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The guard huffed, looking tired of idiots like me. “This area is by invitation only. If you don’t have one, get back to the common area.”

I nodded and stepped back, keeping my eyes locked on that fucking red door.

A few minutes later, a burly man stepped out of the room looking content, and my insides burned with a sickening surge of jealousy. I wanted to fucking deck him as he bragged to the guard about how Sig had been wanting and begging for him. The guard didn’t seem to pay him much attention, and as the man left, the guard stepped away for a break. Without hesitation, I slipped through the red door.

I could hear faint, ragged breathing from the inside.

Sig was lying on a low leather chaise, a damp towel draped over his shoulders to hide the welts. He looked exhausted, his eyes closed, his face pale and drained of all that sharp, biting arrogance.

“That fucker broke the rules. That’s not what I signed up for. I’m going to make him fucking pay,” Sig rasped. My boots crunched on the hard floor as I stepped closer. “I told you to leave me alone for ten minutes," he murmured, his voice a ghost of itself. "I'm not ready to move yet."

“I’ll wait,” I said, my voice vibrating in the small, cramped room.

Sig’s eyes snapped open. The shock on his face was visceral. He tried to scramble up, the towel sliding off to reveal the angry red lines across his back, but he was too weak. He fell back against the leather, staring up at me as I filled the doorway, like a shadow returning to haunt him.

"You?" he breathed, his voice trembling with a terror that wasn't meant for an audience this time. "How... what the fuck are you doing here?"

I stepped into the room and closed the door behind me, the lock clicking with a finality that made the air turn electric.

"I followed you."

His eyes darted to a red panic button on the wall. As he reached for it, I lunged forward.

“Ah, ah,” I warned, grabbing his wrist and holding it firmly in place. I forced him to meet my dark, unblinking eyes. “Let’s not do that. How about we do this without an audience this time?”

“Why not? You seem to love an audience,” he barked. His face was sweaty, his cheeks flushed with heat, and his wet, hot mouth was only an inch away from mine.

I chuckled. “Remember, you told me it was going to be quiet, Santiago. Not in my world, but yours sure is—quiet,” I said, leaning over him until he was completely trapped between my weight and the chaise.

“If my world is quiet, I chose it!” His defiance was intriguing.

“No, I think we both know you don't actually want silence. You want to be heard. And as much as you enjoy the crowd here at the Iron Club, they aren't really listening. They just enjoy seeing your skin peeled off.”

“As opposed to you?” He let out a bitter laugh. “You think because I enjoy the kink of BDSM, I’m desperate to be heard? That you have completely figured me out; the psychology behind my need to be whipped?”

“Not because of the kink,” I countered, lowering my voice. “But because when you confess to being weak, you think no one is paying attention. You were wrong. I was listening. I’m the only one who was really listening."

His laughter turned painful, a jagged sound in the tight space. “You? The very cause of my pain... you were listening? Let me guess, you think you know what I want?”

I smiled, holding his accusing gaze; I picked up the towel that had fallen away from his chest, leaning deep into his personal space.

“What the hell are you—”

I wrapped the cloth firmly around his naked, shivering body, cutting him off. “Yes, Santiago. I may not have completely figured you out, but I’m the only one who knows what you want. Meet me behind the field’s parking lot at five a.m. sharp, and I will show you exactly how good of a listener I am.”

“Or what?” He gritted his teeth.

I smirked, pulling back just enough to let him breathe. “I’ll tell you when you get there.”

Santiago

MY SKIN FELT LIKE IT was on fire. Every bounce of the car on the drive home from the Iron Club had sent a jagged spike of pain straight up my spine. That bastard tonight hadn’t listened. I’d given the safeword, clearly, and he’d just grinned, pushing past the boundary like my consent was just part of the roleplay.

But that wasn't even the worst part.

The worst part was him: George Brooks. The handsome specter from my past who had somehow materialized inside the club's most private sanctuary.

I sat at my vanity, staring at my reflection in the mirror. I couldn't even bring myself to wipe away the smudged eyeliner or the streak of highlighter on my cheekbones. I looked pathetic. Small. A fragile, petite thing that had tried to play god by broadcasting that audio clip at his football game. I had wanted to ruin him. I had wanted the whole stadium, the whole world, to see the brute for what he really was, to give him a taste of the humiliation he had dragged me through in high school.