of Sawyer admired his focus. That kind of intensity was incredible during a scene. Not easily distracted or swayed from his intent.

A slow burn started deep in Sawyer's stomach, an itch layered in need and underwritten with desire. He rubbed a palm over his thigh, another reminder that physical pain—not attraction or flirtation or even friendship—was the only thing he wanted from this guy.

The only thing he'd ever need—from anyone.

“I'm good,” he said, standing. “I'll fill these out and bring everything back.”

He didn't wait for more than a nod before striding out of the suddenly claustrophobic office. A clammy layer of sweat slicked down his back, the walls seeming to creep closer despite the openness. The high windows over the cubicles along with the bigger one near the entrance kept the space from being an artificially lit tomb, but it was still too dark. Too confining.

He focused on the swath of sunlight that cut through the room, slow deep breaths keeping his pace even and his mind centered. The door to the garage swung open with little resistance and zero noise. A sigh heaved from his chest at the open garage doors and the waft of fresh air that greeted him. He sucked in a deep breath, held it, then let it go, along with his rising panic.

No one would know anything more than what he allowed them to see. Ever.

The high hiss of the whip sliced through the air, a precursor to the crack as it met the meaty flesh of the sub's ass. His subsequent wail bounced off the ceiling before his cries changed into a low whimper. Tears streamed down his cheeks, back heaving with each quick breath. A series of thin red stripes were layered over his pale skin in neat parallel lines detailing the cause of the tears.

Ash studied the scene, noting each detail. Only ten strikes in and the guy was ready to break. Maybe he had more in him. Maybe he'd loosen up once—if—he let the endorphins take over.

More likely he was only enduring the pain to please the Dom. The beard-laden, whip-wielding man was completely focused on the sub, a stern expression mollified by his smirk. He was definitely enjoying the exchange.

Ash shook his head—in envy or displeasure? More likely frustration. A scene like this was pretty straightforward. A standard exchange of power that was synonymous with the BDSM community. Too bad his needs were simpler, but much darker than that.

The pungent scent of sex and man-sweat set the atmosphere and triggered more than one carnal response. His dick was full but not erect, his predatory instincts heightened as he analyzed every guy in the room.

Dane's was one of the most reputable BDSM clubs in the area. The best gay one by far. But there was nothing new. Nothing or no one that wound him up or fed his demon. He had a few guys he played with regularly, but he was leaving each scene feeling less and less fulfilled.

Not the bottom's fault either.

He leaned against the wall and scanned the scenes taking place in the dungeon. Every one of them had varying degrees of the power exchange in play. From complete Master/slave relationships where the sub was greedily sucking his Dom's toes, his raised ass displaying a large plug, to the basic flogging, paddling, bondage, and humiliation play.

His life would be easier if any of what he saw could appease him. He'd tried when he'd first ventured into BDSM. Ten years and way too many mistakes and empty scenes later, he knew better now.

He glanced at his watch, winced. Did he want to wait around for forty more minutes? What was the likelihood that the bottom would work out? He'd been in the Portland community for long enough to know most of the true pain sluts. But guys moved around. New men developed stronger needs and newbies could surprise him.

Could—but seldom did.

Damn it.
He'd been up at four for an East Coast call, and his bed sounded like heaven. But the chance this guy might have that elusive something he'd been searching for kept him from canceling even though he was exhausted. He dropped his head back, a sigh escaping. He was thirty-five years old and grumbling like an old man.

He shoved away from the wall and strode down the long hallway, the sounds of the dungeon fading with each step. A muffled growl filtered from one of the private rooms that lined the hallway, and he let his imagination go for a moment. A scene built in his head that few would like but he longed for. A whip. Deep red welts. Blood. Tortured screams.

It faded as quickly as it'd formed when he entered the bar area. The tables were littered with men, the Thursday night crowd prepping for the weekend. He nodded at a couple of guys, ignored another. Were any Kick partners here? It was summer and most of them were busy keeping the company in the black.

Not an easy feat given the accident that spring.

A sudden crush of remorse nailed him like the unexpected freight train it was. His heart constricted, gut dropping before he willed the pain away.

Chris and Finn had first bonded with him right here at Dane's. His gaze landed on the exact table where they'd listened to his pitch on technology, apps, and how he could help their new company. He hadn't known shit about adventure sports, but he'd talked circles around their limited knowledge of computers, networks, business requirements, and employment regulations. And what he hadn't known, he'd quickly learned.

The responsibility to carry on what they'd worked so hard to create weighed on him daily. Finn was slowly improving since he'd woken from his coma, but he had a long way to go before he'd be released from the rehabilitation center. And Chris, he missed that fucker every damn day. He'd died too young—though at what age was death appropriate?

He scoffed at himself, the self-mockery sticking to his dark mood.

He spotted Grady at the bar, the corner chair unofficially his since he'd started dating the bartender. His boyfriend, Micah, was behind the bar like normal, a familiar presence who'd managed to break through Grady's barriers when no one at Kick had been able to after Finn's accident.

And right next to the newest Kick partner was their newest employee. Sawyer Stevens.

Thirty years old. Born, raised, and currently living near Moab, Utah. An experienced whitewater guide and…what?

Their backs were to him, postures relaxed. Just out for a drink? Conversation? Or was Sawyer here for another reason?

And he cared…why?

He resisted the urge to scrub his face and folded his arms over his chest, clamping his curiosity down. It was pointless and none of his concern, unless Sawyer's interests created a business issue, but none of his background checks had hinted at any problems. By all accounts, their newest employee was the Boy Scout savior he seemed to be.

Appearances meant nothing, though. He knew that too damn well.

Sawyer agreeing to join them when most of the experienced guides were already booked had Ash puzzling for the reason. For a guy whose résumé rarely ventured outside of the Four Corners area of the Southwest, this had been a rather large leap. He hadn't needed the job, either. In fact, he'd left one to take theirs.

Goodwill? Curiosity? A sudden drive to explore other areas of the country? Or, based on his appearance here, the hopes of some extracurricular activities with one of the partners?

Sawyer would be disappointed if that was the case. The partners had a strict rule about playing with employees. The potential for disaster was too great, especially given how focused every employee needed to be on their job.

Ash took another look at his watch, impatience eating at the last of his calm. His appointment wasn't late, though, and getting annoyed would solve nothing. Releasing a slow breath, he navigated a path through the tables to Sawyer, edging between the empty stool at his side and his solid form.

“Hey.” He nodded at both of them. “How's it going?” His arm was pressed against Sawyer's, the space tight enough to justify the contact. He could sit down or nudge the stool over, but he didn't.

“Hey, Ash,” Grady said, smiling. He'd loosened up once he'd realized that none of the partners were going to think less of him because he liked to submit to Micah. “What's up?”

“Not much.” He looked at Sawyer, who met his gaze without flinching. He hadn't moved away either, but there definitely wasn't a challenge in his interesting golden brown eyes. The color was contained by a black ring round the edge of the iris that seemed to highlight their uniqueness. He'd noticed the color at the office and had had a hard time not staring at them—him. “You ready to head out tomorrow?”

A crooked half smile lifted Sawyer's cheek, a dimple making an appearance beneath the dark scruff of his beard. “Yes.” That was it.

Ash waited another beat, questions flying through his mind that were better left unasked. Such as if he liked to be tied up? Whipped? Caned? Hurt until he cried?

Heat simmered through their shirtsleeves and radiated into Ash. The simple contact should have been barely noticeable instead of blazingly intense. Maybe it wouldn't have been either if he weren't so crowded into Sawyer's space, and so damn aware of the guy.

“Grady spoke very highly of your skills,” he finally said, voice measured. Too bad they'd been solely about his whitewater abilities.

“Huh.” Sawyer dropped his gaze in a slow perusal that managed to singe Ash's cotton shirt before he shot Grady a lazy grin. “He didn't say much about you.”

Fucker
.

Grady's burst of laughter broke the dash of tension. Top then? Switch? Bratty bottom? He was taking a leap and going with gay, based on the sexual tension that snapped between them. He could ask. Would under different circumstances.

But Sawyer was an employee.

He blew out a shallow puff of air and let the jab fly by. “I'm not surprised.”

“No?” Sawyer lifted a brow. His features softened some, the hard edges smoothing out to display a hungry curiosity along with a youthfulness that'd been buried beneath the harder front.

“Nah.” He shook his head, glancing at Grady. “He'd have no idea what to say about me.”

Grady's brows jumped, the open question flying between them. “That's because you hide your lazy ass behind a desk all day,” Grady countered, maintaining the tight-lipped hold the partners kept on their personal desires—and one another's.

He flashed an approving smile at Grady. “And my lazy ass keeps the company operating so you crazy fucks can play all day.”

“Hear, hear.” Grady lifted his glass, a grateful grin splitting his face. “We do appreciate it.”

“Sure you do.” His focus shifted as a couple entered the bar. He turned to track their progress as they crossed the back of the room and headed down the hallway. His appointment had arrived. “Remember that the next time you toss a disgruntled client at me to handle.”

“Damn.” Grady grew serious. “I definitely do appreciate you.”

“It doesn't matter how hard you work to please the customer,” Sawyer said, head shaking in commiseration. “It's impossible to make everyone happy.”

Grady clinked his glass against Sawyer's on the bar. “Truth.”

There were some people who could never be pleased, no matter how hard the guide worked. And still others who refused to understand that nature was unpredictable and their guide couldn't do anything about the weather or water levels or the customer's own unpreparedness.

And appeasing those dickheads when Ash would rather hang weights from their balls was all part of the game. The challenge was to give them what they wanted without giving them more than he wanted to.

“Ash,” Micah greeted him from behind the bar. “What can I get you?”

“I'm good. Thanks.” He stepped back, pointedly dragging his arm against Sawyer's, the contact buzzing over his skin before it dropped away. “I have an appointment.”

Sawyer whipped his head around, eyes wide before he quickly turned back to Micah. Grady's brows winged up and Ash smothered his chuckle.

He left without another word, ideas spinning in his head that had nothing to do with the men he was about to meet.

Sawyer Stevens wasn't new to the BDSM scene; he'd been too comfortable in the surroundings. He didn't throw off a Dom vibe, yet the submissive vibe wasn't there either. Maybe something in between that only came out in a scene or the bedroom?

There was interest, though. Subtle, curious awareness that smoldered behind those gold-tinged eyes. And that intrigued Asher far more than the meeting he was about to have.

Sawyer glanced over his shoulder and watched Asher stride down the hallway to his “appointment.” A curious part of him wanted to follow and…what? Intervene? Jump in?

See what the hell he was up to.

His pulse jumped a notch just thinking about the possibilities.

He didn't get off on the Mr. Preppy superior shit Asher presented, but his strong, confident vibe pinged with his own. The undercurrent of intelligence was another plus.

“You need a refill, Sawyer?”

He turned back, shook his head at Micah's question, and let his curiosity fade. “I'm good.” Any more caffeine and all chances of sleep would be gone. “Thanks.”

“What time are you guys heading out tomorrow morning?” Micah glanced between him and Grady.

“Early,” Grady said. “Around six.”

“Does that give us enough time?” Sawyer asked.

“Yeah. We'll be going opposite of rush hour traffic, so it's usually pretty smooth.”

“Cool.” He straightened, cracked his neck. “And thanks again for letting me crash at your place.” He nodded at Micah, who'd offered up his spare bedroom in the converted attic, which Sawyer had declined in favor of pitching his tent in Micah's small backyard. “You're positive your downstairs tenant won't freak and call the cops?”

Micah's laugh was deep and rolling. “I assured her you weren't a vagrant or an axe murderer.”

“You never know…” He waggled his brows.

“So what's your deal?” Grady asked, plowing into the conversation with no grace, frown lines wrinkling over his forehead.

“What do you mean?” He didn't care for Grady's tone or where the conversation was most likely heading, though he'd come here for this exact reason.

“What's your kink?”

“Grady,” Micah reprimanded, scowling. “You're being an ass. Again.”

“Shit.” Grady grimaced. “Sorry.” He sniffed and picked at the damp napkin under his glass. “I was just curious.” He shrugged. “You know how the rumors fly within the river community.” He raised his brows, waiting without exactly pushing.

“Rumors?” Sawyer's stomach twisted, a familiar sick sensation building one slow tick at a time. “What kind of rumors?” His past was pretty buried, especially to anyone outside of his hometown of Moab. That didn't stop the doubts from cramping into the space he refused to acknowledge, but he shut them down, a cold calm settling in to steady him.

Grady shrugged. “Nothing big. Just, you know.” He snuck a glance at Micah, whose scowl had deepened. “Shit. Never mind.”

“Oh, no.” He bit the words out past his tight throat. “Spill it. What are the rumors about me?”

“Look.” Grady shifted in his seat. He rubbed a hand over his nape, then straightened to nail him with a hard gaze. “You know I'm with Micah and we're sitting in a gay BDSM club and that I'm not the dominant one when it comes to sex.” He shrugged, lip quirking. “And you made a point of mentioning the gay Dom aspect of Kick when we were in Utah, so what's your deal?” He sucked in a breath. “Are you a Dom, sub, switch? Tell me to fuck off if it's none of my business, but the rumor mill says you like it rough and sometimes have the marks to prove it.”

He liked it rough.
He almost laughed out loud at that understatement. If “rough” was all he liked, he wouldn't be here right now. He could get rough anywhere.

It was a fuck ton harder to get what he liked without a load of other shit coming with it. At least this was a rumor he could handle talking about.

He resisted the urge to wet his lips or to scratch the itch on his arm. He didn't blink or look away either. No sign of guilt, shame, or weakness would be displayed. He didn't have to explain himself or his needs. Hell, he rarely shared this side of himself with anyone, and especially not with a coworker. Boss even, now that Grady was a partner at Kick. But he had to open up some or go back to the online hunting that'd gotten him nowhere in the last year.

“I'm a bottom,” he stated, voice flat. “Some might call me a masochist, but I don't link pain with sexual pleasure. A better term would be a ‘pain slut.' ” He quirked his shoulder in a brief shrug. “I'm not a submissive, and I'll rip the nuts off a guy before I'll lick his boots.”

His words settled between them in a silence unbroken by the general din of the room. Grady's expression gave away nothing. The steely calm Sawyer relied on held strong, though. In truth, there was very little Grady could say or do that would truly affect him. Worst-case scenario, he'd hit the road home tomorrow instead of heading out with Kick. Not a big deal to him at all.

“Bottom.” Grady gave a slow nod. “Okay. I like that term. It's better than sub.”

“I'm
not
a sub.” Sawyer made sure to emphasize that point. There were too many who assumed a masochist or bottom was synonymous with submissive. “I'm not looking for a Dom, nor do I want to pretend I'm a sub simply to get a guy to do what I want. I'm also not a switch or a pushy sub or a brat or any of the other labels some want to slap on me. Except pain slut.” He jerked his chin up. “I'll own that.”

Fuck
. Nothing like opening up—some. Right.

“Hey.” Grady raised his hand, chuckling. “You don't have to lecture me on labels. I agree completely.” He glanced at Micah. “I'm not judging. At all. And so you know, you'll have no issue about any of this from Kick. As long as it doesn't interfere with your job, the company doesn't give a shit about your private life. Trust me on that.”

“As they shouldn't,” Sawyer agreed. Although most employers still balked at anything dealing with the leather community. Shove the word “gay” in front of BDSM and way too many companies found a reason to let that person go.

But his motives for keeping his private life private had little to do with job security.

He forcibly relaxed his jaw and sat back. It was stupid to get so adamant about it, but he was sick of clarifying himself only to have it brushed off. Eleven years in the leather scene, and the understanding of it was worse now, since those damn books had made “BDSM” a household word.

“Are you looking for someone to play with?” Micah asked.

It was foreign talking so openly about this with people he knew outside of the leather scene. Even stranger was the thought of them seeing exactly what he needed.

His stomach clenched around the reality of how exposed he'd made himself. Pride had nothing to do with it, either. He could care less what they thought about him. Still, he didn't relish the idea of putting so much of himself out there for his employer—or anyone he was going to see outside of the dungeon—to witness.

Private scenes were too dangerous for him, given how far into edge play he liked—needed—to go, but he could explore elsewhere. It was a big city with a relatively large kink network and other clubs.

A muscle twitched in his thigh, a phantom pain zinging to his groin in a teasing arc. His gaze wandered over his shoulder to the hallway so many guys had gone down—including Asher. Asher who had an appointment.

For what? With whom?

He closed his eyes, cutting off his thoughts. The probability of Asher being able to give him the level of pain he required was a long shot. It took a true, pure sadist to satisfy his ache, and finding the nonpsychotic ones had become too much like spinning a roulette wheel. He either landed on the posers or the ones who grew up torturing animals. And the second set were the only ones who'd go as far as Sawyer could—and then further.

Who'd keep going if there wasn't a Dungeon Master around.

“Sawyer?”

He turned around, mentally scrambling to pick up the conversation. Grady's partner exuded a casual strength that blended into the background in a nonthreatening way. He'd obviously witnessed much and could assimilate more, and he was putting together some conclusions regarding Sawyer that were most likely correct.

“Are the bathrooms down the hall?” he asked. He didn't have to go, but it was an easy exit.

“Yes.” Micah answered, his smile friendly instead of knowing. “Look around if you want. The dungeon's at the end. Private rooms line the hallway. There's a locker room attached to the restroom as well.” He set a bar rag down and leaned in. “Most here are open to questions. We have a pretty tight crowd, but they'll point you in a direction if you're looking for something specific. The fact that you're here means a member got you in.”

The bouncer had checked his name off on a list before he'd been allowed in the door. A system like that kept the curious out and made the clientele accountable for each other. In other words, fuck up and it reflects back on that member. In his case, Grady and Micah.

Sawyer slid from the stool, muscles tightening as his senses kicked in. He'd blocked them earlier, when his visit was nothing more than a social call with Grady. The sight of partially clothed subs bound and kneeling at their Dom's feet did nothing for him. Neither did the deep, red blush covering the ass of one blissed-out sub who was bent over his Dom's knees.

He'd graduated from impact play years ago. That was a simple warm-up for him.

The low chatter of the bar faded the farther he went down the hallway. A cry reached him first, followed by the thud of a paddle and the crack of a hand on skin. Each was distinctive and sparked visions of the activities taking place.

His blood warmed, anticipation sparking over his nerve endings. He inhaled, the dungeon scents flooding him. It didn't matter where he went or how sanitary the dungeon was, they all carried the underpinnings of sweat, come, fear, and excitement. The blended aroma triggered a longing he'd given up trying to contain.

It was futile to even try anymore.

He bypassed the restroom, ignored the doors that lined the hall, focus narrowed on his intent. The hallway opened into exactly what he'd expected. The dungeon at Dane's featured the standard equipment: a St. Andrews cross, benches, horses, chains, tables, chairs—everything a person could be strapped to and teased or tortured on. There were a few unique pieces, but nothing he hadn't seen in some variation.

He glanced over them, noting and dismissing each one. It didn't matter to him what he was tied to or how, a fact that often irritated a Dom. His lack of fear never equated to submission, and a good Dom figured that out quickly.

A leather-clad man gave him a nod as he entered the room, his armband distinguishing him as a Dungeon Master. The power came in his demeanor, not his muscle. Authority rolled off his straight spine and intent gaze. One that looked him over in a calculating sweep.

Sawyer turned away, searching for…

He swallowed, nostrils flaring on his inhale.

Asher leaned against the wall not far from where Sawyer stood. He was focused on a scene taking place on a medical table about ten feet in front of him. Head tilted, eyes narrowed behind the dark frames of his glasses. His arms were crossed, the portrait of a man in deep concentration.

So damn focused.

He skimmed his gaze down Asher, noting the lack of an obvious erection. Not unique, but telling.

Asher turned his head at that moment, gaze locking with his. The intensity rammed into him, the look dissecting him without a touch. The cuts sank beneath his skin to leave a festering want behind.
Fuck.

Sawyer moved forward, each step a dangerous act that teased his need. The complete lack of dominance in Asher's scrutiny lured him in better than any command. He stopped next to him, letting his eyes communicate for him. Curiosity. Interest. Possibilities.

Potentially damaging to him. Too alluring to back down.

The corner of Asher's lips quirked up. A quick flash before he refocused on the scene before them.

Sawyer studied his profile a moment longer. There was nothing to indicate Asher was distracted even slightly from what he was studying. Focused intent. Firm concentration. Direct. His air of intelligence was enhanced by his preppy attire, the nerd-boy image only a few notches removed. But it was the constant calculation that seemed to whirl behind his eyes that kept Sawyer there.

He turned to watch the scene, keenly aware of the guy beside him. Of the dangers and the building anticipation. Of the dance with a partner he couldn't let himself want, yet had traveled a thousand miles to meet.

Which only enticed him more.