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I didn't fear my father. But I didn't like giving him the satisfaction of knowing where I lived.

It had become a game. He'd spend resources and time tracking me. I'd spend my money and wits knowing when he was close and getting the hell out before his men could figure out I'd made them.

I swallowed a gulp of coffee and hissed with the burn.

It was going to be a long day.

I reached for the keyboard and entered my password. Two monitors flashed on. I checked the video feeds from the night before and knocked back the rest of the coffee. Several interior and exterior views of my apartment displayed on the screens. The previous eight hours replayed in fast forward.

Nothing. No movement. No unexpected guests. The extra precautions on the way home the night before had paid off.

One more day in Shangri-la.

I stared at the current video feeds, but I no longer saw the screens before me, or the apartment around me. The dimly lit room from the previous night glided into view. I felt Richard's hands upon my hips, his cock deep inside me, Matthew's lips on my dick, his sucking and swirling that brought me to my first of two orgasms.

I was getting hard. Again.

Determined not to take the matter in hand after the morning spent fighting for an orgasm, I reset the hidden cameras and the computer password and logged off the system. I grabbed my laptop bag and stepped out into the hall to complete my usual routine: triple-check the lock and add the translucent tape at the base of the door. Not a sophisticated system, but it allowed me to know before entering if there was a chance I wouldn't be alone.

The challenging part of my day was getting to and from work without being followed. I backtracked more than once and never took the same route twice in one week. The same procedure I followed to get to the Haven.

I ran a hand through my hair as I made my way down the stairwell. The swell in the front of my pants rubbed against the tight fabric with each step.

It was going to be one hell of a long day.

I stormed into my apartment four hours later, the earliest ever on a Saturday. I slammed the door shut and hurled my keys onto the desk. By the time I entered the bathroom, I had every button of my shirt undone. I pushed the fabric off and onto the floor.

My pants were next. I undid the zipper and shoved my hand inside. My ass hit the sink.

“Fuck.” I hadn't been so desperate while all alone in a long time.

I wrangled my pants off, turned on the shower, and stepped under the spray. A quick grope in the shower caddy produced the lube. I clicked the lid open one-handed and squeezed the contents over my dick and the hand working it. The cool lubricant ran down to my balls.

I pressed my forehead to the shower wall. The tip of my cock brushed at the cool fiberglass wall with each stroke. I imagined my hand was Matthew's mouth and the wall was the back of his throat as he took me deep.

“God, Matthew.”

It might have been the first time I'd ever talked out loud to an imaginary partner while I was doing myself alone, but I didn't care. My hand felt amazing. And it wasn't just my talent in pleasuring myself. It had more to do with the vividness of my pretend participant. His fictional mouth and tongue slid over my shaft, licked the slit, and sucked me long and hard.

“That's it, Matthew. Swallow it. Swallow me.”

I came fast with a loud moan. My body shook under the warm water. I leaned against the wall until breathing didn't require every cell in my body, then washed up and fondled myself. My dick twitched like I hadn't gotten off yet. I cranked the water off and moved my private party to the bedroom.

Before getting in the bed, I rummaged through the closet and seized the bag of toys tucked in the bottom of a lone box. I dug inside and sighed when my hand met the large dildo, the realistic type complete with balls. I hadn't wanted to use it— needed to use it— since before I joined the club.

I set the dildo next to the lube on the bed and crawled on top of the blankets. I stroked myself, pinched my nipples, and rolled my balls until I was hard again, panting and wanting more. I slicked my fingers and rode them. But it wasn't me. It was Richard filling me. First with his wide fingers, and then, when I slammed the dildo in, it was his cock pounding into me.

My hips rocketed off the bed. A fierce gasp exploded out of me.

I lay with my chest heaving for several minutes, long after I removed the dildo and wiped away the evidence of my pleasure. I hadn't come that hard by myself since college, since I'd last thought about any man in particular when I jerked off.

I wanted to sleep and put distance between myself and the sexual fantasies. Sleep wouldn't come though, and my thoughts wandered to those long-ago college days.

I spent the last two years of school with one man after another. It was then I first experienced a threesome— two nameless men torturing me with pleasure.

That was after my father took everything from me. After I'd last slept with the same man more than once. After I'd lost the only person I ever let myself fall for.

I rolled over, buried my face in the pillow, and gave myself permission to remember the last time we made love.

"Luke, love you. God, love this."

"Tim."

He pushed in. His cock drove past the tight ring of muscle in a slow move that always left me writhing and begging for more. I lifted my hips off the bed, arched to meet him, tugged at him with my legs, clutched at him with my hands.

I couldn't get close enough. I wanted to feel him everywhere. I wanted to breathe in his scent. Memorize every muscle, every hair on his body. Show him who he was to me.

His eyes met mine. I didn't have to show him anything. He already knew how important he was to me.

And I was the same for him.

He pulled back and thrust in again. His hips collided with my ass. The force wasn't meant to hurt me, but to get him as close to me as he could.

I squeezed my eyes shut. “Tim. Don't stop."

"This will go on, Luke. I won't let it stop."

I opened my eyes at his words. Did he mean them the way they sounded? I didn't get a chance to ask.

The strong scent of a familiar cologne washed over me. At first, my brain couldn't reconcile the vision. It was in such contrast to what my body felt.

But there he was. My father stood next to the nightstand.

I retreated up the bed and dragged Tim with me.

Tim stared down at me, his face contorted in a mix of passion and confusion until he caught sight of my father. His dick slipped out of me, and he scrambled to my side.

My father whirled his arm upward. He jammed a cool, metal object against my face. A handgun. The barrel dug into the flesh of my cheek.

"Don't move, son."

I awoke an hour later, my father's long-ago words still ringing in my ears.

“
You start living a decent life or I swear to God, I will track you down and take away every lover you ever have. I'll make them see who you are. I'll make them hate you. I'll make your life a living hell
.”

Goose bumps formed at the base of my neck before I opened my eyes. I shot off the bed and didn't bother with clothes. I charged down the hall and lunged for the computer.

I entered the password three times before I hit the correct keys. My fingers tapped the edge of the desk as the video program opened. The playback started, and I clicked several times to advance the screens faster, scanning for any sign of my stalkers. The video playback caught up to the current time.

Nothing.

My breathing slowed. It was the first time I'd forgotten to check the tape on the door or the cameras.

The phone on the desk rang. I stared at it for four rings before I answered. No one had the number to my land line. Work had my cell number. The apartment wasn't in my name.

“Luke Moore?”

I straightened and pressed the phone closer to my ear. “Yes.”

“My name's Mark Summers. I'm a reporter with
The Washington Times
. I'm doing a story on your father and wondered if you'd be able to answer some questions.”

“How'd you get this number?”

“I'm looking to do a human interest piece— about the man, his family, that sort of thing. I'm not out for dirt.”

I banged a fist on the desk and hit the edge of the keyboard. Three keys popped off. They scattered and bounced on the floor. I watched as the letters
M
and
N
and
B
randomly surfaced over and over like the balls spinning around in a bingo cage. The tiny pieces of plastic clicked as they collided. They sounded like they were snickering at me.

I tried to keep my voice calm, neutral. “I asked you a question.”

“I'm not going to be the last call you'll get. At some point, you'll have to answer questions. No one knows about his family.”

“Why now?”

“Seriously? He's a big name these days. His energy bill saved a lot of jobs in this country. People want to know the man behind the name.”

“Trust me; you don't want to know him.” I slammed the phone down as I stood and kicked the flimsy chair backward, scraping a bare heel.

“Goddammit.”

I cradled the injured foot in my hands and hopped around naked. I tripped over the busted chair and plunged onto the couch. The springs jammed into my hip. Pain exploded down my leg and mixed with the throb in my foot.

The crumbled, destroyed chair lay sprawled on the floor, mocking me. A reminder the time to move again was close. I stood and hobbled to the bedroom.

One place would make me feel better.

I arrived at the Haven a few hours later— the earliest ever— dressed in leather pants, a burgundy dress shirt, and a cocky smirk on my face, determined to put all thoughts of my father, my past, and any other emotional crap behind me.

The Haven was my place to play. My place to feel better about my life and how I lived it.

I wanted to fuck the shit out of someone. I wanted to dominate, to take charge and possess someone, deny him an orgasm until I wanted him to come.

My expectations of what the night would entail affected my demeanor, and I stood taller. I eyed the room for a candidate before taking a seat. The hurried manner in which I went about the task would have bothered me on any other night. Not now. I had something to prove— to myself and to the voice of my father.

Yet, as I surveyed the room and sat on a bar stool, the image of one man assailed my thoughts— a grinning, licking, groaning Matthew.

Shit
. I slammed a clenched fist on the bar.

“Something wrong, Luke?” the bartender asked.

“Uh, no. Nothing. Glass of water, please.”

I raised the water to my lips and kept swallowing until I sucked in air instead of the cool liquid. I shoved the glass aside with the back of my hand. The scratching in my throat continued with each gulp of air.

I closed my eyes, and the daydream of Matthew and me slid into view. Richard soon arrived. He pushed into me with abandon while I continued to fuck Matthew.

I rubbed the back of my neck with an open hand. The gesture created more tension instead of easing it. Sex with the same men more than once wasn't the experience I wanted. Not that night. Not any night. It was too expected, redundant, reliable, and complicated. I wanted none of it.

Except I did want them. I couldn't deny how much I wanted to feel them in my arms, to touch them, to kiss them again.

I forced a glance around the room and took note of several men in the thick crowd. I gestured for another glass of water and forced a languid drink.

Then I spotted him, seated at a table in the middle of the dining room. I set the glass on the bar and whirled around.

His face was hidden, but the dark waves were unmistakable. Matthew lifted his head. He didn't look at me. He focused his attention on two others. The tall, bulky, leather-clad men strolled across the room and straight for his table. His head and gaze lowered the closer they came to him. The men sat without a word.

I'd been with both of them. They were a longtime couple and were heavy into bondage and toys as their only means of sexual contact— but not to do to each other. They wanted to play with someone else.

Would Matthew like to be bound? He seemed to be an entirely sensual man who wouldn't want to be with someone whom he couldn't explore with his hands, his lips, his tongue.

But I didn't know him. Or did I? I envisioned him tied to the bed with the large men using all manner of objects to touch him, arouse him. Initially, I found the image erotic. Then it turned into a scene I didn't care for as Matthew's frustration built the more he tried to move his hands for a single touch of his lovers, desperate for a kiss, for contact.

“Hello.”

I lowered a foot and swiveled the barstool until I faced the voice's owner. The young man had been in the club a month before, but I hadn't been with him yet. I smiled. The expression required force.
Damn, kid. Get out of my head.

“My friend and I are looking for someone tonight. Someone who might want to... take control. You interested?”

“Could be,” I said. “Where is he?”

“Restroom. He saw you before he left. He's quite taken with the idea of the three of us.”

I was too, until I caught sight of another man. He passed the bar and sat alone at a table. I wasn't aware I'd been staring until brilliant green eyes connected with mine.

I clutched at the bar.

Richard continued to stare until another man approached his table. The man had dark hair like Matthew's but was more my height and build. He was younger than I, though, and better looking, more fit. Why the hell did all the new guys at the club look like extras just off the set of
Queer as Folk
? The two talked, and Richard gestured to an empty chair. The other man dropped into the seat straight away. Of course, who wouldn't be anxious for a chance at Richard?