Page 54

Prologue

The bass of the music thumped low in Lincoln’s chest, a distant pulse that barely registered beneath the warmth of Henry’s palm resting on his nape.

He knelt beside his Master’s chair, his back straight, shoulders loose, hands resting on his thighs, palms facing up.

His gaze stayed lowered, not out of duty, but because he had no need to look anywhere else. Nothing outside this moment mattered.

The weight of the leather collar around his throat settled him in ways nothing else ever could.

The tension that usually coiled through his body—the endless thoughts of his caseload, of strategies, of how he could have dismantled a witness’ credibility with a better-timed objection—faded into insignificance.

Here he didn’t have to analyze, had no questions, and nothing to worry about — neither what tomorrow might bring nor whether he’d done enough to secure a client’s future.

He had handed over the reins.

A slow breath filled his lungs. His pulse, so often quickened by the sharp edge of a trial or the pressure of expectation, beat slow and steady. His mind, usually a relentless churn of responsibility and strategies, stilled into something soft and quiet.

This is peace.

Conversations drifted around him, but he had no urge to fill the silence, no need to offer an opinion or weigh the merits of an argument.

He simply listened—aware of the smooth timbre of Henry’s voice, the subtle rasp of Scott’s chuckle, the deep rumble of Connor’s brogue as he told some off-color joke.

The details of their words slipped away, but that didn’t matter.

The sound of them, the easy companionship, was enough.

He had no desire to be anywhere else.

Here, inside the exclusive walls of Club Indigo, away from the prying eyes of colleagues and judges, he wasn’t Lincoln Andrews, feared defense attorney.

He wasn’t the cold, calculating man who eviscerated witnesses on the stand or the polished, impenetrable heir to a family name that had always felt like a chain around his neck.

Here, he was Henry’s boy.

And he had never been happier.

Scott, perched on a barstool across from them, grinned over the rim of his glass. “Married for five years, huh? And you’re still just as smitten.”

“Yup and together for over twenty years,” Henry said, his fingers absently tracing the edge of Lincoln’s collar, “and I love my Lincoln more each day.”

The possessive touch sent a shiver down Lincoln’s spine. He would have closed his eyes and simply melted into the sensation, but Scott and Connor—their longtime friend, an ex-military man with a Scottish brogue sharp enough to cut glass—were watching.

Connor smirked. “Aye, the two of ye always did have that annoyin’ ‘soulmates’ look about ya.” He took a sip of his whisky, eyes crinkling with amusement. “What’s the plan for celebratin’, then? Somethin’… bruisin’?”

Henry chuckled. His smooth baritone was like a balm, sending heat curling low in Lincoln’s belly.

“You know us too well.” He drained the last of his drink, then gave Lincoln’s leash a firm but gentle tug.

Lincoln rose smoothly to his feet, following without hesitation.

The cool leather of his harness pressed snugly against his skin, the straps framing his chest, highlighting rather than hiding.

Once, he might have hesitated at being almost naked under the weight of so many eyes—feeling exposed, vulnerable—but Henry had stripped away every inch of self-consciousness until nothing remained but confidence.

He wasn’t packed with muscle like some of the men in the club, but he was strong in his own way.

He took care of himself—ate well, exercised, and hydrated—all because Henry had taught him the importance of honoring his body.

Not for vanity. Not for anyone else’s approval.

But because he deserved to feel good in his skin.

The smooth wood beneath his bare feet was cool against the warmth spreading through him.

He followed his Master obediently. Each of his steps was light yet deliberate.

He barely registered the murmurs of congratulations drifting through the air, the occasional pat on Henry’s back, the knowing looks from those who understood what twenty years of devotion truly meant.

Lincoln ignored all of them.

His entire world had narrowed to one thing.

Henry.

The man who had shattered every wall he’d built, who had loved him in a way he never thought possible.

Making sure to keep to Henry’s right and close enough to keep the leash loosely forming a U-shape, he timed his steps with his Master. Anticipation curled in Lincoln’s belly, deep and consuming, igniting a fire that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with need.

Henry slowed just before the door, turning slightly, and Lincoln caught the faintest smirk on his lips. “Come on, anniversary boy. Let’s paint some stripes on you.”

His cock twitched, and precum beaded at the tip. He had hoped Henry would bring out the cane.

Yes.

Hell yes.

This was home.

Henry led Lincoln up the stairs to the second floor.

He kept his grip firm but never harsh. Lincoln followed without hesitation, moving in sync with him, each step carrying them deeper into the space where their connection thrived.

At the top of the stairs, Henry turned left, guiding them past the dimly lit alcoves and closed doors until they reached the last room at the end of the hall.

He pushed the door open. The air inside was cooler, touched by the faint scent of leather and the sharp tang of cleaned surfaces. A single wall sconce cast a warm glow over the space, illuminating the spanking bench and St. Andrew’s Cross that stood waiting.

As prearranged, his bag sat on the narrow table against the far wall.

DM James had followed through, ensuring Henry had everything he needed.

Their scene had begun the moment Lincoln had knelt at his side downstairs, but here in the privacy of this room, it would unfold in full, and they would truly celebrate their anniversary in a way that was fitting for them.

"Take off your harness, then kneel and wait," Henry commanded. He didn’t hesitate, and there was no need to wait for compliance. He turned his back, knowing Lincoln would obey.

Henry focused on his bag, fingers closing around the supple handle of his flogger, the weight of it settling comfortably in his grip.

Next came the set of ankle and wrist cuffs in dark-red leather.

The metal points reflected the light from the wall sconce.

And finally, he pulled out Lincoln’s favorite cane.

His pulse kicked up. The anticipation curled low in his belly.

With each implement he took from the bag it tightened.

He could already envision how they’d paint Lincoln’s skin with sensation and would leave a mark.

His body responded to the thought, his arousal pressing against the front of his leathers.

Twenty years, and still, Lincoln could unravel him with nothing but obedience.

Henry turned back. Lincoln knelt in perfect form—his thighs spread, his hands resting lightly on them, his back straight but never rigid. His cock stood hard between his legs, flushed and leaking at the tip.

“You look beautiful, my boy.”

My perfect match.

“Rise.”

Henry took his time securing the cuffs, the leather gorgeous against Lincoln’s pale skin.

He checked the fit, slipping a single finger between the material and Lincoln’s wrists, then his ankles.

Satisfied, he ran a hand down Lincoln’s chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady expansion of his ribs beneath his palm.

Lincoln shivered.

Henry smirked. He hadn’t even started.

With a deliberate slow pace, he trailed his hand lower, wrapping his fingers around Lincoln’s length. He leaned down, running his nose over smooth skin and inhaling the scent.

Henry curled his fingers around the base of Lincoln’s cock, holding him steady as he leaned in, inhaling the familiar, intoxicating scent of clean skin, arousal, and something uniquely Lincoln.

He ran his tongue along the underside, tracing the thick vein that pulsed beneath smooth, flushed flesh.

The salty and briny taste of him was like the ocean and spread over Henry’s tongue.

Velvet over steel, the heat of him, the way he twitched under Henry’s touch, all of it sent a pulse of satisfaction through his own body.

Lincoln gasped as Henry wrapped his lips around the head, rolling his tongue over the spongy crown, teasing the sensitive ridge with just enough pressure to make him jerk against him.

He loved this. Loved the power in it. Not just the act of taking Lincoln into his mouth, but the control—the way he could edge him for hours if he chose, draw him right to the brink and then pull away, leaving him aching, needy, desperate.

Henry swallowed him down in one slow, practiced glide, lips sealing around the base, pressing his nose against clean and stubble free skin at the root. Lincoln groaned, the sound raw, a mixture of pleasure and frustration. Henry smirked around him, drinking in the helpless tremble in his thighs.

He hollowed his cheeks, sucking slow and deep, his tongue tracing every ridge, every pulsing inch. Lincoln’s hips twitched.

Henry exhaled through his nose, the hum of amusement vibrating around Lincoln’s cock as he moved up and down, his lips dragging over sensitive skin, leaving his boy hanging on the edge, aching for more.

Lincoln groaned, his thighs tensing under Henry’s hands.

Henry held him there for a moment, savoring the weight of him on his tongue before pulling back, lips dragging over the flushed length. He rose smoothly to his feet, tilting Lincoln’s hips until his boy could feel the press of his own arousal against him.

Lincoln whimpered.

Henry smirked.

"Go," he ordered, turning him toward the St. Andrew’s Cross.