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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