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EXCERPT:

The twirling spotlight hit the table dancer for one perfect moment. George McAllister stalled on the edge of the dance floor, savouring the view. The light moved on, leaving a shadowy outline in its wake.

George held his breath. One bright flash, a glimpse of an open white shirt and black leather trousers, and darkness returned. Mesmerised by the sway of the young man's body, he blindly moved closer, his eyes slowly adjusting to the intermittent darkness.

Another arc of light found the right spot, displaying blond hair and tanned skin for his appreciation. He stopped to admire the brief image before it disappeared again.

Sidestepping dancers, George moved a few paces closer. A flash of light illuminated the dancer's face. Eyes closed, lips slightly parted, the dancer threw his head back and gave himself over to the pounding beat of the music. Undulating to the rhythm, the dancer's hips traversed intricate patterns, begging for a partner to complete them.

George swallowed and altered his stance, allowing his rapidly growing erection more room in his trousers. He was only vaguely aware of the rest of the club until someone barged into him. He spared one brief glance for the man who collided with him. That was the trouble with these new clubs - too many bodies all crowded together and not enough good manners to go around. George thought back to the way leather clubs used to be - back before leather turned into a damn fashion statement rather than a sign of dominance and submission. There was a lot of be said for formal rules and everyone knowing their place.

The song ended. He looked back up to the table. A red headed man climbed the ladder onto the high pedestal and filled the now vacant spot.

At six foot four George was tall enough to see over most of the crowd, but he was still half way across the dance floor. He couldn't make out a blond head of hair winding its way through the press of people.

A new song and a faster tempo brought rapid bursts of light to the dance tables. Every few seconds the whole room lit up then plunged back into darkness. George nudged people out of the way as politely as possible, searching for the dancer.

The music pounded through the room in a thumping, rutting rhythm. In the middle of the song, George spared one glance up to the tables. He found him. The dancer hadn't descended. He'd merely migrated across to another table top, connected to the first by a narrow platform. With his back to George, the dancer lifted his arms and pushed his hands through his hair. His white shirt lifted and exposed his back, revealing tantalising glimpses of golden-brown skin.

As well as George could judge from his position several feet below the platform, the dancer was close to his height. But he was of a far slighter build. His cut off shirt sleeves revealed muscular arms. For a brief moment he turned and showed a well developed torso with defined abs. It was the lean muscle of a runner rather than the bulk of a gym junkie. He was just George's type. George stopped again, hypnotised by the dancer's movement. A little voice in the back of his mind piped up, telling him a thirty - year old dominant should have more self respect. He should be ashamed of acting like a submissive teenager at his first school dance. His cock didn't give a damn. It reverted wholeheartedly to teenage enthusiasm.

For the first time in years, George could ignore the loud music and jostling crowd. In his mind's eye, he saw the table dancer spread out on his bed in his apartment. Golden skin sprawled against crisp white sheets. Black leather wrapped around the dancer's wrists and ankles. In the silence of the fantasy, he heard a hush broken only by his lover's frustrated whimpers as he teased him to the edge of his orgasm. George felt the smooth bare skin under his hands. The dancer arched into his touch, begging for more.

George's fingers twitched. He imagined burying his fists in the thick blond hair, holding him in place so he could take his pleasure as he wished. His cock jumped again. He pictured the dancer kneeling submissively in the middle of an empty room. The dancer's breaths coming in gasps, he broke their silence to whisper just one word - Master... He hadn't felt such an instant pull towards another man in years. For all his sarcasm about the leather hook up spot, the club eliminated any need for subtle questions. Everyone was gay. Everyone was kinky.

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"Our last time."

"Yes, sir."

Marsdon stroked his fingertips down the submissive's spine. He'd never asked the other man exactly how he managed to put himself into his bondage before his master joined him in the back room of the club. Now the question seemed like a waste of all too precious time.

The artificial scent the other man wore took over Marsdon's world as he stepped even closer to him. He stood very still for a moment, his fingertips resting on the bound man's skin as he tried to push past the aroma and force it out of his senses.

It was a pleasant cologne, something that would have no doubt been considered discreet to a human's nose. Perhaps if the man offering him his submission had been human, it would have been easier to tolerate it. But Marsdon knew damn well the man before him was as much a wolf as he was.

Marsdon closed his eyes as his free hand clenched into a fist at his side. The fragrance couldn't hide his lover's species, but it hid his actual identity perfectly. There was a special cruelty to that, right then.

After all the hours they'd spent together, to know that he would never even be able to walk past his lover on a crowded street and recognise that he was within touching distance of the man who'd once made his blood pound faster in his veins, his cock stiffen and his heart find peace... It was something akin to torture.

Marsdon trailed his fingers over the man's side as he walked around him and stopped face to... Marsdon stared at the leather hood that hid most of the other man's face from him for several long, regretful seconds. At least his lips were free. That was something he would always be grateful for.

He'd had the pleasure of his submissive's mouth - in every sense of the term. Marsdon left the fingertips of his one hand resting against the bound man's ribs as he lifted his other hand and brushed a knuckle over his lover's mouth.

Those lips had wrapped around his shaft so many times over the last weeks. The submissive kissed his knuckle. His tongue flickered out to taste his master's finger, just as it had lapped pre - cum from his cock.

Marsdon watched every eager flash of pink against his skin. Knowing he would never feel that again made it suddenly vital to imprint every detail onto his memory. It took all his strength to finally move his hand away.

The tongue lapped at the empty air. The submissive's mouth remained open, waiting. After a few seconds, the lips came together, not once complaining that their master had robbed them of their treat. Master...

The damn hood that kept his lover's identity a secret had its rare seconds of usefulness. Safe while he knew the other man would never glimpse his moment of weakness, Marsdon bowed his head and took a deep breath. He was his master for a few more hours, yet. There was no point in wasting his time regretting those hours were all they would ever have.

Marsdon lifted his gaze back to the hooded face and forced himself not to fritter away precious seconds wishing he knew what colour eyes would look back at him if the hood could be torn away.

"Have you been good since our last meeting, pup?" His voice was too thick, too rough with emotion. Marsdon had to clear his throat before he could finish the question.

"Yes, sir."

It was the truth. Marsdon had never had any cause to doubt that. For all his submission, he knew the man before him was too proud to lie. Still unable to look at the half-hood and not wish things could be different, Marsdon turned his attention to more pleasing sights.

Before he'd arrived, the submissive had placed himself in bondage according to the precise orders Marsdon had issued at the end of their last session. Leather encircled his wrists and his ankles, spreading him open, leaving him vulnerable to whatever his master should wish to do with him. Shackles bolted to the concrete floor and the heavy bar suspended from the ceiling kept him in place beautifully in the middle of the room.

Marsdon ran his knuckles along the other man's skin, from the notch between his collar bones and down the juncture between his ribs until he teased his abs. Muscles twitched under his touch.

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"Let me guess, he's straight?"

Mathias Hilliard perched his backside on the barstool between his friends. "I'm meeting him in the gents' toilets in five minutes," he announced.

Even with his run of luck, Matt was pretty sure an entirely straight man wouldn't suggest meeting another man there. He ran his hands through his hair, messing up the carefully styled blond strands, and tried not to look too anxious as he watched his friends exchange a very speaking look.

"Married," they decided in unison.

Matt took a sip of his beer, trying to work some moisture into his throat as nervous energy built inside him. "He says he's not married."

"That's what all your boyfriends start off saying," Paul reminded him.

"No wedding ring," Matt recounted. "And no pale line where a wedding ring should be either. I checked."

"What's wrong with him then?" Lewis asked from the stool on the other side of him.

Matt glared at his friend as he put his empty beer bottle back on the bar. "Maybe there's nothing wrong with him. Maybe he's just a nice guy who just happens to want to have sex with me. Would that really be so strange?"

Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of his friends raise an eyebrow at the other. The bartender took the empty bottle from in front of him and tossed it into a barrel that was already half full of other empty bottles before he walked back down to the other end of the bar.

"So, I'm having a run of bad luck," Matt said with a shrug.

"One that's lasted ever since you came out of the closet," Lewis muttered into his glass.

Matt made a point of ignoring him. He stood up and straightened his new shirt, smoothing out non-existent creases. Taking a deep breath, he nodded to himself. This time it would be different. This guy would be different. He just knew it.

A few minutes later Matt stepped into the men's room at the back of the bar. He didn't even have time to look around before his back hit the wall. A man's body covered his, pressing him back against the plasterwork, holding him there when instinct made Matt push against the larger man's chest.

Firm, demanding lips swallowed his gasp. A confident tongue swept into his mouth, coaxing a moan from him. Without any order from his brain, Matt felt his hands claw at the man's shirt as he tried to pull him closer. There wasn't much material to hold on to. Well-defined muscles moved under his hands. Suddenly it became absolutely essential that the shirt should go.

Dropping one hand to the other man's waist, Matt tugged at the material, trying to free it from his jeans so he could at least feel skin under his touch, even if he couldn't strip the other man down right there.

Large hands wrapped around both his wrists and pinned them against the wall on either side of his head. Matt groaned a protest. The guy had suggested they meet in the men's room. He couldn't start playing hard to get now. There had to be a rule against that sort of crime against humanity and common bloody sense.