Damon sat at the bar watching the stage with careful eyes. It didn't look like this was going to end well; at least, not for Dove, and frankly, that was all that mattered to Damon. If this didn't go right for Dove it was going to be a bad night.

He waved the bartender over. "Anyone else on Dove's list?" he asked.

"Nope. He said he only wanted one good one tonight."

Damon frowned. "He's not getting it. That guy better know his safe word, 'cause Dove's too much for him."

The guy in restraints had come in with some skinny little kid and at first Damon had thought he was going to top his boy toy. The client was one of those 'dress all in black leather and walk like you own the fucking world' guys, and he'd looked Dove over like he was a the prey instead of the hunter. Mistake.

So when Dove got word that the big guy wanted to see what he could do his eyes had gleamed. Damon figured he'd get what he needed and they could go home. Everything would be quiet for a few days.

Dove had really needed this tonight. He hadn't told Damon exactly what had happened, but he'd shown up at his door just after dark, out of breath and hot and shaky, so Damon figured he's been run out of somewhere. Dove hated to be chased. And he needed money, so chances were he'd been ripped off, or even jumped. A recipe for Dove to be ready to blow.

Going to the club was Dove's idea, of course. Damon had learned by now that when Dove *needed* the club there wasn't any way around it. So he'd said sure and there they were. Dove needed to play, to work whatever aggression or fear or hatred or whatever it was out of his system. If he didn't he'd be wild for days, dangerous and high and feral. Better someone paid him to do what he did best.

Right now he was laying the crop on the big man's back. He didn't get out the other stuff, so at least he knew right off he wasn't going to get to fuck the guy, knew he had to work it out using the toys. Damon didn't care if Dove fucked him or not; aside from what he firmly told himself was just a preference not to watch Dove doing someone else it meant that if Dove wanted to get off he would be doing it with Damon. A good thing, in Damon's mind.

Dove was beginning to dance, his feet light as he moved around the client. HE was laying neat lines down, the crop snapping, and his eyes were just starting to glaze. He was just about into his zone, almost ready to fly. He was hard and beautiful and strong, the crop doing what it was supposed to, Dove doing what he needed.

"Dust!"

Instantly the crop hit the floor and Dove stepped back as the whipping master stepped up with the clients boy. By the time they were working on the restraints, just a couple of tugs to let the man down, Dove was gone, out of the spotlight, heading to the back of the room.

The regulars moved out of his way.

Damon walked around the perimeter to meet him.

"Fucking hell," was all Dove said when they met by the doorway. Damon nodded and handed him his shirt.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck."

"C'mon. My place." Damon opened the door and waited for Dove to go out.

"Need my money."

"Fine, let's just go for a walk then, come back. Maybe someone else will turn up for you-it's still early."

Dove nodded and they started walking. Dove was vibrating, talking non-stop and not making any sense. He talked about the whip and the cat, about how the crop was easiest but he liked it least. He talked about how cold he'd been the night before and how high he'd been the night before that. He talked about a blonde boy with an English accent, and how he had been able to take it. He talked about how his blood was rushing and the noise in his ears and then he pushed Damon into a wall, pinned him there with his eyes and with his hips.

"Let me fuck you?"

"Now?"

"Yeah."

Damon just looked at him, surprised he'd even asked. He didn't get off on watching Dove work; he did get off on watching Dove, though, and he'd been hard since they got to the club. Now Dove was pushing up against him, kissing his jaw and shoving a hand into his jeans, stroking him roughly. "Can I, Damon? Can I turn you around and fuck you against this wall? Out here in the street at three thirty in the morning? Let me take you right here and make you scream my name to the sky?"

"Yes."

Dove's hand stuttered over his cock and he was spun around, just like Dove had promised, and his jeans were jerked down. There was the wait while Dove rolled the rubber on and the burn, oh fucking hell, the burn as Dove stretched and pushed and filled him.

"Dove-" he whispered.

"Right here," Dove said in his ear as they moved. One hand on Damon's cock, the other on the wall by his face and Dove fucked him, hard and steady. There was nothing like having Dove in him; no one even came close, not in movement, not in size, not in libido. No one else had the stamina of a seventeen year old and the technique of thirty. No one else was Dove.

They weren't quiet. They didn't have to be, not there, not in that part of town. There were parts of Santa Clara where holding hands would get you put in the hospital, but here…here you could fuck under the street lights and scream when you came against the wall and no one would notice.

When they were done Dove ditched the rubber and they headed back to Not a Nice Place to see if there was someone else he could play with.

Neither of them noticed the man in the shadows, the man with grey eyes and a long black coat. It didn't matter. He had decided they were not the ones.