Page 8 of Wild Stars (Rock His World #2)

CHAPTER 8

Mateo

“It’s so...” Geo swallows, shifting a little closer to me.

“Relaxing?” I taunt as I elbow him, finding a bit of solace in his reaction.

“I was going to say...bright,” he snarks, crossing his arms as a waitress in a white and blue angel uniform squeezes past us.

“Oh, that’s just Saint’s aesthetic. The dungeons are downstairs. Where the real sinners go,” I say, unable to hide my laugh. “And the Hell aesthetic is stereotypically black and red.”

While Geo may have transitioned from his Christian rock schtick a while ago, I can’t say I’ve ever seen the man at a strip club, period, let alone one like Saint & Sinner.

But it’s somehow so much better than I ever imagined, and I’m never going to let him forget this.

I take a sip of my drink as I sink back into the white leather booth, watching as Hailee and Celina drag Hans and Richie across the floor.

“Dungeons? Like Dungeons and Dragons?” Dare’s saccharine voice cuts through like a knife.

I turn to see him wide-eyed as he glances at the crowd, which is pretty heavy for so early in the night.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I drawl as Geo attempts to pour himself a glass of champagne the waitress dropped off.

Dare turns to look at me in earnest as if I’ve interrupted him.

“What are you even still doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be out there?” I motion to him to leave.

Geo side-eyes me as he clutches his drink. “What about you? You just going to sit here all night like a Kingpin?” he snips.

I regard him with an annoyed expression. “I do not engage.”

“You like to watch, is that it?” Dare raises an eyebrow at me as he goes for a glass of champagne, proceeding to add about six strawberries to the glass. Barely any liquid will fit in there, but I suppose where Dare is concerned, that might not be a bad thing.

After all, I’m not fixing for a replay of Sylvestro’s mansion. Perhaps I should keep an eye on him.

Just for safety’s sake.

“What I like is none of your fucking business. Besides, you’re stalling.”

“Stalling for what?” Geo’s gaze drifts to another host, a man wearing tight white shorts and a set of fluffy wings.

“Our darling little Heart Killer has a mission tonight,” I quip with a grin as Dare stops mid pour.

“What’s that?” Geo asks, and I can tell he’s sweating.

“Find someone to fuck.”

Geo nearly spits out his champagne as Dare curses.

I slap Geo on the back as he coughs.

“And what about you, Matty? You take a vow of celibacy I don’t know about?” Dare’s gaze meets mine as he slurps his champagne.

My palm twitches and my jaw tenses. I’m going to need a lot more than champagne and three Nikka’s to get through this night if he keeps his shit up.

“No,” I bite.

Geo regains himself as he shifts his stance.

“Maybe you should engage for once. Put yourself back out there,” Geo says plainly.

I have half a mind to tell him to fuck off, before Dare grabs me by the hand and pulls me up.

I stumble, almost knocking him over as Geo grins.

“Maybe that’s why you have an attitude, Matty. Maybe you need to get fucked,” Dare taunts me, throwing my words back at me.

He doesn’t let go of my wrist, his palm against my skin sweaty and warm.

My heart feels like it may explode from the touch, the warmth.

I feel as if I am on the edge of a dangerous cliff, with Darren Wylde and his stupid golden retriever energy.

And perhaps it’s the alcohol I’ve consumed, or the light that shines from the stage over the crowd, or perhaps it’s Geo smacking me on the back.

But I find myself powerless to resist Dare’s touch, or his pleading, puppy dog eyes.

Fuck, I’m going to need another drink.

When we reach the floor, I find Hailee and Richie dancing together, alongside Celina and Hans, who have somehow ended up with glitter all over them.

Hailee’s gaze catches mine and she smiles.

“Well, well, look who decided to leave the castle,” she says with a laugh.

Richie stiffens, moving back enough to give her space, and I don’t miss the flash of fear in his eyes.

I scare him, and that should excite me, but instead it only makes me feel like an asshole.

A waitress offers us test tube shots, and I don’t think twice about taking one, if only to quell the sudden emotion that has me feeling so... human.

“Oooh, I want one,” Dare says as his fingers brush against mine.

I shoot him a glare. “Careful, Dare.” I say as I grip my test tube. “You wouldn’t want to forget this epic night, would you?”

Dare scoffs as he downs his shot, then grabs mine out of my cold hands. He downs it, too.

“Last I checked, you’re not the boss of me, Matty.” He slams down the shot glasses, raising his arms as he sticks his tongue out, and the crowd around us goes wild.

Dare shakes his head back and forth, his silky locks falling in his face as he yells, “ Heart Killer and Mage Of Mercy are in the fucking house!”

Richie whoops and Celina and Hans scream.

I watch, frozen, as everyone in our proximity falls into his energy, his space.

Including a man who looks to have been glitterbombed, dressed in a white linen shirt, speckled with glitter dust.

He’s young, blond, and attractive, and Dare doesn’t even see the way he’s looking at him.

The way everyone looks at him.

Hollywood is full of tanned, toned, and plastic idols, but Dare would stand out of a crowd anywhere.

Some people just have that magnetism, that fabled “it” factor that draws people in like a moth to a flame.

Darren Wylde has that fire, and the throngs of people around us can’t help but be drawn to him.

The attractive blond comes up behind him, placing his hand on Dare’s waist, whispering in his ear. Dare stiffens, but turns his head, his jet black hair shimmering in the light as he looks at the man with a grin and I feel a stupid sense of pride melding with a foreign emotion I haven’t felt in years.

I have no right or reason to be jealous.

Dare is not mine. Not even anywhere close.

I grab myself another shot and shoot it, needing to numb the pain, the emotion that threatens to take me under. Emotions I thought I had meditated the fuck away.

I scan the crowd, looking for someone to distract me from this moment. This was a bad fucking idea.

As a rule of thumb, I often try to keep my personal life and my dominant life separated for a reason.

The dungeons call to me, my twitching palm.

Down in the Sinner’s playground, I can breathe.

Up here, with Hailee, Geo...

With Dare rolling his hips, throwing his head back with a stupid ass grin while he lets strangers touch him...

I feel powerless.

“Where are you going, Matty?” Dare asks as I head for the bar.

Champagne isn’t going to cut it this time. I need something stronger.

Something that will make me not give a shit.

I don’t bother answering him, not until his hand is wrapped around my wrist, warm and moist against my skin. I stop at the steps and turn around, shaking his touch from me, even though I hate it.

I hate that I like his warmth.

I hate that just that small fucking touch makes me feel better.

“What’s wrong? Did I do something wrong?” he asks, those dark pleading puppy dog eyes pulling my heartstrings.

Heart Killer is more than an appropriate name for Dare fucking Wylde. Because damn if am not bleeding from his fucking sweetness, hungry for a fucking bite.

“No,” I say as my jaw tenses. “I just need a fucking drink.”

Dare furrows his eyebrows. “Then let me buy you a drink, man. It’s the least I can do. I mean, you got us in here, got the damn VIP...”

I know I should say no.

I should turn Dare around and push him toward the little twink who would probably give him everything he needs for a good song.

But something about his eyes, his pouty lips, his dark, silky hair falling across his shoulders kills any resistance.

I fight the desire to reach out and run my hands through it.

This is a bad, bad idea.

“Fine.” I give in as I try to find my ground. “One drink.”

* * *

The lights are blue and white, and everything is a blur.

An endless blur of drinks and bodies, and heat. So much fucking heat.

I slide my fingers over the hands that grip my waist as I close my eyes. I let them guide me, guide us, in rhythm. Usually, I refrain from the dance floor because I’ve never been much of a club-goer.

But there’s something blissfully wonderful about not knowing anyone’s name when the lights are burning down on you. At least, for me.

Though their touch isn’t warm and it doesn’t make my cock twitch, combined with the drinks I’ve had, it’s enough to level me. It’s enough to distract me. To make me...

Normal, I guess.

I rock back and forth as I open my eyes, watching the stage.

At some point, we all gravitated toward the front for the nightly Angel’s performance set.

Dare and Richie are having the time of their lives, dancing, drinking. Even Hailee looks happier than I’ve ever seen her, but then again, that may have to do with all the free-flowing alcohol on my dime.

A strange sense of pride fills me as I watch my sister, our friends... and even Dare—especially Dare—enjoy themselves.

It feels good to give other people happiness, even though I know I’ll never have it myself.

That kind of stuff isn’t mean for a fucked up person like me.

Edward proved that.

I stop as I see Dare climb on stage, and everyone in the crowd screams.

“What’s he doing?” I ask, my words sounding slightly slurred to my own ears.

“Such a noble volunteer!” the redheaded angel says as she motions to Dare.

Dare grins like the Cheshire Cat, and under the bright lights, he looks like he really is having the best night of his damn life.

I rock back and forth with the nameless man whose hands slide up and down my waist, but they are cold and clammy.

I want warmth.

So, I gravitate toward the fire.

I wriggle away from the man holding me and step up toward the edge of the stage. Another angel brings out a chair while an angel with short blonde hair carries a red towel or something in her arms.

“Now, be a good little boy and do as we say and we’ll take you to heaven,” Angel number one says, and Dare charismatically winks at the crowd before sticking his pink tongue out again. Naturally, the crowd cheers.

I watch as he sits on the steel chair, raising his eyebrows and smiling.

I grip the bar in front of me while my friends and anonymous individuals stuff money in between the bar for the girls.

I watch as the redhead angel opens the buttons of his neon green shirt, slowly, while some techno-beat makes the bass throb all around us. She moves the flaps, exposing his large, tattooed chest, while another angel takes his hands behind the chair, proceeding to tie them with red silk ribbon.

Angel number one runs her hands over his chest—which I note sports a large tattoo over smooth, pale flesh—while angel number two tugs on the silk ribbon that binds his wrists together, noting that they are tight, as angel number three proceeds to work on tying his ankles to the chair, while angel number one plays with his nipples, thrusting her heavy breasts in his face, then pulling back.

Dare’s pale chest glistens under the light. His signature tattoo—a heart with black wings framing his pecs—draws contrast to his dark nipples, and I notice the slivers of silver glinting in the light between her fingers.

I’m mesmerized by the sight as I think about his pain tolerance. Nipple piercings fucking hurt. They also look appealing on him, and I can’t help but think about what his reaction would be to my steel clamps. The images, thoughts of such things threaten to pull me under.

The red ribbon contrasts his pale skin, and he leans his head back, craning his neck to look up at the angel, lips pouty and eyes full of heat.

My gaze travels down his soft curves, the way the silk ribbon cuts across his flesh, drawing shadows across his hipbones, down to the evident hardness displayed and accentuated by his bondage and tight black jeans. He might not be as cut and hard-edged as most of the men in this industry, but fuck if the sight of him bound doesn’t make me want to grab his soft hips, to sink my fingernails into what is probably a perfect, plump ass, to watch it pink from my handprint or the sting of a whip.

To stroke and soothe the pain I cause until my marks disappear.

Angel number one straddles him as angel number two runs her hands along his chest, playing with his nipples.

“Such a good boy you are!” Angel one giggles as she addresses the roaring crowd.

Dare groans, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t grind or shift or fight at all.

Realization hits me like the crack of a whip.

He likes this.

The women, the ropes.

The commands.

Being the center of attention.

And like a dying moth, I can’t turn away from his fire, even though I know he’s going to burn me to fucking pieces.

But that’s my problem, isn’t it?

For all the control I favor, I am Icarus, and I crave the fucking sun.

My cock throbs as I watch the angels touch him, tease him.

Jealousy pools once again within me like a cyclone, bringing back the memories of my downfall.

I’ve always known my interests were niche. I like men, and I like men who need to be broken. Because I’m fucking broken.

I can’t compete with soft breasts and tight pussy.

And from the sight before me, it’s more than clear that Dare likes that.

And because I truly am a glutton for punishment, and I am buzzed enough to not give a shit, I close my eyes for a moment, and I let my thoughts wander places they shouldn’t.

I imagine the angels around Dare have disappeared, and I am in their place. Tying, twisting, touching him.

Imagining the feel of his soft skin under my palms, his taut, pierced nipples sensitive from the clamps. The stiff texture as I bite and lick them, as he wriggles beneath my touch, his hardness growing against my own.

The groan that would escape his throat as I wind him up like a fucking music box with just my touch.

Listening to his moans because he can’t touch himself, bound in my ropes.

Begging me for mercy, to make him come.

Swallowing down every drop of his sweet release and then doing it all over again, edging him, until he begs me to stop, spent from the pleasure.

I swallow harshly as my cock strains against the inside of my pants at the thought of the endless pleasure. I grab myself, if only to stave off the desire, opening my eyes.

Dare’s dark gaze stares directly at me, and it is like he truly sees me. Or through me, I’m not entirely sure. Because I feel like a ghost.

Haunted by my own choices, my own vices.

My heart beats so loud I think the whole club can hear it as I get lost in the perfect performance before me.

He’s drunk, strung up on display for all of Saint & Sinner to see, and I know better than anyone how a crowd can drown everything out.

How cathartic and blissful it can be under those lights.

How being bound can be so fucking freeing that you forget about everything else.

I’ve always been dominant, by nature, but that doesn’t mean that I have no experience being a submissive. But I haven’t trusted anyone enough to play switch in a long fucking time. Not since I was probably Dare’s age.

Moisture pebbles my cockhead as I think about how pretty he’d look in my Italian leather ropes.

Naked and exposed, begging for mercy.

A hand settles on my shoulder, jolting me from my dreams, and I remember where I am and that I am not alone. Not by a long shot.

“I need to go,” I mutter as I shove off the touch of a stranger.

I turn around, but I stumble, nearly knocking over a waitress. I apologize, heading for the one place I know I can be free.

A man dressed in a leather harness and leather shorts stops me at the velvet rope.

“Do you have a reservation?” he asks plainly. I shake my head, my cock throbbing, knowing salvation is not far away.

“I’m fucking Mateo Starr. I have a standing reservation.”

The man purses his lips as he pulls up his information on his tablet, and I scowl.

In the distance, I can hear someone calling my name.

The devil, himself, perhaps?

My fucking sanity?

“My apologies, Mr. Starr. Room seventeen is open.”

He opens the rope and I can barely concentrate on anything.