Page 1 of Crown of Thorns (The Initiation #3)

T onight, I’m going to get my dick wet.

The Black Cat, the only gay strip club Saint-Laurent has, is quiet this time of the evening.

Perfect.

It hasn’t been more than fifteen minutes since my arrival from Paris, but already my hometown clutches at me like grief itself.

Like the air still smells of Mom’s perfume in faraway memories.

I need to bleed some of it out, quietly, behind shadows.

Blow off steam before anyone sees how close I am to cracking.

Inside the place, Christmas lights dot the dark, casting an ethereal glow. At the center bar, two men in snug pink dresses twirl cocktail shakers. One bows for applause, takes a fifty-euro tip with a grin, and slides over two jeweled drinks.

I make my way over, ordering my usual: a gin and tonic.

My eyes find the stage, where a man is dancing.

Dressed in nothing but a g-string and a see-through, lace top, I gaze as he lifts his entire body on the pole and spins around, tipping his head back in one, elegant, smooth flow.

Appreciative whistles sound through the darkness.

The performer moves to spinning upside down, showing off his strong, long legs and tight ass. When he finishes his song, one of the guests whistles him over. He’s all swaying hips with a sly grin as he accepts the bills to be slipped underneath his lace.

I down my cocktail, then order another. Two’s the maximum, it always is.

It usually helps shake off the unease. Not tonight, though.

Tonight, the tension rolls off my body in waves.

It feels like someone’s watching me, like Saint-Laurent itself has eyes trained on my every move, remembering everything I swore I’d forget.

“Hi, handsome.” Another dancer approaches me, giving me a deliberate once-over. I smile, returning the favor, and take him in. He’s young, early twenties. Short brown hair, piercings, kissable lips. Glitter-dusted skin. Tight shorts that leave nothing to the imagination.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

I watch him order his drink. “What’s your name?”

That playful look is back. “You can call me anything you like, handsome.”

Another song starts. A new dancer takes the stage as the front row gets rowdier. Some work the room, chatting, laughing, earning their bills. Everything seems normal for a club like this, yet something’s off. My skin prickles like eyes are on me, tracking every move. It makes me jittery.

For a second, I consider ordering another drink. But no, that won’t help. A nerve ticks in my jaw. I scan every dark corner. Nothing. No one. Still, the place is filling up.

I turn back to the dancer. “How much for some private time?”

“What would you like? I don’t fuck, but I can dance. It’s two hundred and fifty for thirty minutes.”

“No fucking, no dancing. I just want to watch you come. No touching.”

His mouth opens on a silent ‘oh’. “ D'accord .” He grins, shaking my hand. “You’re nice on the eyes, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”

I blink in surprise as the bartender places another gin-tonic in front of me. “I didn’t order that.”

“Perhaps you have an admirer.” He winks. “This one’s on the house.”

“Thanks.” I glance down at the drink, then back at the dancer. Two drinks, I remind myself. Just two. I leave the glass untouched. “Let’s go.”

My dancer nods, but he doesn’t look as relaxed as he did before. Something has shifted. When we make our way to the back, the feeling of being watched persists.

Two bouncers guard the hall. When we walk in, one of them stops me. “Payment first.”

Taking out the wad of money, I make sure to hand it to the dancer and not to them.

The room is spacious and dimly lit. Golden floors and velvet curtains adorn the black walls. A big leather chair sits in the middle.

“I’ll be right with you,” the dancer says. Then he hops away. Stays away.

I check the time. Two minutes. I sigh and sink into the plush chair, questioning the series of impulsive decisions and the lingering grief that led me here.

The door opens. A man steps inside wearing a gold Venetian mask. Confident, predatory. Not my dancer.

My pulse skips. “You’re not the guy from before.” Unease crawls down my spine. That stance. That flash in his eye.

Bass and low light blur as he stalks forward, drink in hand. Glitter clings to lean muscle lit by glow. Metallic shorts hug his hips, belt slung low. Black hair tousled, lips soft and smirking.

“Who the hell are you?” My voice sounds strained. Looking past him and into the void, every muscle in my body locks. “Where did the other guy go?”

He studies me for a beat, then flashes a devilish grin. “I’m the one who’s going to give you your money’s worth and then some. Now, be a good boy and relax. I can spot the tension in your shoulders from a mile away.”

His voice is rich and makes my insides tingle. I haven’t had that feeling in a very long time.

“This is not what I requested. I–I paid for private time, not a dance,” I whisper breathily.

But my eyes track every slow, confident step the dancer makes as he steps forward and sets his drink down.

The music starts playing a slow, sensual song.

He kicks my thighs apart with his foot, and I watch as his hands come down and tighten around the arms of the chair, caging me in.

His eyes are like a caress all over my body.

“No?” He cocks his head and grins. From this close, I see that even the lower part of his face is sparkling. “You look like you could use the dance.”

“I paid two hundred and fifty euros to…to…” One knee slowly presses between my legs, teasing. He then swings one leg over and straddles the chair, settling just above my lap in one graceful move. Our bodies are not quite touching— yet —but the tension is thick enough to taste.

The rest of my words disappear into the silence, which is charged as hell. He's hovering right over my rapidly filling cock. Heat coils through my insides.

Ari’s Babydoll fills the room, the rhythm of the song meant to tease.

Lazy, sensual, and perfect for languid rolls, and to slowly make me lose my mind.

Judging by the way he cracks a smirk, he knows it.

His touch glides over my shoulders, then down my chest, fingers teasing my open collar and along my collarbone.

I exhale, deep and quiet, gaze locked on the dancer like he’s reading a secret message in every move.

Now seated atop me, he grinds against me, with just enough friction to make my breath catch.

The rhythm picks up with the music, smooth and hypnotic.

Each move of his body is perfectly timed, perfectly targeted.

“You look scared.” He swivels his hips against mine again. “Are you?”

Yes . “No,” I murmur.

Leaning in, he brushes his lips over the shell of my ear. “You wanted to come here tonight.”

“Yeah.” I say it too quickly, my voice catching on something fragile. I’m already coming apart, piece by piece.

He presses in, body moving like smoke over mine. My hands turn into fists by my side.

Our faces are inches apart now. The dancer leans in, lips brushing my jaw without kissing. “Hmmm. Tell me to stop,” he whispers, leaving goosebumps all over my skin.

“I want to touch you.” I press my lips together in shock. The words tumbled out of my mouth. “I mean?—”

His tongue drags down my throat, fingers threading through my curls, teasing out every last ounce of control. I shudder, and a sound escapes—raw, broken, desperate.

“That’s right. Give in to me.” His voice is a pleasant rasp that works magic on my hard dick and balls, making them pulse with arousal.

Something inside me snaps. My carefully created facade crumbles.

But I don’t answer with words, I answer by choosing him.

Sliding one hand to the dancer’s lower back, I pull him in that final inch, closing the space between us.

Our bodies press fully together, wrapping heat and hunger in silk and bass.

Here, in the quiet haze of gold and shadow, we aren’t performer and client. We are something else entirely, something simmering and electric, something that doesn’t need labels, only breath and rhythm and the silent language we both give into.

“You’re so sexy.” The words come out in a breathy rush, and he smiles. His chest sways above me, smooth and glinting, drawing my eyes to the hollow of his throat.

“You think so?” He dips his chin and chuckles.

The music slows, melting into something darker, all bass and whispered melody. The dancer’s movements match it, more fluid now, more deliberate. Every shift of his hips, every graze of his fingertips down my chest is calculated, but not performative. It's only for me.

I tilt my own head back, exposing the line of my throat.

“I can feel how bad you want it,” the dancer whispers, his voice like velvet over coals. “But I like watching you hold back.”

My jaw clenches, fingers digging deeper into his hips. “And what if I don’t want to hold back?”

A pause. A pulse.

“What? Break that stoic exterior you've got going on?” He teases, smirk returning just before he grabs my hand and placing it on his throbbing dick. I can’t look away, I don’t want to miss a second of those long, strong legs, the glittering shorts, that hard cock pressed against my palm. “This is what you came for.”

I nod. He’s right. I wilfully walked into the trap of desire and loved being caught by this, this…

he cocks his head and takes me in. His eyes are as dark as the night.

He’s dangerous in the way beauty sometimes is.

Undeniable, unforgettable. I already know I won’t sleep tonight.

Even in my haze, that kind of pisses me off.

He leans in, finally closing the space, pressing our lips together in a kiss that is hot and unapologetically deep.

It’s addictive. When we finally pull apart, breathless and close, the dancer rests his forehead against mine.

His fingers deftly untie my belt. We both look down when he slips his hand into my boxer briefs and pulls out my cock.

“Look at that.” My dick jolts in his hand, steel-hard and eager to get some attention. “The perfect fit. Like it’s always belonged there.”

“No—” No other words come out. I lick my dry lips, but all other thoughts have left my defective brain. My cock throbs in his grip, alive with need.

“No? Just feel. It’s leaking for me.”

I grit my teeth, but the sound I make is pure surrender when he presses his thumb into my slit with just enough pressure. He circles and rolls his hips once again.

“You feel so good under me, baby. All hard muscle and even harder cock. Just look at the poor thing. It needs my hot mouth so desperately.” My eyes flutter closed at his words.

He eases off my lap, my pants down in a breath.

His mouth lowers and I forget how to breathe.

“I’m going to blow your mind, baby.” His tongue traces the line of my popping vein, laving the underside of my dick in his saliva.

With his dark eyes still focused on me, his hand grabs the base, and he directs the flushed, wet tip to those pillowy lips.

When he puts his mouth onto my crown, I groan in desperation.

It’s been so long. So, so long. My knees are shaking, and my mind is drowning in bliss. “Oh god…”

He smiles at that, the corners of his lips filling with spit and precum as he bobs his head and takes me in deeper.

My chest heaves, and my hand sinks into his dark, soft, shiny hair.

That sound—wet, steady, obscene—is going to haunt me.

His sure hands make me forget everything.

I want to come all over that smooth, glittery skin.

I want to lick it all off, revel in this moment, and see him smile once more.

My moan reverberates through the room. I should be disgusted with myself.

But all I feel is alive, every nerve stripped raw, every inch of me laid bare.

He replies with a satisfied hum. His nails dig into the flesh of my thighs, showing off the swirly ink he has on his fingers.

His lips work me in perfectly, cheeks hollowing as he traces the lines of my veins.

His rhythm is relentless, deep, controlled, unerring.

My cock hits the back of his throat, and he swallows like he was made for this.

My balls feel incredibly heavy. I need to come.

And still, his eyes remain on mine, devouring every single moment of my nearing defeat.

My body convulses, every nerve lit. That relentless mouth doesn’t stop until I’ve given him everything, milking me dry. Hands cover me up again, a mouth laughs softly, then there are retreating footsteps before a door softly clicks shut.

And I sit there, staring at the ceiling. I’m shaking. Wrecked.

I did this. I came here, knowing exactly what I was chasing. I gave in willingly. And now I’m not sure what I hate more: that I let him wreck me, or that I want more. Or that some part of me always has. Some part I was taught to despise.

Welcome home, Professor Montague, they whisper.

Welcome back to Saint-Laurent. To the place that turned my life into hell.