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eyes. Perhaps it was the chain and leather harness crisscrossing his rock-hard pectorals. Corded abdominals directed his eyes lower to the strained fly of his leather pants. Brett swallowed the excess saliva in his mouth.
    “May I have a sip?”
    Brett glanced from Rowan to the beer then handed him the bottle.
    “Not what I want.” Rowan cupped his face, dragging his hand over the shaven cheek. Then he dipped in for a taste. Soft, yet determined lips touched, sending flames licking over Brett’s flesh. With a subtle nudge, Brett opened his mouth. Rowan groaned and sank deep. Tongue glided over tongue. Raw, dark and male. Rowan tasted of mint and man. Hunger flared in his gut and blood rushed into his shaft.
    Brett groaned. The ridge of Rowan’s erection bumped against his hip and the clean fragrance of his cologne titillated his nose. Breathing deeply, he drew in more of his scent.
    Without breaking the kiss, Brett set his beer on the counter and spread his thighs. Rowan shifted between them. He placed his hands on Rowan’s hips as he continued to savor the delicious taste of Rowan’s mouth. Hot tongue and smooth flesh.
    They parted slowly while he shifted his hands to Rowan’s ass. The firm muscles flexed beneath his fingers. Rowan was probably just as pleased as he was that they were together—knowing how the night would end.
    “Sorry I’m late.”
    “It was worth the wait.” Brett smiled.
    A bartender arrived. “What can I get you?”
    “Hey, Ten, club soda.”
    The bartender nodded and returned a moment later with the drink.
    “His name is Ten?”
    Rowan laughed, sliding onto the seat next to him. “No, it’s one of the club rules. No names. But some of the regulars, and most of the staff, pick up nicknames. He’s called Ten because that’s what he conceals beneath his loincloth when he’s not working behind the bar. They call me Ice Man.”
    Brett raised an eyebrow and glanced down the bar where Ten poured a draft.
    “So you must know…everyone.”
    Rowan stilled with his drink poised at his lips. He slowly set the glass on the counter. “It’s my job to know. I run the bar.” He narrowed his eyes and glanced around the room. “I haven’t fucked a single person here.”
    Brett scanned the crowd. “What about Tac?”
    “He isn’t here…in this room.” Rowan grinned, tipped his glass and drank. “You’ll surprise me if you say that it bothers you. We’re in a sex club.”
    He wasn’t bothered. But he also recalled the possessive way Tac had come upon Rowan. “Is that why you’re here with me? Because he isn’t?”
    “Fuck, I wish he wasn’t.” A muscle ticced in Rowan’s jaw. “He’s here. Somewhere.”
    “If our association is going to be a problem—”
    “It isn’t.”
    “I don’t want to come between the two of you.”
    Rowan clamped a hand on his thigh. “You aren’t,” he whispered. “I told him. He knows. I don’t know if he’s upset. I don’t care.” Their eyes locked. “I’m not property. I’m not a sub.” He leaned in closer. “What I am is turned on. What I want to do is fuck you.”
    “What are you going to do about it?”
    “Let’s go.” The club was huge and Brett had only investigated a small part. The Pit held some appeal but not the rooms where pain played a role. Rowan paused in his steps and reached for Brett’s hand. “Come with me.”
    “Where are we going?” He slid his fingers into Rowan’s strong, warm grip. His fingers were long and elegant, like a pianist.
    “To a private room.” He led him to a wide staircase.
    A shiver skittered up his spine. Brett had never ventured upstairs. “We’ll be alone?”
    Rowan stopped midway up the stairs. “Yes.” He released his hand and pointed in the direction from which they’d come. “That isn’t me. I love working the bar but I’m not the man for you if you’re looking for someone to take to the Pit or to chain up in a bondage room. I’m not into this scene. I just work